Chonicles of Yanis
Olga Orlova
Welcome to a world where the air smells of freedom. Where dreams become reality with just a thought, and suddenly, there’s a plate of fried potatoes in front of you. This world is full of secrets, enticing, drawing you in and engulfing you. And it seems like any moment now, I’ll melt away amidst comfort and dreams.But such bliss never lasts! There’s a knock on the door… And my body comes crashing down from the imaginary cloud onto the hard floor.
Chonicles of Yanis
Olga Orlova
Cover designer Nadezhda Diakova
© Olga Orlova, 2024
© Nadezhda Diakova, cover design, 2024
ISBN 978-5-0062-7950-6
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Chapter 1
The view from the roof always seems unusual, even the area you know like the back of your hand, having explored every nook and cranny, and knowing how many bricks are in the house across the street, from one window to the next. Even your own backyard, where you grew up, and every curb knows the size of your childhood shoe. And in the cracks between the entrance door and the old rusty pipe, there is still a note for the girl from the parallel class, which she probably will never read. Even these places from the roof will seem different.
From the roof, the noisy morning, the hustle and bustle of the waking city, the wafting smells of coffee from open kitchen windows, the creaky gate of the daycare fence through which mothers drop off their sleepy, crying children, all seem beautiful. Who and why invented these daycares, and when? Of course, there is rationality in them, but it contradicts everything natural. How many children, out of all those brought there, don’t cry? Probably only a few, or the most resilient ones, who fear the wrath of strict parents and hold back all tears inside, swallowing them quietly along with their sadness.
They are left in the company of completely unfamiliar people, and it’s still unknown how to behave with them and what to expect from them. And there’s this feeling of loneliness and uselessness in this world. Why do all the adults at the doors of this daycare pretend that everything is not so terrible and that it’s all just childish whims and fantasies? Everyone understands that it’s not the case.
I’ve been observing this process every morning for almost [insert duration], and not a single mother has yet told her child that she understands how bad, sad, lonely, and unbearably melancholic they feel, so tears just flow on their own, and they would be glad to stop them, but it’s overwhelming. In most cases, mothers are stern, which only exacerbates the child’s condition even more. Everyone rushes to escape, closing the door and the gate behind them, as if to erase any traces.
Then you linger by the lockers in the changing room, take off your shoes, change into indoor footwear, and sit there until someone comes out and leads you into the hall with everyone else, because you really don’t want to go there. Bright elephants, dogs, flowers, and berries painted everywhere don’t bring any joy. After all, you’re just not in the mood for them when sadness has engulfed you like this.
I was there a couple of times; they took me there, but since my parents didn’t have much money, and daycare services were not cheap at all, and I threw tantrums whenever I could, they decided to leave me at home under the watchful eye of a neighbor.
From the rooftops in the morning, you can catch the smell of coffee. It makes you believe and feel warmth and coziness, envisioning warm blankets, soft armchairs, fresh newspapers, and even glossy magazines, of which there are plenty in our world and no longer surprise anyone. Like a mist enveloping the city at night, it slowly rises from the ground and momentarily freezes on the rooftops.
The air up there is quiet, precisely quiet. Yes, it’s cleaner than down below. There isn’t such a variety of smells in it, but that’s understandable. But it’s precisely quiet, as if down there in the air not only aromas and odors gather, but also all the words and all the noise. This air heals with its quiet purity, freeing thoughts from emotions and unnecessary worries; inhaling it, you can feel freedom and tranquility.
I ascend here almost every morning, and it feels like I’m in a different world, as if I don’t belong to anyone or anything here. I watch as the light bulbs in the windows turn on, as everyone starts to rush, waking each other up, as the sun rises from behind that big green roof. At the same time, the color is hardly visible because the sun usually shines very brightly and obscures a couple more roofs with its rays.
Over there, slightly to the right of the sunrise, is a building with a gray, dirty roof that hasn’t seen repairs in many years and probably won’t for many more. It’s the pediatric dentistry building. They used to be everywhere, brand new, clean, trying to lure everyone in with colorful advertisements. The doctors there, they say, were kind and treated without pain or fear; you could watch cartoons. And the bravest ones always got a little toy. But I didn’t experience any of that. It was a long time ago, before I even existed.
Before our world became so gray and gloomy, where everyone fights for their lives every day and there are no plans for the future. Only here and now. I have no pleasant thoughts about this gray building; inside, it smells damp and of medicines. I ended up there once; a milk tooth didn’t want to fall out on its own, and our caregiver took me there. The weather was terrible, damp, cold autumn, puddles and cold raindrops right on the face.
There, I realized that when they say it won’t hurt, they lie. After that visit, I was sick for another week; there was not enough disinfectant solution, they were saving on it, and I got an infection. As a result, I had to get injections. But what scared me the most was being held by three strong, big women, as if one of them couldn’t handle me alone. If I could, I would create a time machine just to get treatment where they already know how to do it, and it’s not painful. Even if it’s an expensive pleasure, it will definitely pay off in the first few days.
