It’s weird what comes back.

At night, I can’t bear the bed. I look at it and want to weep. I think it is not the specific loss of Natashka it reminds me of, but the loss of everyone I loved.

I think I never slept alone, in my own bed, when I was at that place. I think I always slept in the arms of some older girl who loved me and tried to keep me safe. I think maybe none of us ever slept alone. When I surrender, and finally sleep on the couch, what I get as I drift off are vague pictures like snapshots of darkened rooms littered with sleeping bodies. I don’t know what I’m really remembering. I can’t tell really how many girls are in that room or how big the room is. Just there is a sense of more than one. More than me and one other person.

Then in the morning, I am thinking of that moment when we first kissed, and it seems to me I remember the precise words she used. I think I remember she said, “Xочешь ты?” and then “верный?”Under all of this loneliness is something very specific. Maybe many of them.

And then later, walking to school, I’m angry. Suddenly just angry. I want to break someone, maybe several people, into small bits. I’ve seen dismemberment. It is terrible. Of the right person, it could feel very different. It could feel satisfying. I don’t know.

I think it’s tied up with that, the language. That was the language I felt angry in. I think that is part of what is on the other side of that door.