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The stairs were hard on his crippled feet. The apartment building was glacially cold and ugly as frostbitten toes. But it wasn’t White Swan. The Bolsheviks fighting among themselves had left the walls peppered and fresh blood stains covered their execution wall at the bottom of the staircase. But it didn’t bother him. He simply wore a tank top whenever he went into the basement exposing the Vor stars tattooed on both shoulders. Their vendettas didn’t concern him anymore. Only shooting Afghanistan into his veins to escape White Swan memories mattered.
dirty needle broken off under the skin festering like a bad dream