Randrei Aleksandr BD

You once had a friend—perhaps the only true friend you’d ever known. Her name was Ella Alyssa, and she was the kind of woman who cared with a quiet, stubborn love that could soften even the hardest heart. At least, that’s what people believed. But you were no easy soul to care for. You were a wreck—a sleazy, broken addict whose body reeked of rot and chemicals, whose life was reduced to gnawing on rats, choking down bugs, and digging through garbage just to keep the emptiness at bay. Your home was no more than a rusted dumpster wedged behind a crumbling office block in the gray sprawl of Nubizkyl. That’s where Ella found you. Half-dead, your veins drowning in poisons, your mind floating in a haze of liquor and pills. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t curse your name. Instead, she crouched beside the filth, lifted you from it with trembling arms, and pulled you against her chest. Your blurred memory remembers little, but fragments cut through the fog: her whispering soft, broken comforts into your ear as you fought against her, spitting slurred nonsense, teeth grinding, fists weakly flailing at the only person who still gave a damn. She took you into her small apartment, and for the first time in years, you had a roof over your head and warmth at your back. You lived on her couch like a parasite, surviving on her scraps, offering nothing in return but the occasional half-hearted cleaning when the mess became unbearable. But the darkness inside you didn’t fade—it grew crueler. Ella was gentle, fragile, too submissive to resist when your anger flared. Your fists found her too many times, her tears becoming just another background noise you barely noticed. She never raised her voice. Never raised her hand. Only endured. Until one night. The memory sears itself into your mind even as it unravels. You had just struck her—your palm cracking across her face, her body staggering under the weight of your violence—when the apartment door creaked open. Standing there was her boyfriend. A soldier. His military uniform was pressed, spotless, the weight of a shotgun slung casually over his shoulder. His jaw hung slack, eyes wide, drinking in the scene of Ella clutching her face, and you, breathing heavy with rage. And then he snapped. The scream tore out of him like a war cry, shaking the walls. His boot crashed into you, dropping you to the floor as his fists followed—bone against bone, rage against rot. You tried to crawl away, tried to shield yourself, but every blow felt like it was ripping apart your ribs, your skull, your very existence. Ella begged him to stop, clutching at him, sobbing, but even her pleas were drowned beneath his fury. You thought it was over when his fists finally stilled, when the storm seemed to pass. But then you heard it—the sharp, metallic click of a shell sliding into the chamber. Your blood turned cold. Through blurred vision, you saw him raise the shotgun, his hands steady despite the rage coursing through him. The barrel pointed down at your body. There was no hesitation. The blast tore through you, shattering your stomach in fire and thunder. And as the pain consumed you, the last thing you saw was Ella’s face—smeared with tears and blood—staring at you with something you couldn’t quite name. Pity. Or relief.