"My Journey Through Life: Young Adulthood" Part 2

About a week later—or maybe even less—I felt like something had changed in the way the company treated me, although I couldn’t quite name why. But now I think it’s because the feeling of shame and guilt started following me like a shadow, and I felt as if everyone around already knew that I was a "slut," "easy," and despised me for it. That’s really how it felt.

Back then I was convinced that Jack had told everyone what had happened that night. And then someone said that he had kissed me, and now everyone knew. Knew the truth about me, no matter how much I tried to hide it—they already knew, and now I couldn’t wash it off.

That’s what I thought then, and I truly believed it, although now I understand it might have been just my own emotions. But both might be true.

Either way, I didn’t feel comfortable, carefree, or joyful around them.

For a while, I started seeing them less, they stopped inviting me with the same enthusiasm as they did before that party, until one day Nick wrote to me asking if I could take photos of his family—his parents and him with his newborn sister. I always helped out and never took money from friends or acquaintances, so of course I agreed.

On the appointed day we met in the park, the sakuras had started to bloom, and we took beautiful photos with them in the background. Then they invited me to their home so I could change clothes and we could take some more photos inside the house.

After I was completely exhausted, Nick’s mom fed us and we went upstairs to Nick’s room to take a couple more photos and we started talking.

As a preface, I’ll add that back when we were little, I knew Nick liked me, but he was so insecure and shy that he couldn’t make a move, so his friends always did it for him—both in childhood and later. And honestly, I liked him too—must have been when I was 12—but I didn’t understand how a boy could be that indecisive and decided not to give him a chance.

So I remember we were either sitting or lying on his bed (which was actually a fold-out couch), because there wasn’t really anywhere else to sit, and suddenly he just starts kissing me. Honestly, I was stunned 😅 mostly because I remembered how shy he used to be as a kid.

I didn’t like it, but I didn’t push him away or say anything—I really needed to feel wanted by someone after what had happened. I needed someone to distract me from the crushing thoughts and emotions, and Nick seemed like someone who could save me, protect me, understand me, and comfort me. If only I had known then that it would all turn out exactly the opposite—I would’ve run the moment he tried to kiss me.

But I didn’t pull away, didn’t leave, didn’t resist.

Later it turned out that some time before, Nick had asked Jack for "permission" to hit on me, as if I were some kind of token or someone’s property—in this case, Jack’s property, even though he had never been my boyfriend, to put it mildly. But I remember when I heard that, I even felt a bit pleased at the thought that basically the whole group liked me—Jack, Sam, Nick, and, as it turned out a couple of years later, Bobby too—the last of the four main characters from that group and our childhood, who would later play a big role.

"Four best friends since childhood," yeah right. I’d rather bury such "friends."

After the kiss (which, honestly, was awful—it felt like he was trying to devour my face instead of kissing me, and I later had to teach him how to do it), I hung out with him in his room for a bit longer and then he walked me home.

If you think this is where the candy-and-flowers stage begins, where I fell for him and believed he was a good guy—nope, not even close. We didn’t have that, not even a little, my self-esteem was that low.

Nick, like in childhood, couldn’t summon up the courage for any serious moves, so at the next drunken party at another campground—same as before, just a bit nicer looking and, thankfully, no one raped me this time—drunken Nick was a bit bolder than usual and almost the entire evening we were either making out or drinking and repeating the cycle. (At least I already understood that Nick was too timid to ever even try to harass me—I still don’t know how he even managed to kiss me!)

I tried my hardest to feel something, to convince myself I was having fun, that I liked it all, and I tried to actively participate in everything. And when you’re under that much alcohol and nicotine (at such parties, the minimum I smoked was one pack of strong Parliament, usually it was two), then even the dumbest games and pastimes seem fun—except for the twerking on tables, which other drunk girls would do, many of whom I was seeing for the first time, but then would see constantly for the next couple of years.

Twerking, to me, was and still is a disgusting "dance" that always made me cringe—especially when one of the girls would wear a bright pink velour tracksuit from "Juicy Couture" with rhinestones on the butt. (Ironically, that girl later turned out to be probably the only mentally stable and self-confident one in the group. We actually got along really well, and I even came to see her teach twerking classes—she rented a dance studio in the city center and held group lessons several times a week, and yeah, I was amazed that so many girls wanted to learn it. But it was interesting to watch—an experience is an experience 😅)

But in reality, it was the biggest self-deception. I didn’t understand who I was or why I was there with these people. And the scariest part is that nothing was able to scare me enough to wake up, take off my rose-colored glasses, and just walk away from them for good.

I remember walking around that whole night trying to figure out how to talk to Jack about what had happened, but I couldn’t gather the courage, and instead I just listened to him talk about how much he missed some girl—also named Nastya, what an irony.

When it was really late and most people had already passed out drunk, a few of us were still sitting outside in the gazebo—completely smashed. Including Nick.

