Unknown Love's Bitter Start.

      I'm sitting on my bed again with a blade in my hands. It has been deep night outside the window for a long time, Irkutsk is silent, every resident sleeps peacefully and calmly, throwing aside all their worries and worries until the next morning of the working day comes. And I'm not sleeping.       Artyom Anoufriev has long become my most important thing in life. I prioritize meetings with him for homework, and when he is around, I feel truly alive. It’s like oxygen is finally filling my long-rotten lungs. He understands me very well, he knows what to say to make me feel better. He listens to me with interest and care, without interrupting or diverting the dialogue towards complaints about his life. He never discounted my problems and helped me deal with them. I have fun with him when he cheers up, if he is angry with his mother or classmates, I get angry with him, if he is sad and worried about his studies, I also feel sad in my soul. When Artyom is not with me, when on such calm and endlessly long nights he sleeps, enjoying the silence of the mortal world, I am overcome by unbearable, painful melancholy.       I run the tiny razor blade along my arm, leaving a harmless but nasty cut. Blood begins to appear slightly from it, which I can barely see in the darkness of the silent night. It hurts, but at the same time the pain in my soul seems to recede a little, so I would rather say that I feel better. The tears gradually stop flowing, but the lump in my throat continues to choke me.       Artyom doesn’t know that I’m cutting myself.       Artyom doesn’t know that I cry at night when I'm thinking of him.       Artyom doesn’t know that I love him.       But one day, he will find out...

***

      I'm chasing my sanity. Maybe I really am not okay?       “Nikita, check out, I’ve jotted down a couple of chords for a new song.”       I am pulled out of my endlessly melancholy train of thoughts.       I wear a hoodie over my body so that the long thick sleeves hide my scarred wrists as best as possible. In fact, I really, really want to show them, bare them in front of Artyom, so that he can see my pain, my feelings, so that he can understand that I am trying to exclaim with a silent cry, “Love me! Stay with me until I die!” But I know I can't. I can't. I cannot allow myself to fall so low in front of Artyom, I cannot push him away with such a vomiting sight. I can’t humiliate myself in front of his squeamish nature that much.       I take a piece of paper with crookedly written chords, but I don’t even think about what I see. My gaze just skims over the ink and I nod.       “Awesome, I think.”       “Damn, why are you so fucked up? Didn't get enough sleep?”       I find the last moral (and maybe even physical) strength to look at Artyom. I smile slightly, trying to the best of my ability to hide the terrible mental pain. I even get the feeling that something is starting to move under my skin behind the cuts, causing severe irritation. I can't stand it and awkwardly grab my other hand by the wrist, as if trying to ask the pain to subside. Artyom notices this and comes closer with curiosity.       “Does your hand hurt?” He tilts his head slightly to the side and roughly takes my sore wrist in his hand.       Sometimes I am amazed at how attentive and good he is at reading other people.       “Everything is fine! The muscle just hurts a little, nothing like that...”       “Let me have a look.”       I don't have time to react as he sharply lifts the sleeve of my hoodie, revealing ugly scars that don't even make an attempt to heal. I remain silent, blushing from ear to ear, expecting to be driven to hell away, on all four sides. I would understand it, it would leave a clear meaning, an explanation.       But I definitely didn’t expect Artyom’s curiosity in his usual playful manner.       “No fucking way, are you doing it to yourself? Wow! With a knife?”       Artyom is a psycopath.       “Uh... I... Myself... With a razor blade...” no more words can come out of my throat, but the desire to cry scratches my throat from the inside.       “Cool. Have you been trying to open a vein?” he looks into my eyes with near-manic interest.       “It rather helps to get rid of stress...” I feel like I’m in an interview. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a suicide attempt, it’s more like... It’s just calming.”       “Are you some kind of masochist?”       I can’t understand whether this is a reproach, a mockery, or a question asked in a serious conversation.       “No... It’s only when I’m nervous...”       “Why don’t you jerk off when you’re nervous?”       This question leaves me speechless. It seems to me that Artyom is simply mocking me, and this makes me even more painful. I want to burst into tears, my voice begins to tremble, although I try to remain calm:              “Well... I'm talking about mental thing...”       “Fuck your “mental” thing.”       Artyom reaches out with his hand to my jeans and unzips the fly on them, after which he lowers them a little lower along with his underwear. I cover my mouth with my hand, silently gasping in shock. But I don’t resist, because even if this is just another humiliation, I know that it is from someone who is very dear to me. But it still hurts.       I sit straight and motionless, and when Artyom touches my dick with his hand, I arch my back slightly and quietly mumble something inaudible into my palm. His touch is so soft and I crave even more, but I don't dare say it out loud. I want to hold my breath so that I can become completely silent, like a deceased person in a cemetery with guards.       This excitement makes my legs shake and I gradually become weaker. The stimulation quickly excites me and I have honestly never felt such intense pleasure in my life. The last bits of embarrassment force me to bring my legs a little closer to each other, but the shame quickly passes and I relax completely, freely surrendering to this dirty, but such heavenly bliss. Artyom, as I get excited, begins to move his hand faster and more sensually, lightly squeezing my penis with his dexterous fingers. If he started these caresses from the head, now he just moves his hand up and down, and I understand that this is no fucking joke. This is my daydream, but at the same time it is a horror deeply buried in my soul. Nevertheless, as long as Artyom is happy, I’m happy too, and judging by the grin on his lips, he’s more than happy.       I'm just a toy in his hands, I'm a victim of a predator's manipulations, I'm an insensitive doll, I'm melting wax in a burning candle.       I hate myself.       I'm also close to ejaculating.       A strong orgasm hits me like a blow to the solar plexus, and I almost suffocate to the point of losing consciousness. Everything goes dark before my eyes, and I tremble with pleasure, trying to suppress a loud moan. My entire groin is burning, the pulsations from a pleasant orgasm are knocking all my thoughts, experiences, and worries to hell. I'm happy. I am truly happy for the first time in such a long, painful time.

***

      It's five in the morning.       I reluctantly open my closed eyes and sigh heavily from the bitter feeling of eternal failure into the decaying emptiness.       But one day, he will find out...