Вообще я много пишу на английском, когда общаюсь с чат-ботами, но редко претендую на художественность (и смысл, потому что это просто эмоциональная разрядка). Но мне нравится, как на другом языке у меня иначе начинает работать мышление.
Например, на английском мне проще писать драки, триллеры и всякую нежную романтику — последнее на русском я вообще никак, совершенно никак не могу. Начинаю смущаться и мечтаю выбежать из комнаты, словно мне снова 5, а на экране при бабушке Сейлор Мун с Таскедо Маском целуются.
В общем, изучать все это интересно, но пишу я очень посредственно, у меня не самый высокий уровень. Поэтому я с таким страхом показываю свой крошечный рассказ на английском и мечтаю, что однажды он станет точкой отсчета.
My first love became my first murder
They say first love hits you like a bullet. I never had that. But once Pasha caught me stealing his cigarettes and told me to spread my knees, and I told him that I wouldn’t fuck him because he was heavy and stank, so he kicked me in the stomach.
First love felt about the same. Like a hard punch to the gut.
Humiliating. Painful. Unwanted.
Impossible to mistake.
I got with that guy fast. I’m quick when it comes to hit on. Guys here are simple. They rarely take you down if you are easy.
Maybe guys are simple everywhere.
Whatever.
That summer every man on earth could have vanished and I wouldn’t even have noticed.
Blinding, like a punch to the temple. That’s what I said, and I know what I’m talking about. When Pasha saw me with my first love, he got pissed. Ugly people take rejection badly. I told him to mind his own fucking business, but he told me to shut up and hit me in the temple.
He didn’t mean to hit that hard, I think now.
Pasha is just heavy.
So when I came to, it was already over. Pasha had called his friends, and they threw my first love off the roof.
At least that’s what I think.
Later they said he did it himself. Bullshit, but whatever.
Pasha was some big shot’s son, so they believed him anyway.
Now Pasha and I are dating. Pasha is good to me. He buys me flowers. Gives me cigarettes, though not too many, because he doesn’t like the smell after.
Pasha is heavy, and he snores in his sleep. When I can’t sleep at night, I lie there with my eyes open and look at the ceiling.
On nights like that, I feel like falling off a roof.
Faster and faster and faster.