Driver

Azriel stopped at a red light when he heard the back door open with a loud noise — sharply, impatiently, almost aggressively. A young guy, about seventeen, flopped into the back seat. He wore worn-out jeans with frayed knees and a hoodie that was too big, with tangled, long-uncut hair sticking out from under the hood. His face was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, his lips cracked. He didn’t even look at the driver — just stared out the window, nervously chewing on the edge of his sleeve. “To the nightclub,” he said curtly, giving an address on the other side of the city. Azriel pulled away, picking up speed smoothly. The traffic light flashed green, and the car rolled along the asphalt still wet from the morning rain. “Are you in a hurry?” Azriel asked calmly, without a hint of judgment. “Shut up,” the guy snapped back, not even turning his head. Azriel wasn’t offended. He was used to all kinds of passengers — angry, tired, scared. Sometimes rudeness was just a mask people put on to hide real pain. “Why are you being rude?” he asked in the same even tone. “I said shut up!” the guy’s voice cracked into a rasp, but there was no real anger in it. More like despair spilling out the only way it could. “I’m just curious,” Azriel continued, not raising his voice. “Maybe you’re having family problems.” The guy froze. For a second, silence hung in the cab — just the engine noise and the occasional drip from the eaves of buildings. “Everything’s fine,” he said more quietly, almost in a whisper. Then added with a crooked smirk: “Yeah. There are problems.” “What happened?” Azriel asked softly, turning onto a quieter street. The guy was silent. He clenched his fingers into a fist, then unclenched them. Then he exhaled — heavily, with a kind of strain, as if he had to force the words out. “My parents are alcoholics,” he said, and there was no self-pity in his voice. Just exhaustion. “Classic, right? Nothing new.” Azriel looked at him in the rearview mirror. The guy had turned toward the window, but you could see his chin trembling. “Do you drink too?” the taxi driver asked. “I have to,” the guy replied, and those two words sounded like a sentence. “Are you being forced?” The guy suddenly laughed — not happily, with a bitter chuckle that didn’t fit his young age at all. “My father,” he began, and his voice wavered, “introduced me to some… not very good people.” He paused, as if choosing words that wouldn’t burn his tongue. “They know where I live. And they make me.” He stopped, then added quietly: “They make me.” Azriel gripped the steering wheel tighter. Something dark was rising inside him — not anger, no. More like a deep, heavy sorrow. “I feel sorry for you,” he said simply. “And my parents are waiting for me at home,” the guy continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “They’re always waiting. Because I bring money. Or booze. Or both.” “You don’t have a choice,” Azriel stated. “Yeah,” the guy nodded, and in that short “yeah” there was as much resignation as you’d see in old people who’ve lived a long, hard life. “Are you scared?” Azriel asked quietly. The guy looked up. Something alive flickered in his eyes — a spark that hadn’t been extinguished yet. “I’ve been living like this for three years,” he said. “Since I was fourteen. My father dragged me into it. Right after I got old enough to…” He didn’t finish, just waved his hand. “Anyway, yeah.” “Have you tried going to the police?” Azriel asked, though he already knew the answer. The guy laughed bitterly — short, joyless. “No one believes me. When my parents are sober, they look completely normal. They can charm anyone. Smile, joke, say all the right things. But I know what they’re really like. Who’s going to believe a teenager over two adults?” “Do you have any relatives?” Azriel asked, though he could guess the answer. “No,” the guy replied, and there was no regret in his voice — just emptiness. “I have nowhere to go.” Azriel made a sharp U-turn across a double solid line — the tires squealed, the car swerved, and the guy grabbed the handle, sitting up straight in fright. “What was that?” he asked, scared. “Traffic jam,” Azriel answered calmly, turning into an alley. “There’s an accident up ahead. Would’ve taken an hour. I’m taking a detour.” The guy exhaled and leaned back in his seat. “Oh, okay,” he said, calming down. Ten minutes later, they stopped by a nightclub. The building was unremarkable — a dark facade, a sign with neon lettering, a few shady-looking characters smoking by the entrance, glancing around. Somewhere behind the wall, music thumped — a muffled, pulsating rhythm that made your ears ring even from outside. The guy opened the door and got out of the car. He stood for a second, holding onto the door, as if gathering his strength. His legs were trembling slightly — whether from fear or from the fact that inside there was nothing left but emptiness and exhaustion. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder, not turning around. Then he adjusted his hood, took a deep breath, and — unsteadily, on shaky legs — moved toward the entrance. The bouncer at the door nodded to him like an old acquaintance. The music got louder for a second — the door opened — and then faded again as the guy disappeared inside.