There’s a roof that I like, it’s on the other side to the left of the sun. Once it was bright red, now it’s a bit faded and rusted in places, but still beautiful. A girl lives in this house; when I was five years old, we ended up in the same orphanage, then a young family took her away, and I stayed. I don’t know her name now; they probably gave her a new beautiful name, but I called her Taya. She was very skinny, frozen, and hungry like everyone else. It seemed like there would never be enough food. No one approached her, and she didn’t try to make friends with anyone. I wasn’t in the spotlight either, and I never played with anyone, so people avoided and feared me a little, but that’s exactly what I wanted. I couldn’t take my eyes off her all day; I didn’t know how to approach her. In the end, after lunch when everyone was given delicious pastries, and she remained sitting on the bench aside, wrapped in a big jacket, I couldn’t resist and sat down next to her, silently offering her my portion of treats. She didn’t immediately turn to me and look, at that moment I don’t even remember how I stayed alive and didn’t die from my own embarrassment and fear.
Her bright green eyes seemed like the center of the universe; I even forgot my own name and didn’t ask hers, and completely forgot about the pastry. If she hadn’t said she wanted water, I don’t know how long that trance would have lasted; I might have died from blissful oblivion. As I rushed down the corridor with a glass of water, there wasn’t even a crumb left of the treat. I felt briefly disappointed, but then I was proud and happy that she accepted my gift and looked at me again. Then we were silent for a long time, and we didn’t want to talk because there was nothing to say. Children end up in orphanages not from happy families; many kids were brought here, and each had their own unhappy story that few wanted to talk about. But it seemed to me that I could hear her anyway, feel when she was sad, or see from her eyes that she was thinking and remembering something good. Then I smiled too.
So we were friends for almost a week. I hardly learned anything about her, but it felt like she was the closest person in the world to me. Then she was taken away. In my free time, I also look at her roof. Sometimes it seems to me that I see her eyes and hear her mentally responding to me.
There’s another small roof in this city that I rarely look at, but her image is always inside me. I can’t say if I love this roof or if it’s a source of great sadness for me. Every time I scan the city with my gaze, I try to skip that place, probably because I’m afraid to see emptiness, ruins, or something even worse.
I was born in that house. It wasn’t big, even when I was very little. It had only one room and a corner for the kitchen. But even then, I understood that it doesn’t matter how big your house is; what matters is whether there are people in it who love you or not.
At birth, my name wasn’t given to me right away. Back then, names were chosen like a precious gift that determined your entire life. My mom and dad chose it with special care. They wanted it to have a special power that would be combined with wisdom and prudence, a particle of love that would determine my actions and deeds, tenderness towards beauty, and courage in the face of difficulties. They wanted to put everything necessary into it, like in a box of gifts, but it’s just a name, a few syllables made of letters.
Later, my mom said she read my name in my eyes, as if I had suggested it to her when the newborn veil fell from them, and I saw her for the first time. Of course, I couldn’t remember that moment, but I’ve imagined it so many times, as if I really do remember. They named me Yanis.
Back then, just ten years ago, in that house, my mom and dad fought. They were young and happy, despite everything that was happening in the world. They didn’t have wealth, iron doors, and bars on the windows like everyone else; it was dangerous at night without additional security measures. Marauders and robbers broke windows and took everything that was accessible. There were cries everywhere, the sound of shattered glass, gunshots. Everyone kept weapons in their apartment. We had nothing but lace curtains that at least partially covered our lives.
Perhaps they didn’t break into our home because we already had nothing. In the mornings, Mom always brewed coffee, fragrant, homemade, beloved. Coffee – the scent of my home, of Mom. We woke up to this aroma with Dad and slowly, half-asleep, made our way to the kitchen. There were almost never any delicious pastries for breakfast; only on rare occasions did we have fresh bread. Dad wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on his lap; back then, I didn’t think it wouldn’t always be like that, but now I would give anything to sit like that for just a couple of minutes.
After breakfast, my parents went to work, and I often stayed alone. The neighbor, who had three more children – two of her own and one foster child, looked after me. Most of the time, I spent playing with them – sometimes with homemade toy cars, more imaginary than real, sometimes pretending to be pirates and brave invaders from the tales we were told before bed, and sometimes, when we got tired of each other, we played hide and seek. You would hide among some clutter in a closet or a pantry and sit quietly, kind of wanting to be found, but also not really, enjoying the peace and quiet.
In the evenings, I was so happy to see Mom and Dad returning that I would run to meet them as soon as I saw them at the beginning of the road leading to our house. One day they didn’t come back; they left in the morning and never returned. I searched every stretch of that road, hoping that at any moment they would both appear, and I would see them and run to them so fast that I could fly. I would reach them, hug them as tight as I could, and tell them how much I missed them and waited for them, how much I love them. I would beg them never to leave me alone again. And they would calm me down, lifting me up in their arms. We would slowly walk home, and I would tell them how I waited for them all day long. Let my words repeat, so they would know and hear the importance of it all, feel how much they mean to me.
