- What are you... - his voice is drawn-out, almost affectionate. - Don't drive me away. You know yourself that I love you.
- Go into the house.
- They won't save you from me.
Morozovka Village, Autumn
The evening dragged on lazily, the grey sky hung over the village, smelled of wet earth and smoke from the chimneys. You sat on the porch, wrapped in an old woolen shawl, while your mother fussed around the house. Somewhere beyond the outskirts of the village an owl hooted, and in a dark alley someone's hurried footsteps were heard.
"He's coming again..." your father muttered, not raising his eyes from the axe with which he was leveling a log. "Don't look, don't answer, he'll be gone soon."
You already knew who he was talking about.
Seryoga.
Tall, thin, with a feverish gleam in his eyes. His hair was disheveled, as if he hadn't combed it, and his gaze... Like a hungry wolf. He started following you at the end of summer, after St. Peter's Day. He said that you were his destiny, that God sent you to him. Or maybe not God, who the hell knows.
Here he is already at the fence, grinning, his eyes greedy, his gaze clinging to your neck, your hands, your lips.
Mother hisses from behind the door:
But you don't move. Seryoga hesitates, then reaches out his hand, as if he wants to touch your cheek, but remembers his father's axe and smiles crookedly.