Ckazka #4

Fairy Tale #4

"Do you know what will happen if I get called to school because of a note like this?" she asked sternly.

He lowered his head, his forehead lightly touching the scrap of yellow paper covered in his own handwriting. She held it right up to his face.

"I know, Mom," he muttered guiltily. He hated hearing her raised voice.

"Then why, if you know, do you keep testing my patience and your own luck? Do you really think this kind of behavior will earn our family any special privileges? You're already fourteen! It's time you took your responsibility to this family more seriously."

"Yes, Mom."

"Two of your brothers ended up in a school for morally deviant children because of notes like this. Do you really want to join them?"

Patrick shivered. He definitely didn’t want to end up at SMDC. The children there lived in isolated rooms under constant surveillance by teacher-wardens. One child, one room. Lessons were conducted remotely through a screen embedded in the wall. From 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM, they followed a strict academic curriculum. Afterward, there were two hours of officially mandated silence, followed by government-approved television broadcasts tailored to match the ideology of the ruling party, the Sinamors, who had been in power for over fifty years.

"Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you," Catherine commanded sharply, grabbing Patrick’s pointed chin between two fingers and tilting his face up. Their eyes met. Green leaves of a young clover reflected in the wise, piercing emeralds.

"What have I told you over and over again?" she whispered, her face close enough that he could smell the bright red lipstick on her full lips—the same full lips all her sons had inherited. "Control. Twenty-four-seven. Self-control."

She released his chin, slapped him across the face without hesitation, then swiftly grabbed his chin again.

A heavy tear, as big as a carat, rolled down Patrick’s cheek and bounced off the floor. He sniffled, doing his best not to cry, to stay strong. This wasn’t the first time she had hit him.

Inside him, resentment and a deep sense of unfairness mixed with something else—something the Sinamors had banned. A feeling he wasn’t supposed to have for his own mother.

That mix of emotions turned into thick, hail-like tears that he let fall in silence, accepting his punishment for a note filled with romantic verses—written for the girl next door, Natasha.

"You must control yourself," Catherine kept whispering, her eyes locking onto his like a leech. "You must never think of a person, whether a girl or a boy, as a source of pleasure. You must not feel anything for others except gratitude. The only thing that should matter to you about anyone, including me, is benefit."

She slapped him again, harder this time, then wiped his snot away with her fingers and carelessly smeared it on the hem of her dress.

"I shouldn't have to hit you every time for you to understand this," she continued, her voice dropping to an almost gentle tone. "You're not a dog, learning through pain. The Architect of the Universe gave you a mind so you could learn from the pain of the other dogs—like your Uncle Harry and his friend Maverick. You haven't forgotten what happened to them, have you?"

Patrick nodded, his breath hitching.

"I'm sure their troubles also started with some silly note, a text, or a phone call," she said sharply. "Repeat after me."

Patrick nodded again, ready to obey.

"Self-control."

"Self-control."

"Benefit."

"Benefit."

"If you don’t follow these two rules, you’ll end up in SMDC first, and then…"

She sighed heavily, remembering the fate of Uncle Harry and Maverick. They had lost control. They had let themselves slip. A single kiss in a parked car, caught on a traffic camera, had sealed their fate.

Catherine let go of his chin and ruffled his messy red hair.

"Self-control and benefit," she repeated.

Patrick nodded and instinctively reached out to hug her, but she shoved him away. This time, the slap was so hard it split his lip. Stunned, he dropped to one knee, clutching his burning face.

"Self-control," she hissed and turned on her heel, leaving his room.

Only after the door clicked shut did Patrick allow himself to collapse onto the carpet, burying his face in his hands.

The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in weeks. Gasping on the dust, he soon sat up.

Outside, Natasha was waiting for him. He had to hurry. His mother might have already called her parents about the note. But no—Patrick shook his head. Fear. If Catherine told Natasha’s parents, it would be an open admission that yet another one of her sons was turning into a moral deviant. Shame.

