Nightmares

For almost two months, he had dreamed the same nightmare: the whore he had killed was floating above the asphalt, and he was trying to escape from her and could not. Almost every night, he woke up in terror, and then, for a long time, could not go back to sleep, if at all. Each time he was as terrified as he had been the first time, although he already knew the dream by heart. During the day, he thought: there is absolutely nothing terrible there! But at night, once again observing the body floating towards him, he again experienced irrational terror.

Looking back at him in the mirror now was a haggard stranger with dark rings under the eyes, unshaven, with unkempt, greasy hair and a look as if he had been on smack for a very long time.

A month ago, when his condition was not yet so deplorable, he went to see a somnologist at an expensive private clinic. The doctor had advised him to undergo polysomnography to identify the cause of his insomnia and stop drinking coffee and strong tea. Well, thank you very much, bitch! The reasons he already knew. The question was what to do about them.

He considered going to a psychotherapist but quickly dismissed the thought. The therapist could pull up his medical history and then tell his father… No, he does not need to know that his son is going crazy.

He then found some solace in alcohol, just like almost twenty years ago. On those rare evenings when he got drunk until he collapsed, the nightmares did not come, but the next day could be completely deleted from his life. He wasn't eighteen anymore. How long could he survive on an alcohol diet?

Sooner or later, he would have to switch to medication, but he remembered they were just a stone's throw from morphine or worse. If he became addicted again, this time it would definitely not be possible to overcome it, and the idea of spending the rest of his life in a drug dispensary did not really appeal to him. After all, he had just begun to live a normal life! He had started his own business, which he was developing with pleasure, goals had appeared in his life, and he had seriously thought about how to give up whores and start a real family…

However, it was not to be! One day, in a fit of drunkenness, he picked up a rock from the ground, threw angrily, and made it…

Made it to hell.

***

What do they say? In order to overcome your fears, you need to meet them face to face?

The first attempt was unsuccessful. He stood in front of the gate to the park, wrapped in his sheepskin coat, and could not take a step forward. It was not even the entrance which he had passed through on that unfortunate night! He was not a fool and chose a different path, one that was less popular, but even so… It was impossible to take a step forward.

Then he went to the nearest liquor store and bought a bottle of vodka. The selection there, of course, was awful. Although the store was not the worst in the city center (there are absolutely no completely crappy ones), it could in no way compare with his favorite wine boutique. He bought a mid-range bottle of vodka, hoping he wouldn't vomit it up after the first sip. He was worried that the saleswoman might remember him, but she just glanced at the unfamiliar buyer and named the price.

Now he again stood at the same spot, but now he had a motivator. It was not easy to open the bottle with gloves, and the cap flew out of his hands and into the darkness. That was okay. He had no plans to close the bottle. In any case, he could just pour it into a snowdrift, just pour it all out.

He took a sip. Grimaced. Shit. But soon, courage began to flow through his body, which meant that the idea had worked. He took three more powerful manly gulps, and a third of the bottle was already gone. How much did I pour into myself, two hundred grams? It would do.

***

The park had switched to winter mode, which meant that the street lamps were only burning along the main alley. Well, at least the night was moonlit and cloudless: even vodka could not motivate him to walk in impenetrable darkness.

A sip. Another.

The farther he got from the street, the sharper he heard sounds that he usually did not pay attention to—the crunch of snow under his feet, the crackling of branches, and even incomprehensible rustling coming out of the darkness. If it were not for the vodka, he would have returned long ago and left at a brisk pace, but thanks to the drug, he managed to reach his goal.

Suddenly he heard a noise behind him, and then a hoarse voice called out:

"Hey!"

He froze, his heart about to jump out of his chest.

"Man, would you treat me to some of that?"

He smelled the stranger before seeing him—a mixture of feces, urine, and questionable liquor. A creature appeared behind him.

"Man, could you treat me to some, please."

The stranger stared at him sullenly. His surprisingly clean beanie with a pompom contrasted with his spattered-down jacket. His snout was red, inflamed, and his expression looked menacing.

Just a bum.

"No." He turned away from him and walked on.

"Uh, hey!" The bum grabbed his sleeve. "Hey, well… Be a man!"

He shook off the hand in disgust, defiantly took a sip from the bottle and then walked on.

"Aye, hey! What the hell's wrong with you? I asked you nicely! Hey! Damn it, look here!"

He looked over his shoulder. In his right hand, at his hip, the bum was clutching a rusty spring-loaded knife.

"I'm like fucking asking you politely for the last time—"

He tightened his grip on the bottle…