Anonymous Letter

“These aren’t people, they’re sloths,” said Ed, nicknamed Jabba. “Sheep. Lemmings. Real people are rare.”

Obese, unkempt, wedged into a reeking tracksuit stretched over his belly, he sat at a desk buried in fast-food cartons and empty bottles that spilled onto the floor.

“And who, in your opinion, are real people?” Sasha asked, trying to keep any skepticism out of his voice. He was fifteen and hadn’t come here to argue.

“Real people? They use their own brains. The rest just scroll, binge garbage, and parrot whatever tiktok or the feed spits at them — and think this is their opinion. Mental laziness is the real pandemic—scarier than any of those Chinese viruses.”

“And everyone thinks they’re the lone free thinker while the rest are lemmings. You think you’re the smartest too…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up,” Jabba cut in. “Don’t twist my code. You wanna have an opinion, you need data. No data—no build. Me? I’m more in the ‘whatever’ camp… Anyway, what’s the shitstorm?”

“I need to… I don’t know… I need to…” Sasha’s breathing grew heavier, ragged, as he fought to control the spasm.

Again he saw his father on the hallway floor, rubbing his forehead with trembling hands, as if trying to smear on some miracle cure that could save him. It didn’t.

Sasha forced himself back together. “My father was slandered. Someone sent an anonymous letter. And now on that… Face-thing… a whole wave has started…”

“Ah… good old Face-puke…” Jabba drawled, voice thin and mocking. “Gotcha… all the click-roaches stampeding in to puke out their gospel of truuuth…” He gave a nasty little giggle. “Ever notice how quick the hyenas are to start chewing each other’s bones?”

“And the local news,” Sasha added. “They’re commenting… all kinds of people…”

“Of co-ourse! Now you can spray your crap across every sewer on the net.”

“They’re telling him to resign,” Sasha cut in. “I don’t know how to help. He’s the best doctor there—everyone knows it. And everyone leans on him. And now it’s just…”

“I know. Americans have a saying—‘shit hits the fan, bro.’ Dung in the propeller.”

“Whatever. What can be done? How do you stop it? How… Something?!” Sasha flung up his hands in despair.

​​“No way to stop it. But it can be handled. Question is—what’s the price tag?”

“Here,” Sasha said, pulling off his watch. “Brand new. Just got it three days ago—birthday present from my folks.”

“Apple watch, huh? Sort of brand new? From our store?” Jabba squinted at it like he was scanning for malware.

“Yes, from the tech center. Apple dealer.”

“Yeah, yeah—dealer, schmealer. Means squat, kid. In our Russian stores, nothing’s ever ‘new.’ You want the real deal, you snag it abroad. Here? It’s ‘refurb’ rigs dressed up as virgins… or some Franken-build the Chinese duct-taped together out of factory rejects. That’s not a bug, that’s the premium feature of our glorious local business ecosystem.”

“Well, I’ve got an old iphone. Bought it second-hand… long ago, cheap. Nothing else. I’ll just take out the SIM.”

“Nah, legacy hardware’s not my thing. I’ll take the watch.”

“What can you do?”

“Got any suspects for who dropped the anon bomb?”

“How would you find that out?”

“Well, okay—then follow the money. Translation: who’s skimming off this little op?”

“I… don’t know. But there are a couple of women my dad’s always complaining about—says they take bribes, stir up trouble, sell meds under the table… I’ve no idea how to prove it.”

“Perfect. Couple of suspects—good enough for me.”

“But I don’t know who sent it.”

“Don’t need to. We’re not Sherlock here. Hey, Zombie, sweetheart!” he hollered toward the back room.

A girl of transparent-gray thinness came out, dressed in black. Dark circles under her eyes, a beanie pulled low over her head. Metal studs and rings glinted from her earlobes, lips, and nostrils.

“Sweetie, someone just buried the guy in crap online. Think you and the crew can dig him out a bit? And dump a nice fat load right back at ’em—extra generous.”

The room was small, with a few tables along the walls and computers in front of which sat teenagers in varying degrees of anorexia, unwashedness, and tattoo coverage. They didn’t react to any outside stimulus.

“Why ‘Zombie’?” Sasha asked.

“’Cause my handle’s X-ZomB-666. Sit down and spill it,” she said.

And he told her.

“When someone sends an anonymous letter,” she replied, “there’s no way to bring them down the normal way. So we go anonymous too. Simple.”

“How?”

“Can’t really explain it—you’ve gotta see it. Just watch.”

She talked to the teens for a while, then popped open several tabs at once — the hospital’s Facebook page and a bunch of local news sites. Under every post there was a full-on comment war about what should be done with “doctors like that.”

“Watch and learn,” Zombie said.

Right under some all-caps rage post from a lady with a nick ‘Katenka’, a reply popped up from ‘Varvara Ivanovna’:

“This is all bullshit! And I know exactly who snitched on him.”

“No way! Spill it,” demanded Katenka.

“That bitch who’s been hustling shady meds on the side and pinned it on him.”

“You’re lying through your teeth!” ‘Katenka’ shot back.

“She told me herself when she was wasted,” ‘Varvara Ivanovna’ wrote.

“Garbage! I don’t know any Varvaras in their department — and I’m there all the time.”

“What, you think I’m brain-dead to drop my real name? I still gotta work there! And if you hang around, you know who I’m talking about…”

“Oh, I know,” jumped in ‘Viktor Petrov’ — big blocky man with a brick-like face and in a gray suit in his profile pic. “It’s her. This snake. Sold me expired meds…”

The thread kept mutating, picking up new participants and juicy details, splitting in many branches. It looked like half the teens were running sockpuppet accounts, arguing with themselves, cursing at each other, but somehow unanimously agreeing that “this witch” set the whole thing up and Dr. Levin was basically a saint. Always helps. Man with golden hands. The best. The same vibes were popping off on other forums too.

