The day that changed everything | День, изменивший всё

My day started as usual. The first thing I did before work was go to a coffee shop. Without a dose of caffeine, you can't survive this day, otherwise, like all other days. I stood in line for about ten minutes before I received the coveted drink in a cup with my name on it.

Turning on the invigorating music in my headphones, I tried my best to bring my body back to life after a stormy weekend. But I still really wanted to sleep.

Sluggishly moving around the coffee shop between tables and customers, I went outside, where there was already cold air because of the approaching winter.

The gloomy gray sky, behind which the sun was hiding, plunged the city into despondency. Or did this effect concern only me? I don't know. Passers-by at any time of the year and even of the day were equally gloomy, as if dissatisfied with their own lives. They diligently built it cube by cube, but what's the point if you breathe smog in a not the best area of the city? Isn't that an indicator?

But I will not say that I differ from them in any way. Day after day, year after year, I go to not the most favorite job. With bruises under the eyes, the shade of which is commensurate with my black coffee.

Wrapped in a wool scarf, I escaped from the wind as I made my way through the flow of people to the metro station. All I wanted to do was go back home, lie down in a lonely bed that was still warm and stay there at least until the next morning. When it's not so gloomy and cold.

But, alas, no one will put life on the "Stop", and no one will convince the boss not to put my skinny ass out the door after such an obvious absenteeism. So I humbly submit and go to work. Throwing the too bitter coffee into the trash, I entered the subway car. It was a great luck to snatch at least one free place on the first working day of the week, but I managed to do it. Does luck mean now that my whole day will be just as good? I was really hoping for that.

Sitting on the seat, I glanced around the car with a bored look, decorated with various ads and graffiti. It was boring until I met a pretty blonde who was staring at me intently. Realizing that her peeping had been noticed, she smiled awkwardly. I'm not sure what caught her attention in me, but I smiled back anyway.

Somehow imperceptibly, we found ourselves shoulder to shoulder with her and were already talking animatedly on various topics. Her name was Kate and in her young twenty-two years she managed to overcome a terrible illness, cancer, and for six months she has been in remission. I told her I was happy for her, but I didn't really feel anything. It's been like this for a long time. I don't feel anything. No joy for anyone, no grief.

This girl was pretty, and her character was as soft as silk. It was nice to be around her, but I think I would get tired of her too quickly. Why do I need a second "I", but only a kind one? Boredom is mortal.

And yet, we spent most of the way together, communicating. It's not bad that I managed to occupy myself at least for this short period of time. At least some variety among the gray everyday life, because sometimes it seemed that I got into groundhog Day, where everything repeats over and over again. It was starting to drive me crazy.

But even when the subway car arrived at the station I needed, our communication did not end. As it turned out, she also works in the central district. Therefore, escaping from the piercing wind, we walked together along a street loaded with car traffic.

She chatted incessantly about how wonderful it is to be given another chance to live this life. She believed that her sudden remission was nothing but a sign from the Almighty that she was destined for a more significant role in the life of the world. I thought it was stupid, because remission is not always durable and in most cases there is a relapse. But I did not voice this, as well as support her in this topic. If I were at least a fraction of my being the same as her, believing in miracles and having a thirst for life, then perhaps I would even be unspeakably happy for her and even believe that miracles happen if you believe in them.

But this is not the case. Not in my world. Not in my life.

Perhaps this meaningless and positive conversation would have continued further, but here we came to one of the business centers where Kate worked.

As I started the farewell on duty, I suddenly heard the screams of people, and then themselves, running from the other side of the street. Their faces expressed genuine horror and undisguised fear.

I remember how someone screamed "Save yourself", and after that I heard a series of pops, which, as I realized later, turned out to be shots. The people running the very last began to fall one by one, moaning in pain, and somehow lay silently on the cold asphalt no longer moving. All this was more like footage from movies, but not real life.

I was pulled out of my stupor by the ringing voice of Kate, who looked with horror at the picture unfolding before her eyes. She grabbed my hand and wanted to run. But where? To the building of the business center, the doors of which were blocked because of the alarm? Or, obeying the crowd, away from the shooter down the street?

Whatever the solution, it was already too late. Very close we heard an explosion. It looks like the shooter decided to use a grenade or a bomb. I'm not sure what it was, but it disabled about a dozen more people.

No matter how indifferent to everything I was, but the basic instincts laid down by nature still have much more power over the body and mind, so I grabbed Kate by the hand and ran to the nearest column, wanting to hide there from bullets.

It's not for nothing that I don't believe in miracles, because if we really got to the shelter unharmed, it could be safely called a miracle. Alas, this did not happen.

I heard a soft cry behind me after the shot, before the burden in my hand pulled me down. Kate sank to the ground, looking at me in fright. It took me a long time to figure out what was going on, but the red spot that rapidly spread over the girl's white cashmere coat only confirmed what I did not want to believe in any way.

I didn't know what to do. And I couldn't. I looked at Kate as if paralyzed and saw how the sparkle of life was leaving her eyes. It happened in a matter of moments that seemed like a painful eternity.

Another shot sounded. And another bullet that flew out of the muzzle of the weapon met its target. And the target this time was me. This became clear when I felt a slight tingling in the abdomen, but then it intensified. It seemed as if something foreign inside me was simultaneously burning and freezing everything. Burns the insides. Freezes the blood.

My legs, trembling, buckled and my knees met the ground. I didn't understand what was going on. I didn't even know if I was really in pain.

When I touched my stomach with my palm, I immediately felt a disgusting slippery sensation sliding over my fingers. My whole palm was red with blood. My own blood.

Seeing no other way out but to try to get to the column where Kate and I were originally going, I did everything to do it. If it helps me survive, then I can't delay any longer.

I left behind Kate, as well as other people I didn't know, showing my true self. A cowardly and selfish entity. We are all the same when it comes to ourselves. Only a few out of a thousand are capable of sacrifice and courage. And I'm not like that.

But even fear, which became the main driving force, did not help to get to shelter. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was replaced by norepinephrine. I fell. There was no more strength left. As well as the belief that the fate of the dead will bypass me.

When I turned my head, I saw the shooter walking between the lying bodies and methodically making control shots, leaving the victims no chance of escape.

No chance.

Lying on the cold asphalt, I looked up into the gloomy gray sky, from where the first snow was falling on my face.

Sirens were wailing somewhere in the distance.

Only now did I realize that my life was empty and purposeless. I didn't even appreciate her. Is it really necessary for someone to lose everything in order to move forward? Or get an incurable disease? Or hang between life and death, bleeding from a bullet wound?

Why is it only now that the realization comes that it was necessary to live when there was an opportunity? Why is this happening when it's already so late?

Why?