I always found winter to be a reflection of life: cold and harsh. Amidst the chilling winds that sought to freeze all within their path, some found warmth. The kind of warmth that felt gentle and surreal. The kind that could not be found from within. The kind that had to be shared by someone else. Just as the sun graces us with its warmth, shielding us from this cold, dark world, I think I will find my sun and feel that warmth once more.
The bell chimed softly as I opened the door to the convenience store. Jenny looked up and smiled in my direction.
I walked around, a shopping basket hanging from my right hand. I picked up a bottle of vodka, some chips, and a loaf of bread. Jenny's smile brightened further as I approached the counter.
"Mr. Zhukov, how's it going?"
"Just living," I replied.
"Cigarettes?" she asked. I nodded.
She seemed to be processing something as she added the pack of cigarettes to the bag.
"I never thanked you for what you did," she said, leaning slightly on the counter. "Thank you for not ratting me out to my parents."
"You're welcome," I muttered.
I picked up the bag and turned to leave.
"Good day!" she called after me as I exited.
I think I should have thanked her instead.
I needed it. The adrenaline as it rushed through my body. The excitement that made me feel as if I were high on drugs after years of sobriety. It reminded me of my boxing days. It was the first time all year that I had felt alive. It resonated with the feeling I had every time I stepped into the ring. Back then, it felt like the whole world was in my hands.
In those days, every fight brought palpable excitement coursing through my veins. What made me feel that way wasn't the chants of the crowd or the fame. It was the feeling that came from knowing I was better than my opponent. The predatory joy of beating another man senseless, each punch drowning him in despair. It didn't matter who it was—in the ring, I was king.
But from all that, arrogance grew—arrogance that almost got me killed. Now, I am a shell of my former self, stuck in a world where I feel out of place and out of touch with reality.
Saving Jenny from the neighborhood degenerates she was with reminded me that I have nothing to live for. For the past year, I have just been existing without purpose, like a stone stagnant against the inevitable flow of time.
I tried to sort it out. I always bought alcohol, hoping I'd find my purpose at the bottom of the bottle. But for a year now, I still haven't found it. Maybe today would be the day.
I sat at the edge of the balcony of my apartment, legs resting on the rail, a bottle in one hand as I stared into the distance. The sun burned brightly, and the city had come to life. The cacophony of sounds was a nuisance, but the noise dulled further the more I drank.
A knock on the door broke my reverie.
I stumbled to answer it. In my drunken stupor, I couldn't immediately recognize the visitor. After squinting, I realized it was Mrs. Jeckins, my therapist.
I let her in. She took a seat on one of the couches, and I slumped into the one opposite. She pulled out a notebook and pen, then pushed her glasses up her nose.
"Mr. Zhukov," she began. I struggled to maintain eye contact.
"You haven't been coming to our sessions, so I decided to come to you." She flipped the notebook open. "So, where do we begin?"
I tried to collect my thoughts, but the alcohol made my brain sluggish.
"Last time, you said you felt as if your life was in vain and you wished you never woke up. Do you still feel the same?"
"I still do. I feel lost," I mumbled.
"Then why not end it all?" she asked bluntly.
Her question caught me off guard—it wasn't what I was expecting.
"Not brave enough," I replied after a moment.
Silence crept in. She sat there, staring at me, as if waiting for a better answer. But I didn't have one. How could I?
I remembered it all—the never-ending darkness, the cold as harsh as winter in a world devoid of life. Now I live in that world, but at least here there is some semblance of light. If death feels like that, I hope to never go back.
"I might not understand what you're feeling, Mr. Zhukov," Mrs. Jeckins said, placing her pen inside her notebook and closing it. She looked directly into my disoriented eyes.
"But isolating yourself won't make everything okay. You have to come to terms with everything and stop holding yourself back. As your therapist, I've found a way to help with your self-discovery."
My entire focus was on her as she reached into her purse and pulled out a flyer. She handed it to me. It was a job advert. A gym just around the corner was looking for a boxing coach.
The fleeting euphoria of alcohol faded, and as my thoughts began to align, the idea seemed plausible. The mental debate ended with me deciding to check the gym out.
Mrs. Jeckins' smile brightened, as if she had read my thoughts.
"I hope we'll continue our next session at the same time but in my office," she said.
"I'll try," I replied vaguely.
I escorted her to the door. She took one last look at me, a proud and hopeful expression on her face.
"Good day, Mr. Zhukov."
"You too," I replied.
I closed the door behind her and stumbled back to the balcony. The sun was at its peak. The heat was maddening, but I didn't care.
I picked up the bottle but hesitated. I looked at it keenly, contemplating whether to continue. I was already drunk. I could not stop now.
I decided to drink until I passed out