My favorite child was born in the family of a 60-year-old chess master, a turner from a metallurgical plant, and a 25-year-old beautiful janitor. Sasha also had a sister, Olena, a year and a half younger. My mother had a mental disorder, from time to time she was treated for a long time, and then the children were taken care of by the grandmother. More or less, the family kept afloat, and everything would be fine if it weren't for the 90s. My father stopped being paid his salary, he got drunk, my mother began to fall into an insane abyss more and more often, and she died in the same year as my grandmother. In this whole nightmare, seven-year-old Sashko didn't survive very well, from time to time he slept in the entrance, so when he was taken to a boarding school, he already knew that he could sleep on the floor, and this could be a salvation.
... in street life, Santyor kept aloof. He was not touched, now I understand why. That is why he was not touched in the zone. Because he was born with genetic charisma, which you always feel animalistically with that organ that has not yet been invented. Or maybe ass, who knows. In any case, the boy who did not beat anyone was respected and allowed to live his life. Sanya is lonely, that's why she is still in this world. When the whole party was addicted to drugs, my favorite boy just ate sweets and stole impiously. For the sake of force, not for profit. In one district out of five in the city, 97 criminal proceedings were opened against him and he was a witness in another 12. And he knew that at 14, as soon as he became a defendant, he would sit down.
... when Sashka was 9, we made the first and last attempt to return the child to the boarding school from which he ran away. We went into the director's office, having previously almost on our knees persuaded Sashka to go with us. There were three of us: Robert, a Pole, a believer, an outstanding teacher, me, then still a psychologist from the social service, and a smelly, sewing child who held me tightly with one hand by my pants with the other. The headmistress, seeing Sashka, said: ah, is that you? and, addressing us: do you know that he sucks from porters for cigarettes at the bazaar? I still regret that I did not cling to her house on her head. I am still immensely ashamed in front of the boy that we were so stupid then that we did not fight for them in the full sense of the word. Because such creatures do not understand what they have done to children, they only understand force. I write and hate, but 20 years have passed, she has long since died, this well-deserved criminal with a life-long pedagogy. We silently left the office and Sasha went with us. No one ever looked for him again.
We then took our first steps in our business, and Sashka was their main decoration. He was almost always cheerful, adored animals, ate from the same plate with his cat Dima, and by the way he began to sing songs like "goodbyamericaoooo" after dinner, we understood: Santyor had satisfied his hunger and was happy.
Like everyone else, he ran away from us a hundred times and returned a hundred times. He was imprisoned on the second day of his 14th birthday. On this holiday, I gave him the only flowers in his life. When he returned from the zone for the fifth time, he came to my house, we hugged and cried, and he reminded me of them: do you remember, those white, smelly ones, I was ashamed of them, because I am a boy, and you gave , and I couldn't help but take it, because you gave it to me. I did not remember those flowers.
Now he is 32, he has a family, the little one was named Denis, as the man I love.
Sasha works on construction sites, it's hard. And I am happy that the core in his soul did not allow him to make money from war and terrorism, although it is very difficult to survive with his profession where he is. I respect him a lot, although we haven't talked for 3 years, he is in my heart forever. One of the five from the 90s who is still alive, one of the few in my entire life, with whom I can talk about everything, freely, without obstacles and misunderstandings, in the same language, although we live very different lives.