“Thanks,” Sasha said as he got up.

“You welcome,” Zombie said, lighting up on the stairwell. “Smoke?” She held one out.

“I only smoke when I drink,” Sasha joked.

“I have it too,” she said out of nowhere, handing him a flask. “Come by whenever. No need for a reason—we collect strays.”

“Uh… thanks” he said, holding the flask for a moment, lost in thought.

“Sasha, what happened?!” his mother stared at him in horror.

“What happened…” Sasha mumbled drunkenly. “Nothin’ happened.”

“What do you mean? Yakov, Yasha, get in here!” she shouted.

Her cry brought both his father and ten-year-old sister Marisha running.

“So what?” Sasha said. “Yeah, I got drunk. Gonna start shooting up too. I’m done… Lemmings!”

“Sasha, what have you done?” his father finally asked, his voice stern.

“What I have done?!” Sasha yelled. “What about you? What you and Mom have done? They’re eating you alive, and you just sit there and watch.”

“Sasha, please…” his mother began to whisper, trying to lead him toward his room, but he brushed her off.

“Coward!” he shouted at his father, swaying on unsteady legs. “You’re a coward and a spineless rag!”

“Sasha, how can you talk like that!” his mother muttered, still trying to hug him. “Shame on you!”

“Shame on me?” Sasha waved his arm, pushing her away. “Why should I be ashamed when they’re turning me into a sheep? Everyone can kick it, slit its throat!”

“What are you saying?!” his mother tried to reason.

“What I’m thinking! For the first time I’m saying what I think! Everyone’s always pretending! ‘Sasha, sweetie,’”—he mocked her tone—“‘Yasha, dear!’ And you don’t even hug him once. You think we don’t notice you don’t see him as a person either?”

His mother stepped back and didn’t try to hug him anymore.

“Sasha,” his father said, “stop…”

“I won’t!” Sasha burst out. “I don’t know what childhood trauma you had, but what the hell are you doing to us? You’re molding us into the same damn sheep! Silent and obedient!”

Sasha swayed and slid down the wall to the floor in the hallway—the very spot where his father had sat a few days ago.

“Go lie down in bed,” his father said quietly.

“You’re setting the example for us,” Sasha mumbled with a thick tongue. “Teaching us for life. I get kicked around at school, and I just keep my mouth shut. Do you even know that? No. And why? Because I’ve learned to take it—smile, swallow it down, play the little intellectual. Be ‘above it.’ Above it while they grind me into the floor.”

“Sasha…” his father said even more softly.

“I’ve been Sasha for fifteen years,” he answered, the despair in his voice growing. “I already learned it. Now I want to learn how to fight back. How to stay high and strong for myself. And you either don’t want to teach me, or you can’t.”

He fell silent, breathing heavily, staring at one spot.

Marisha sniffled. “Sasha, Sashenka… don’t… please don’t, big brother…”

“I’m okay…” Sasha’s voice softened. “I’m just trying to learn…”

He pushed himself onto all fours, then used the wall to pull himself up and took a couple of shaky steps toward his room under the heavy silence of the adults. Passing his father, he added:

“Spit on them. Stand tall. Find another job. You’re better than all of them, Dad… and I love you… you bastard…”

His voice broke, and a spasm clenched his throat. He swayed again and fell, but his father caught him and carried the limp body into his room.

Sasha woke up late in the morning.

Marisha was sitting beside him, watching him. Braids, freckles. Mischievous smile with braces. She was an image of spring.

“What?” Sasha asked, trying to fake irritation.

“Nothing…” she replied, smiling even wider. “They were whispering half the night.”

“That’s good.”

“Mom went to work. Dad too.”

“Dad? To work?”

“Yeah, they called him. Said they were sorry…”

“Yeah, sure… Sorry… S-s-s—” He didn’t finish the word in front of Marisha.

“S-s-scumbags?” she giggled, grinning from ear to ear.

“Go do your homework.”

“You drank a lot last night?”

“I didn’t drink anything.”

“Liar. You were totally buzzed.”

“And where’d you learn words like that at ten years old?”

“From you, obviously. What, you really didn’t drink?”

“No, of course not. Just rinsed my mouth and splashed some on myself for the smell. What am I, stupid? Poison myself with that crap? I don’t want to kill my brain cells.”

Marisha giggled. “Then why?”

“How else am I supposed to get through to them? They won’t listen any other way.”

“You’re wild!” Marisha was laughing now.

“Just don’t tell them, okay? Can you keep a secret? Let them think I’ve got problems. Might knock some sense into them. Maybe they’ll finally start thinking… Because, you know, stop thinking and your brain dies.”

“Oooh, so smart! Don’t your brains get too big for your skull?”

“You know… they do.”

“And they’re trying to get out through your ears!” she made a face at him. “Go eat, genius. Mom left cutlets and borscht. I’m heating it up,” she said, heading to the kitchen, still giggling quietly.

“Mm-hm, in a sec,” Sasha mumbled, flopping back onto the pillow.

He stretched, savoring a few more seconds of post-sleep bliss, and stared at the branches outside the window. He thought about the Zombie girl and the dark circles under her eyes. And then he thought he needed to come up with a cool nickname for himself. Something about a nuclear cockroach, maybe. Or was that too Gaiman? Clockwork Rat? Like mashing up Harry Harrison with Murakami… Mental laziness, to be honest. No, it had to be something original.