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Opening a door with no free hands would’ve been enough of a feat to send Dima into hysterics but he couldn’t even muster the strength to kindle a spark of irritation at this point of the night, a broken crutch in one hand and a broken notebook in the other. The door creaked open, drawing in dust and the dull scent of rain into the spilling light of the hallway lamps.
“I’m home,” he croaked.
The crutch clattered to the ground without a second thought, making its home with the forgotten trinkets thrown around. Dima’s soaked jacket joined soon after as he limped across the room with shivering breaths, clutching the book to his chest as if it could keep him warm.
He found himself shaking a cigarette from its carton and putting it to his lips without even realizing. In the absence of the usual reprimanding, Dima lit it easily.
Muscles aching and drenched to the bone, Dima lowered himself mechanically onto the window alcove. Raindrops pelted the frosted glass, smearing the distant city into a haze of glittering specks until he couldn’t recognize the shapes before him. Everything seemed to make more sense that way, he thought. Dima looked down to the notebook, rough tape foreign to the lines he had spent months memorizing. He chuckled. The notebook. Already was Olezha’s existence slipping from his grasp.
Against his better judgment, Dima turned the cover over, knowing by heart the words that would greet him.
“‘Spin the bottle’,“ He huffed to himself, smoke curling from his lips. “‘Make kebabs with some friends’?”
Dima tried to focused on the tobacco burning and infesting in his lungs, on the stabbing pins drilling into his legs, on the chill settling into the crevices of his skin- anything that would distract him from how fucking sad this all was. It almost made him want to laugh. Olezha’s will was filled with wishes so utterly mundane, things that Dima certainly have done but couldn't even bother to remember. This was all he returned to the world of the living for.
His vision blurred. Did he leave the window open? Dima scrubbed his face, a bubbling laugh escaping between his fingers as cigarette ash burned in his hand. Suddenly, it began to rain, raindrop after bolts of laughter after raindrop.
“Let me tell you, Olezh,” He mumbled. “It’s not even worth it.”
Dima’s head fell against the wall with a soft thud as he stared off into the vacant spot across him.
“It’s not worth it.”