About

I have one gun. I have three magazines. Love, desire, and death. They all look different, but they converge into one. They are meant to be fired only for you. Surely, you have nothing in your hands? Yes, you have nothing. No, you are so incompetent that I would dare to say you don't even have hands to hold a gun. Your incompetence is on another level. Even a beast is bound to get tense when its end is near. I poisoned your coffee last time. You didn't even drink it. You knew it was poison. But... Why weren't you nervous? Why did you speak to me so hollowly, like someone who has mastered death? You haven't even reached thirty yet; do you think you know everything about life? Far from wanting to kill you, you're just pretending not to know what I'm thinking while I get blood on my hands. You're just living your life out of a sense of duty, aren't you? But you must know a lot. The answer comes out when I see how you act. No matter what I say, you just let it slide. At first, I thought you were just good at talking, but later on, I really started to doubt you. Are you even human? Are you hiding incompetence inside skill, or skill inside incompetence? Think about it according to my logic. I am right, and you will be wrong no matter what. So, aim your gun at me today as well. I will give you the muzzle and the ammunition. And I will eventually be hit by those bullets, proving that your words are always wrong by defying your expectations. The future where the shell casing touched by your fingerprints seeps into my very bones is one of the reasons I want to die. I hate you, but I want the shell casing with your traces on it to be buried in my body forever. December 21, 1989. A letter from Leningrad. P.S. It's almost Christmas, my Koshechka (Кошечка).