All night I watched from the window. I used to be afraid of the dark, but now I had no time for it. Cold air blew in through the window, and my hands started to freeze, but I was afraid to leave and miss them. Three more days passed like this until our neighbor received a phone call informing her that they had died. They were poisoned by toxic gas in a minor accident at the station. It was a small incident, not many people were harmed, but they were both there. I was left alone.
Now there was no one to wait for, everything inside me shattered into tiny pieces. It seemed like dying with them right now would be the best thing in the world. How can one accept this? When you realize you’re alone, everything changes completely. The world seems entirely different, as if everything you wanted and found interesting before is now irrelevant. Whether you want to eat or not doesn’t matter anymore; all desires disappear, leaving only one: for them to come back.
Thoughts of miracles arise. Suddenly, if I start praying now and ask God to make it a mistake, to let them stay alive, maybe it could happen. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t help, that nothing would help at all. The neighbor was already struggling to raise three children; I would be entirely unnecessary for her, although she offered me to stay with them, but I knew it was just out of politeness.
I didn’t take long to pack; there weren’t many things: Mom’s small mirror, which she looked into every morning while combing her long hair; a toy train given by Dad, with a hidden compartment where small trinkets like marbles and buttons were stored; and the keys to our house, which by inheritance should have been mine, but since I couldn’t assert my rights yet, and we had no relatives, the house was taken from me. That’s how I ended up on the roof of shelter number nine, and since then, I’ve never walked past my home again.
I prefer to say that I’m exactly on the roof; here, few people encroach on my space, just a couple of cats and chirping sparrows, and both are looking for warmer spots. Of course, they occupied these royal observation spots before me, but I’m a quiet resident, not taking up much space. Sometimes I bring them bread crumbs, and oh, the joy they feel! They all gather for the feast, and I feel like a full-fledged member of this family, which warms my soul and makes me happier.
You could almost write a little story about each building, and it would differ based on this aerial perspective rather than from below. Every brick corner has its own happy and sad stories; perhaps some of them could even tell stories about me, things I myself have forgotten.
Today it’s raining since the morning, it often does now, as if autumn has replaced summer and spring. I brought breakfast and a couple of books with me, planning to shelter under the eaves on the roof. With this intention, sneaking past the classroom and all the supervisors unnoticed, I found myself right in the attic. There’s always plenty of dust here, but it’s quiet and doesn’t interfere with thinking, so let it lie.
For a moment, I thought the light bulb flickered or my head spun; maybe I just climbed the stairs too quickly, and I haven’t had breakfast yet. Spreading out the newspaper on the crates that had been here long before me, I settled in with a sandwich in my left hand and a book in my right.
This time it wasn’t my imagination. I distinctly felt the floor tilting in front of me, and the crates treacherously slid away from under me as I plopped down on the dusty, cold floor. It felt like an earthquake; I needed to urgently climb back up. Panic set in my mind. The buildings were all old and could collapse, it seemed, even from the wind.
Climbing to the edge of the roof and clinging with all limbs to the railing, I froze. The height was considerable; jumping and staying alive would be difficult. It didn’t seem this high yesterday. Maybe I could still climb down, but what if it collapses? It’s better to be on a collapsed roof than under the entire building. Below, quite a few people had gathered; everyone had come out and moved away from the walls.
Suddenly, if someone looks up now and sees me here… Oh, it would be better if… it would be better if… let them look down at their feet. The railing was mercilessly drenched by the rain, making it not only icy but also terrifyingly slippery. It’s a pity I can’t tie my hands with a sailor’s knot, or better yet, a noose.
From underground, another series of jolts was building up. It was very quiet, but everyone was clearly anticipating them, as if they could sense the energy field they emitted, which petrified everything around. It’s starting again now. And the streams from the small puddles, gathered from the rain on the roof, flowed down along with my sandwich to the hard asphalt below. My hands literally clung to the iron railings, but the entire cornice creaked, bending under my weight.
Fear and height made me feel nauseous. It’s better to close my eyes. If I’m destined to fall, there’s no escaping it now. Cracks appeared one after another on the walls between the red and white bricks. It seemed like my fall would be endless. It’s a pity I never told Taya that I liked her. But what would that change now, when I’m hanging on honest thoughts, with wrists frozen stiff and numb?
For a moment, I dared to open my eyes and saw a little man in a black tuxedo and a matching black top hat. He was no taller than our cat, who also liked to wander around here. Where did he come from?
“Hey, who are you? Get me out of here! I’m about to fall!” My voice was drowned out by the rain, and I could barely hear it myself, even though I was shouting at the top of my lungs. The old man disappeared from sight, where did he go, I clearly saw him. Maybe I’m hallucinating already, or part of me has died, and I’ve ended up in another world. I bit my tongue, it hurt, alive. That was the only thing I could feel, all other parts of my body were practically numb.
Chapter 2
“Wake up! You’ve collapsed! This isn’t some bedroom!” the words echoed in my head, breaking through a deep sleep. “Get up, I’m talking to you! “this time I heard it very clearly. And I also felt someone poking me with a stick.
