Chapter 4. The blast. (Suicide bomber).

And then it happened, on April the 3d, soon after I had started to write these short stories.

The terrorist act. In Saint-Petersburg, who could have imagined that.

That event has put our city alongside with such biggest world cities like New York, London, Paris, Madrid, and many others. Our little Saint-P. Somehow we became fellows in misfortune. It happened on my station, my home subway station.

It’s disgusting to catch yourself thinking that one can find a single good point in all what had happened — like that unity feeling. That unity, that helping other people to get to their homes back from work, since all subway in 5 mln people populated city is blocked and closed for a check up — that all makes me sad. Why? Because I feel overwhelmed with sorrow for the dead people, being murdered, sorrow for their poor detached bodies, and, to be honest, when I see people getting united, helping each other, supporting those who is alive, thanking drivers who get them back home free on their cars, that feeling of injustice arises in my chest.

It’s unfair — they are dead and we care about how to get back home.

Damn, that day me personally helped 8 people with that free driving, one of that eight I picked up from the airport. And I am not proud of myself, I just did what I could.

But with all that all-of-a-sudden-free-transport-day we forgot about 14 very important dead people: 13 victims (around 10 at the moment when it all happened), and the terrorist.

Of course, the next days we will remember them, we will bring them flowers. But that will be the next day, at once — we grab that straw, the slightest excuse for us people, soaked deep in a ourselves and our outer appearance, in our “look”, to feel human, to let our good feelings come out. We are so scared to show our kindness, that only terrorist act can let us open up for something good, it’s such a disgrace.

So that people are dead, and death is the worst thing that could have happened to them. Nothing they can change, nothing they can feel now.

But there is another person — the terrorist, he will not change anything anymore as well. And that is the saddest, the most terrible thing — he will not understand what a nightmare he had done, he will not redeem. That little kid, who haven’t grown up, who up till the last moment believed that he is a warrior and he does a great thing.

He, his brains, seconds before smashing out and forever switching off will loop up the thought that he is going to heaven, and he is totally wrong. There will be no heaven. At least for him.

I have a rose, and I carefully water it almost every day. It blossoms 1–2 times a year. I thought that it doesn’t care about the terrible weather outside, about our cheap emotions, about people at all. But it turns out that it cares. That day, on April the 3d, it blossomed out, and soon after there was a blast. Just one day it blossomed and withered, the day when one lonely person killed himself, taking 13 others with him.