It’s important to mention that Nick was an athlete with a powerful build, who practiced mixed martial arts (MMA), and the most dangerous thing was his hidden, boundless, terrifying rage inside him, which made him a beast whose eyes bulged out when he was in a fury—and this was the most dangerous beast in this pack. But I’d only learn that later, and I’d be the only one who wasn’t afraid of that beast and the only one who would try to speak the truth.

So I see this new drunk guy stumbling into our gazebo. He was so drunk that he mistook our group for his own and started chugging vodka from our table, thinking it was his.

And then, it seemed like completely wasted Nick, who could barely move and had puked a few times, suddenly gets up, takes off his shirt and watch, lays them on the table, and starts marching furiously toward this poor guy who had just gone the wrong way. His whole posture and expression were so filled with rage that the air practically crackled. It seriously scared me, because until that moment I had no idea Nick was capable of that.

The poor guy initially tried to act tough, but when he saw Nick’s face, he backed off and started apologizing, saying he made a mistake and would replace the vodka. But Nick didn’t care—he needed to unleash his rage. Thankfully, our group jumped in, tried to calm him down, and somehow avoided a fight.

When things settled, I went to bed—again, fully clothed, again on a bed with several drunk people. It was so uncomfortable. It was also freezing, we all slept in jackets and even in our shoes.

After that party, Nick once again switched back into his usual shy, unsure self and disappeared. By that I mean he stopped showing any affection toward me again, although we still saw each other from time to time because we were in the same group. Then randomly he would text and ask me to go to the park with him to walk his dog, acting like nothing happened—just Nick being Nick.

Meanwhile, I kept losing myself more and more. I tried to become more like them—those rich kids who, year after year, told me: Nastya, you dress like an old lady (just like in the photos I posted yesterday), your hair is a mousey color, dye it darker, grow it out, you look like a boy with that short cut, what kind of crap music are you listening to? Etc, etc.

Sometimes they openly mocked me, and Nick often joined in.

It’s hard to believe now, but I even deleted almost all the rock music from my phone and started downloading more and more of their dumb party tracks and their playlists, since we all took turns connecting our phones to the speakers—and mine wasn’t an exception.

I started dressing like them, dyed my hair darker, and with each dye job the color got darker and darker, like I subconsciously understood I was falling deeper and deeper into a black hole. I started growing it out. I went places I didn’t like, did things I didn’t enjoy, dressed in ways I didn’t like, listened to music I didn’t like, and lived a life I never wanted.

I don’t remember the exact moment when whatever was going on between Nick and me became a relationship (if you can even call the first six months a relationship), but eventually everyone started figuring it out.

And then, one day, something happened that to this day makes me cry as if it happened yesterday.

Remember our Dalmatian Sabi? She was already over 10 years old when her behavior started to change — she began howling every night for hours on end, and nobody could get any sleep. Then she started peeing indoors, and my mom had to get up almost every night to clean the floors. Eventually, Sabi began wearing diapers. And this continued for quite a while, until things got much, much worse. Her back legs started to drag, and we would only walk her across the street and back. I flinched every time I heard the scraping of her claws on the pavement.

Sabi started sleeping in my room, since it was located at the far end of the house, and if we closed all the doors, my parents could finally get some rest. So the burden of calming Sabi down at night and cleaning up after her fell on me. Whenever she began howling, I would wake up, lie down next to her on the floor in her bed, cover her up and comfort her. I felt so deeply sorry for her. And for my mom, who couldn't bring herself to let go, even though at times she had been harsh with Sabi — but she loved her, and that’s the truth.

One day, my dad came into my room, sat down on the bed, and started talking to me about the possibility of "letting Sabi go" without telling my mom — because she would never be able to make that decision. I told him it would be nearly impossible to take Sabi to a vet without Mom noticing; she would figure it out.

That’s when Dad said a coworker had recommended getting tuberculosis pills from the pharmacy — in large doses, they supposedly worked like anesthesia on animals, and the pet would just fall asleep peacefully, like at a vet’s office. That’s what he was told, and that’s what he told me.

I want to be clear: at the time, I wasn’t a volunteer yet, and I had no idea what this drug really was. I didn’t know that doghunters all over the country were poisoning stray dogs with these same pills, leading to agonizing deaths from internal bleeding. The deaths were long and painful. I didn’t know. And neither did my dad.

Now, I understand exactly what kind of person that colleague of his must’ve been.

I felt so sorry for Sabi, for my mom, for my dad, who was watching Mom suffer and was suffering himself. My mom started having serious sleep issues, health problems, she lost her appetite — she was falling apart right in front of us. I just couldn’t say no, not for their sake.

A few days later, when Mom was out, Dad called me to the terrace (the exit from our house led out onto a little terrace — we used to have breakfast there often. You could see the whole city, the rockets flying overhead, the bombings — great view, really). I came out and saw Dad at the table, laying out a small plastic bag filled with ground meat. He was pressing small pills into the meat, and I stood there watching, barely believing it was actually happening. It felt surreal. I asked, “So soon? Already?” And Dad said, “The longer we wait, the harder it will be.”

