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© Fedir Tytarchuk, 2025
ISBN 978-5-0068-2474-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
“The Perfect Sinner”
(“I Grant You Contempt”)
(The Story of a Nameless Man)
Fedir Tytarchuk
This is a story about a man whose inner world collides with a harsh, suffocating reality. He exists within a web of rules, conventions, and silent judgments – where every move is measured and every thought weighed. But within him grows a protest – quiet, stubborn, and unstoppable. He crosses boundaries, rejects imposed norms, and seeks his own path, even when it leads through pain, doubt, and loss.
There are no easy answers here, no comfortable truths. It is a story of resistance, of fragile balance between freedom and destruction, and of the struggle to remain oneself when the world demands surrender.
Blending elements of psychological drama, emotional tension, and intimate confession, the book invites readers into a realm where rebellion becomes a form of survival.
The ending remains open – a quiet promise of a new beginning, and a reminder that meaning is always found on the edge of defiance.
We are all mortal, but our sins are eternal!
1
The cleanliness of the restroom had clearly been overrated. Streaks on the tiles – left, no doubt, by the same rag used to mop the floors – pointed to a blatant disregard for the owner’s instructions, for whom cleanliness was something of an obsession.
or some reason, those streaks interested Him now more than everything else happening around. Probably because He felt nauseous – terribly so. His head was about to split apart, his stomach clenched in spasms, having already thrown up everything possible several times. Sweat flooded His eyes, and His treacherous legs threatened to give way, plunging Him headfirst into the toilet.
“Well, that wouldn’t be the worst solution,” – flashed through His mind for some reason. The water called to Him, falling once again in a stream, carrying away everything that touched it. He could have watched it forever if not for…
If not for the start of the workday – colleagues stomping first one way, then the other, pausing for a while by the sinks, and… He couldn’t take it anymore – He came out. Though His unsteady, staggering gait could better be described as “falling out of the stall,” let’s still say – He came out.
From the other side of the mirror, something looked back at Him – something to be feared not only there, beyond the glass, but, truth be told, in life as well. The fire in His extinguished gaze burned somewhere far away – deep within a cluttered, uninhabited cave, whose low arches pressed down on anyone inside, stirring up fits of claustrophobia mixed with groundless panic. His hair demanded much – and above all, not styling. After the night’s escapades, it could use a good wash, to remove at least the remnants of cigarette ash and something else that foam parties tend to leave behind. His sallow, sagging skin no longer held by tired muscles hung in folds – on His cheeks, under His eyes, on His chin.
He looked at His reflection again, smiled faintly – and found nothing attractive in it, nothing that could…
Water filled His ears, flowed down His collar, soaking His already ruined shirt. Soap foamed but refused to cleanse. Lathering His hair a second time, He again lowered His head under the stream – cool, reviving, bringing Him back to life. Luckily, the workday had already begun, and no one was bothering Him in the restroom.
The previous evening – like the one before it, and like many others – had started with the same phrase: “Not tonight! Tomorrow’s a hard day, I need to sleep…” and, naturally, ended as all such evenings do.
He somehow stumbled out of the restroom, dripping water across the hallway floor. In the restroom, as usual, there were no paper towels, the automatic dryer worked any way but properly, and using toilet paper for such purposes had been ruled out since the last time – when its remnants stuck stubbornly in His hair and raised unnecessary questions.
Memories began returning – but with difficulty, through a haze of headache and memory gaps.
His T-shirt was still there. Thank heavens! Though it was the last one. The pack of ten cheap Chinese cotton shirts bought for occasions like this had somehow vanished, turning into a pile of unwashed laundry at home. That’s probably where today’s shirt would end up too – the one He was now vigorously using to dry His hair, trying to restore at least a semblance of order.
The morning was chilly. Either an anomaly for mid-summer, or the river nearby, or perhaps the lingering alcohol still being – or no longer being – processed by His body. But He woke from an inhuman cold. Found Himself on a park bench, in the middle of the city, a few steps from a hanging pedestrian bridge over the river – its cables reminding Him of a giant unfinished harp. It was as if someone had intended to build a harp for some local deity from city hall or perhaps for some technical novelty – a robot, maybe – He mused. But then they either changed their minds or ran out of funds, and since the structure was already built, the money spent, the investors impatient, they repurposed it as a bridge.
Next to Him, on the same bench, lay a woman whose age seemed to reach back to pre-war times – or at least that’s how she looked – and judging by the unbuttoned trousers and the used condom on the ground, things had indeed gone… as expected.
She was sound asleep, using His rolled-up jacket as a pillow. Her plump legs, barely covered by a short skirt, twitched slightly now and then. Her ample curves occupied nearly the entire bench, and He wondered how there had been room for Him at all. Judging by the fact that He’d woken not on the bench but on the tiled path beside it – there hadn’t been.
– What, again? – snapped Him out of His thoughts Zhenya, the local tinkerer and, at the same time, perhaps His only friend at work.
– Spare me the morals, my good man! Just pour me a drink, – He replied grandly. The arrogance was, of course, feigned – and they both knew it, bursting into laughter.
– A hair of the dog, huh? – Zhenya clarified.
– I’d be infinitely grateful, colleague, – He slumped into the chair, twisting a fresh T-shirt in His hands.
– Then swing by my place in fifteen minutes, – Zhenya patted His wet shoulder. – Gotta stop by the production floor first…
– But of course, – He called after him, tossing His shirt onto the floor.
