(the events of the story take place in Mariupol in 2023)

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Xxx_Vitalik_xxX

I was walking through the ruined streets.

The wind was blowing dust and ash, and somewhere in the distance — thunder.

I was looking for anything alive — maybe food, maybe people.

And then I saw her.

She was standing by a shattered storefront window. Skinny. Torn dress.

Hair dyed black and pink. Pale face. Eyeliner smudged.

Something shiny in her hands.

“H-hi…” she stammered, dropping a handful of shards onto her hands.

“It’s glitter… I love it…”

I looked closer — it was glass.

She was rubbing it into her skin, scratching up her palms.

“You… wh-what the hell?” I managed to say.

“C-can I have some hairpins…?” she whispered, staring at my old rusty bobby pins

(I carry them around — never know when they might come in handy).

I handed them to her silently.

She clutched them like treasure and shoved one into her hair.

Then she reached toward me:

“P-pet me…”

So I pet her.

Her hair was rough, crusted with dirt and dye,

but she purred like a cat. Then suddenly hugged me and whispered into my shoulder:

“I swallowed glitter… it glows inside…”

I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her.

Maybe a concussion. Maybe just broken.

But right then I felt so scared for her that I just stood there, holding her.

Then she grabbed my hand and led me into the dark...

I followed.

She walked fast, like she didn’t even feel the glass cutting into her bare feet.

Blood marked the road behind us,

but she smiled, like it was just red glitter.

“Stop!” I finally shouted. “That’s… glass! You’re gonna cut yourself!”

She turned. Her eyes sparkled in the darkness.

“N-no…” she whispered, raising a bloodied hand. “They’re… s-soft…”

I grabbed her hand — it was torn to shit with cuts.

“You’re bleeding out, for fuck’s sake!”

She laughed, swayed, then pressed my palm against her stomach.

“There’s… even more glitter inside…”

I felt something wet and sticky through her dress.

Pulled away.

“You… you fucking swallowed glass?!”

She nodded, smiling like she was talking about candy.

“It t-tinkles when I breathe…”

I started shaking. She was dying.

I dragged her, pulling her along toward a wrecked pharmacy I’d seen two streets back.

She kept mumbling something about “glitter in the sky”

and “angels with shards in their wings.”

Then suddenly she went limp.

I caught her in my arms — she was lighter than I thought.

“Hold on…” I whispered, though I knew it was probably too late.

She opened her eyes one last time and whispered:

“Th-thank you… for the pins…”

Then her pupils widened,

like the last bits of glitter scattered inside them.

—

I’m sitting on cracked asphalt.

Her body’s still warm.

My head’s a fucking mess.

What the fuck even just happened?

This psycho rubbed glass into her skin and called it glitter.

And my rusty old bobby pins — the kind even junkies wouldn’t steal —

were her “treasure.”

I pull another one from my pocket — filthy, paint flaking off.

Why the fuck did she like this shit?!

“You… fuck…” I mutter into the void.

“I had fucking rust on those, it could’ve gone into your blood, and you…”

I remember how she pressed my hand to her stomach.

It was wet. It was glass.

I stand up, trembling.

“Fuck this! Fuck all of this!”

I kick an empty can of stew — it clangs and flies into the darkness.

She was dying and thinking about glitter.

And me… I gave her rusty pins and pet her dirty fucking hair,

like that could fix anything.

I clench my fists.

No rage. Just emptiness.

I GRANTED HER LAST WISHES.

I found her backpack.

In the pocket — a crumpled piece of paper, pencil smudged by rain:

“If I die – I want purple flowers in my hands. And in my hair. So it’s pretty.”

I looked around.

Nearby — a broken planter. In it — lilacs.

Purple. Dusty. But alive.

That’s fucking impossible.

There’s nothing living in this fucking city.

But she — she’s here.

I picked a branch. The lilacs crumbled onto my boots.

“Well, Liza… Here’s your fucking glitter.”

I laid the flowers in her hands.

Braided them into her hair — next to the rusty pins.

The phone in my pocket started ringing again.

I didn’t answer.

Let her mom think her daughter fell asleep in a field of lilacs,

and didn’t rot here, under rubble.

I turned the paper over — there were more lines on the back:

“If possible – bury me in a room. With a sign. And glitter on the floor.

Like in that music video…”

I was fucking stunned.

But I went looking.

Found a trashed studio apartment — flower wallpaper,

shattered glass on the floor (her “glitter”).

Made a sign out of cardboard:

“Liza. 15 years old. Loved glitter and rusty bobby pins.”

Nailed it to the door.

Put her things on top of the wardrobe:

One pink sock

Empty mascara

Those same rusty pins

And then — from her second phone (Samsung, cracked screen) —

music started blasting:

Vanished – Crystal Castles

“I’m buried in the noise…”

The sound echoed through the empty apartment.

I sat on the floor. Lit a cigarette.

That’s how she stayed — in her ‘room’, with lilacs in her hands, under her own soundtrack.

And me… I just walked out.

Left the door wide open

.

Let it play.

That’s it.

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