Then he told me to take the meat with the deadly pills and feed it to Sabi.

I took the bag and went back into the house. Sabi was sleeping in her little bed in the hallway. I sat down on the floor next to her and placed the bag in front of her. She sniffed it and calmly began to eat. She didn’t know what was coming. She didn’t know — but I did.

I stroked her the whole time she ate. I stroked her and tried with all my strength not to cry — but the tears came anyway.

Once she had finished the meat, I began to watch her. I didn’t know the pills wouldn’t work right away. Deep down, I was praying they wouldn’t work at all, that she wouldn’t die, that she would survive — I didn’t want her to die. She was my friend since childhood. I loved her so much.

Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Nothing happened. And in my naive stupidity, I decided the pills hadn’t worked. I felt this enormous weight lift off my chest, I was relieved, even happy. I started getting ready to leave — I had errands to run. Dad stayed home, and Mom would be back soon.

About two hours after I gave Sabi the meat, I was still feeling relieved, thinking everything was fine. And then the phone rang. It was Mom.

I hesitantly answered the call and heard Mom sobbing so hard she couldn’t even speak. I dropped everything, called a taxi, and rushed home as fast as I could.

While I was in the taxi, I kept trying to call Mom. She could barely talk, sobbing and hiccuping so hard. I can’t even describe to you what was going on inside me at that moment. In broken fragments, she told me that when she got home, Sabi suddenly started convulsing all over. She was lying on the floor, choking, foaming at the mouth, blood pouring out.

The vet was already on the way. I told her I’d be there soon. I was trying to swallow the lump in my throat and suppress the hysteria building inside me.

A little later, Dad called. I told him I was already in the taxi, and he said that Sabi had died. The vet hadn’t made it in time. He and Mom were going to bury her now, and he asked me to clean the hallway floor and walls — they were covered in blood. I didn’t ask any more questions. I didn’t say anything else.

When I got home, no one was there. I was afraid to put my key in the lock. I didn’t want to open the door. I wished it were all just a horrible dream. But this was real — a reality we had created. I had created.

I walked into the hallway and saw blood on the floor, blood on the walls. I took off my shoes, grabbed rags, a mop, cleaning supplies — and started scrubbing.

I don’t know how long I scrubbed, but at some point, the inner breakdown exploded outward. A sobbing fit broke out so intense I couldn’t breathe or stop crying.

Later, I would find out what those pills really were. Mom found a video online showing how dogs die after being poisoned with them — victims of doghunters. The vet confirmed the cause of death, and Mom concluded that Sabi must have eaten something while on a walk — something those monsters had left out to kill strays.

When I watched that video — saw the dog twitching in agony on the asphalt, foaming and bleeding from the mouth — I honestly didn’t know how I would go on living.

Everyone was in immense pain. Dad said he wanted to kill that coworker who had given him the idea and lied about how painless the death would be, "like a vet shot."

For years — many, many years — I barely spoke to my dad. I couldn’t forgive him. We agreed that Mom could never know the truth. It would destroy her.

To this day, she doesn’t know. To this day, she remembers what happened. Even today, she messaged me about Sabi.

It’s stuck in our hearts and minds for life — definitely in mine. We all struggled for a long time after that.

This is the hardest part of my story I’ve ever written. Guess how many times I sobbed while writing it?)

Sabi was 14 when she died.

I was 18 when I killed my friend, my beloved Sabi.

I think about her and Funtik almost every day. All these years. I just don’t know how to ease this pain, how to live with the thought that I condemned an innocent, living soul to such an agonizing death.

I couldn’t bear to wait for my parents to come home. I just couldn’t face my mom. So I decided to go meet the guys downtown, to distract myself, maybe find some support.

I remember that Nick, Sam, and the Twerk Girl were there.

Of course, after they asked me what had happened, I started crying and tried to briefly explain what had happened. Only the Twerk Girl comforted and supported me. Nick just made dumb, weird jokes about it until she turned to him and said something like, "She’s your girlfriend, what’s wrong with you?" He fell silent and muttered something half-hearted about being sorry.

A week or two later — I don’t remember exactly — we went to this makeshift camping spot on a little island in the Dnipro River.

By then, everyone knew Nick and I were a couple. But you wouldn’t really tell from the outside — only sometimes he’d casually put an arm around me, or we’d sleep in the same tent.

By evening, everyone was drunk out of their minds as usual — but I was the first one to get hammered.

I have such a vivid memory of that night: lying on the pier, completely wasted, sobbing, repeating over and over, "I killed my dog." The girls were looking for me — they thought I’d disappeared.

The next thing I remember is one of the girls shaking me hard, really hard, trying to bring me back. I was sobbing uncontrollably, repeating again and again that I killed my dog. And then — out of nowhere — I got slapped across the face so hard it snapped me out of it.

They were trying to bring me to my senses.

And that’s how we spent the summer. Endless parties, constant drinking, and so on.

And I never liked it. Not for a single day.