Patrick smiled at his own insight.

For the second day in a row, he had secretly skipped his oxytocin and endorphin suppressants. The emotional swings made him want to cry all the time.

"Natasha," he reminded himself, glancing at the electronic clock on his wall. It was six in the evening.

She was waiting by the entrance. Beautiful. Half a head taller than him, wrapped in a short coat and bright yellow rubber boots, her short bob cut made her look like a Hollywood actress. Her lipstick was slightly smudged, and her button nose twitched, as if sniffing the air.

"What took you so long?" she scolded instead of greeting him.

"We’re in trouble."

"We?" Natasha blinked, her long lashes fluttering in confusion.

Patrick quickly explained the situation.

Natasha listened, covering her mouth in horror. She had once read somewhere that girls in love had better self-control than boys, and she was desperately trying to live up to that quote.

Like Patrick, she had also skipped her hormone suppressants for the past few days, and now, on this cold autumn evening, controlling herself was harder than ever.

"Let's get out of here," she said, lowering her hand.

They turned the corner, dashed across the street, and slipped through the archway into the neighboring courtyard.

Empty.

After checking that no one was watching, they hurried down into a basement, its door marked with a tiny red heart in the upper-right corner.

Natasha entered first and switched on the light. A dim bulb flickered overhead, casting a gloomy glow over the space.

A rustling noise.

A startled rat scurried into the corner, preparing to defend itself.

Natasha ignored it.

Once inside, she grabbed Patrick’s hand, her brown eyes devouring him.

"I read about this on a banned forum in the darknet," she whispered, moving closer. "It’s called a kiss."

She closed her eyes and leaned in, but Patrick pulled back.

Natasha opened her eyes, puzzled, and met his equally confused gaze.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered.

A pause.

"You’re supposed to touch my lips with yours," Natasha said shyly.

She closed her eyes again, and their lips met.

It felt more like a handshake—awkward, hesitant.

"Relax," Natasha murmured.

Patrick felt the tip of her tongue brush against his lips.

His head spun.

His eyes closed on their own.

He felt himself floating.

Natasha smelled like milk, white bread, and fruit marmalade—all the things he had loved since childhood.

Without realizing it, he bit her lip.

She gasped—a short, sharp sound. It hurt, but the pain was like a drop of lemon juice on a cake, making the sweetness even richer.

The basement door burst open.

Patrick and Natasha jumped.

Fear.

A man stood in the doorway. The janitor. The neighborhood whisperers said he was a devoted Sinamor, paying double the party dues.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little perverts?" he snarled, grabbing them by their collars.

Natasha yelped and immediately went limp, feeling the strong adult grip on her neck.

Patrick, on the other hand, was still buzzing with the adrenaline of the kiss. He felt like a gladiator, unfairly thrown into the Colosseum against a much stronger opponent.

He tucked his legs under himself, using his weight to make the janitor lose balance. When the man wobbled, Patrick twisted like a worm, slipping free from his grasp and bolting into the darkness of the basement.

There, he crouched between the central heating pipes, his breath ragged, listening as the janitor cursed at Natasha, calling her foul names while she sobbed, begging to be let go.

Self-control.

He waited until the janitor dragged Natasha away, then carefully felt his way through the basement tunnels, finding his way to the emergency exit.

When he got home, he waited late into the night for the SMDC officers to show up at his door.

No one came.

Milk, bread, and marmalade.

The next morning at school, he found out that Natasha had been sent to SMDC.

It was her first offense, so the emergency tribunal had sentenced her to just three months of correctional education. The ever-dutiful janitor was rewarded with a letter of appreciation from the party.

In silent protest, Patrick continued refusing to take his oxytocin-endorphin suppressants. Thoughts of Natasha filled his every moment, tormenting him, but he still secretly disposed of the pills his mother carefully laid out for him each morning.

