Memory spasms.

      "Oh, fuck, why the hell did I even start communication with you, Nikita? I shouldn't have done this. I just despise you. You are the most disgusting person I know. You're worthless. Who would you be if it weren't for me? Would you even be here? Although, on the contrary, it would be better if you fucking died. You are a nonentity and a rare scum that needs to be looked for. If you die, I will come to your grave only to spit there." In a fit of anger, Artyom does not even listen to the voice message, and simply sends it to Nikita in private messages via "VKontakte". The darkness of the room, emerging from the walls painted in a dull, incomprehensible color, presses on the brain, causing a severe headache when looking at the mobile phone screen. The brightness of the pixels blinds the eyes, increasing the desire to smash the phone to the wall. Nikita is online, and looked at the message, but did not listen yet. Unfortunately, what has been said is not enough to convey all the anger. After all, thirty seconds isn't a long time to express genuine rage. Artyom presses his thumb on the round button with a hacky image of a microphone and brings the speaker closer to his lips, while raising his voice. "Like, do you really think it’s normal to confess your love after we were almost caught during the murder because of you? Are you completely sick in the head? Fucking retarded. In short, I’m thinking: it would be fucking awesome if anyone fucking cut out my brain so that I don’t have to remember you. Like, you know, I’m about to throw up. I just hate you so much that I just wish any connection between the two of us to just disappear. I want to fucking rip my own skin off, because it’s so fucking fucked up this feeling of disgust from the fact that you even dared to look at me. You see, I'm just a couple levels better than you. You are a miserable scum, and I'm a fucking God. Have a good night and get a good night's sleep, you fucking bastard." The finger releases the microphone button, and Artyom sends the audio recording to Nikita, after which he leaves the app and turns over on the other side, wrapping himself in a blanket to warm his body on such a cold Irkutsk night. Nikita finishes listening to both messages, after which he puts the phone on the floor with a weak, trembling hand and begins to cry quietly. The tears that welled up in his eyes are now flowing like a stream down his pale cheeks, and attempts to wipe them from his face with the long sleeves of his sweatshirt are in vain. It only gets more painful. The feeling of despair is like a pill stuck in your throat that you can’t swallow. Smearing snot all over his face, Nikita awkwardly rises from the floor and reaches for napkins on the edge of the table in order to at least somehow stop the endless flow of hot tears which almost burn skin. Sobbing, Nikita seems to be suffocating more and more in unbearable melancholy and self-hatred. He hits the back of his head against the wall behind him several times so that the dull, strong pain, turning into an aching one, will calm down the suffering soul, and it almost works. Sharp and strong pain would have had a better effect, but because of the thick veil of tears in the eyes, it is impossible to even see where Nikita is at all. At the moment, it seems like in hell. The next morning Artyom won’t even remember his cruel words, he will write a short message with an apology and call to go for a walk. And Nikita, having never slept a wink all night, will simply accept this pathetic attempt to smooth out the corners, and, pretending that nothing happened and everything is generally normal, will simply follow Artyom, not recognizing another cruel manipulation and psychological torture from the best and the only friend he truly loves.