Despite the distance, he felt Natasha was somehow still close. Somewhere under his ribs. Between his heart and stomach. Or maybe in his gut. He couldn’t quite tell.

When the longing became unbearable, he would pour himself a glass of milk and spread fruit marmalade on a slice of white bread.

After a month, Natasha was allowed to go home on weekends for good behavior.

She would come outside and chat with the other girls.

Patrick knew she was being closely watched by the other children's parents, so he didn't rush to see her.

Eight weeks and three days after the basement incident, he ran into Natasha on the first-floor landing of their apartment building.

She was waiting for the elevator.

Patrick silently stood beside her.

She turned her head, her deep brown eyes giving him a cold, unreadable stare before looking away.

The elevator arrived.

They stepped inside, and with trembling fingers, Patrick pressed the button for her floor, then his own.

The doors closed, and the cabin began its slow, dull climb.

Patrick stood slightly turned away from Natasha, burning inside with bottled-up emotions and shame.

"I suppose you want to apologize?" she broke the silence.

He turned sharply toward her, but as soon as he saw her face, he lost his nerve and looked down, saying nothing.

"That experience in the basement was a mistake," she continued, glancing briefly at the surveillance camera in the ceiling. "There was no benefit in it. We lost control."

The elevator stopped at her floor, but she didn’t step out.

She waited until the doors closed and the cabin started moving again before she spoke.

"We have to control our behavior. We must be useful to our country. These hormone surges are completely pointless—they only lead to wasted time and unnecessary suffering."

She was reciting lines from Sinamor propaganda booklets.

"Love isn’t banned because humanity is being punished for uncontrolled reproduction," she said, her voice cool, almost detached. "Love is banned because it causes addiction. You can’t build a new, independent world filled with dependent people. It would be like running a health resort and serving patients opium for breakfast, then trying to convince them to quit it by evening."

Patrick listened, his heart whimpering in protest, refusing to believe the change that had overtaken the love of his life.

Like a cold iron printing press, Natasha stamped Sinamor slogans onto his heart.

"There is no benefit in kisses. No benefit in hugs. Only wasted time and hormonal dependency."

The elevator stopped on Patrick’s floor.

"Goodbye," Natasha said indifferently, her voice devoid of warmth. "Let’s just stay friends."

She extended her delicate, slender hand toward him.

Patrick shook it.

That awkward handshake felt just like their first kiss in the basement.

His heart pounded wildly.

His mouth went dry.

His legs felt weak.

Without looking back, he stumbled out of the elevator and rushed home.

He locked the door behind him, both bolts clicking into place, and stood still, listening.

Silence.

The apartment was empty.

Patrick unwrapped the scrap of yellow paper Natasha had slipped into his hand.

On it, drawn in purple marker, was a heart.

Inside the heart—an imprint of lipstick-stained lips.

Patrick brought the note to his nose and inhaled deeply.

Milk, white bread, and marmalade.

---

It took him several days to find the basement with the purple heart on the door.

This time, Natasha had chosen the meeting place more carefully, learning from past mistakes.

Patrick finally found the door in an abandoned, unfinished building on a neighboring street.

Another four weeks passed before, after regularly visiting the basement, he finally found her there.

When she appeared, she was unrecognizable.

She looked fresh as spring, her brown eyes sparkling with adrenaline, and the moment she saw him, her lips found their way to his.

It was clear that, like him, she had stopped taking the hormonal suppressants long ago.

"I missed you so much," she whispered.

Instead of answering, Patrick pulled her into a tight embrace—and felt something hard beneath her thin raincoat.

Sensing his surprise, Natasha gave him a mischievous smile.

She unzipped her coat and pulled out a tattered book with a worn paper cover.

"I bought it on the darknet," she boasted, handing it to Patrick and watching for his reaction.

He picked up the book and read aloud the unfamiliar word written on the cover in large, time-faded letters:

"Kama Sutra."

Patrick looked up at Natasha and swallowed hard.

The title felt dangerous.

The title felt like trouble.