For a moment, the T-shirt blocked His view, sliding pleasantly down His worn-out face. But when His vision cleared again, the world had changed. Most of His view was now occupied by a pair of hips – starting from the feet below, in massive platform shoes, the height of fashion.
It was Karina! The last person He wanted to deal with right now.
He had known Karina for over a year. Their acquaintance, if one could call it that, had only recently grown closer – and at first, it was a rather turbulent affair.
Karina was a young woman tall enough to look down on most people – both literally and figuratively.
He gave her another assessing glance, letting his eyes travel from her platform shoes upward, along her slightly heavy legs wrapped tightly in stretch jeans. He noted the unbuttoned top of those jeans – something he would once have taken as an invitation. He remembered the curve of her waist, now hidden beneath a loose blouse, and his gaze lingered for a moment on the place where he had fallen asleep more than once, sinking into the valley between her ample forms. She was clearly furious.
– You disgusting bastard! – Karina spat her anger at Him.
– I can’t disagree with your assessment, my dear! Would you care to step inside?…
***
The blood was still oozing, seeping through the clenched fingers of his hand, as he tried to cover his scratched cheek. Alas, his offer had not been met even with a hint of disgust; instead, it served as a catalyst, turning verbal anger into its nonverbal form. And he was extremely lucky, because a polished claw, coated with acrylic lacquer, flew straight at his eye – and if he hadn’t dodged at the last moment, the situation could have taken a very different turn.
– And the same again! – exclaimed Yevgeny, theatrically raising his hands.
– Leave it, dear sir, – he replied. “Better pour me a drink!”
– It’s already done! – said Zheka, handing him a measured chemical cup. – Here you go, sir. Adjust your preciousness. – He was laughing at the situation.
– As usual? – he asked. “Spirits, distillate, fragrances?”
– You forgot the citric acid, sir! – Yevgeny corrected him.
Yevgeny was a chemist – one of those who worked late into the night with their reagents, never understanding why others mocked them, reducing all of existence to a chain of chemical and physical reactions.
Zheka wore an espagnole coat, strangely calling it “Spanish.” Arguments that a Spanish coat is a type of illness and that his beard was merely unkempt did little to convince him. Zheka was thin, slightly taller than average, and the image of a mad professor was completed by his reagent-stained lab coat, occasionally tousled hair, and thin-framed glasses.
– Looking at you, Zheka, I feel like hurting you,” he said, downing about 150 grams in one go. “Maybe it’s the glasses?” – 150 grams was clearly too much, and he realized it immediately despite the scent of fragrances and the bitterness of the citric acid added in abundance. – You know, they say people with glasses are more enjoyable to hit. Statistics, you understand.
– Well then! – Zheka protested again. – I make creams for him, help him with hangovers in the morning, and he still wants to hit me. And what if I hit you?!
– That can always be tripled, – he agreed. “But I’ll need to get you drunk first. And more, because I’m about to chart the curve of my aggressiveness relative to the amount of alcohol consumed.
– You forgot to include time, – Zheka corrected him.
– No, time is already a third variable; the dependency will be complex, and my brain is already not entirely in order.
– Then I suggest tea, – said Zheka, the kettle clearly set in advance. Due to his politeness, he could not help but offer tea when he was about to drink himself.
“Make it with sugar,” he nodded. “Be so kind, noble sir!” He cast another glance around the room.
“About twenty squares, at least, “he noted, observing the room full of tables, mysterious devices, equipment for mixing, weighing, and whisking. Over there, Zheka was making creams for his female colleagues. There were about a dozen of them in the lab, no less, all secretly laughing at him. This somewhat bothered Zheka, but as soon as he got absorbed in his alchemical experiments, he was almost impossible to pull away from them – reality lost all meaning.
– And where’s your chicken coop? – he asked, surprised by the silence.
– I, tavó… – Zheka glanced at him slyly. – I canned them for winter.
– Ah!” he nodded understandingly. – Also necessary…”
– They lay eggs, – Zheka explained, pouring boiling water. – They all do everything together. Including laying eggs. A chicken coop, in short.
It was hard to disagree. A chicken coop is a chicken coop, especially when a dozen young women, mostly sedentary, gaining some curves, walk together in white coats, sometimes even with caps. Seeing them lined up and clucking to each other, the analogy was obvious.
– Help yourself, – Zheka handed him a cup. – I added something extra; don’t be surprised by the taste. It removes toxins. You’ll run a bit, of course, but by lunchtime, you’ll be livelier than anyone else.
– Thank you, – he accepted the cup from the chemist’s hands.
His gaze immediately went to the window. Zheka’s lab was on the second floor of a newly built building, overlooking the back of an administrative building, where smokers gathered, exchanging all the latest gossip.
– There are yours, – he pointed to the group in white coats. – Smoking, right in their coats!
– They can do it! – Yevgeny agreed, moving among his devices and reagents, beginning to immerse himself in his world – if he wasn’t pulled out abruptly, the conversation was practically over.
– Look, they’re gossiping about me too! – he pointed somewhere. Yevgeny stirred, raising his previously absent gaze.
– You? Why?
– Because! – he indicated the redness of his cheek and four fairly deep scratches on it.
– Ah, that! Who did it?
The smoking area buzzed with activity. It could be stated with the highest degree of certainty. The tall, striking Karina clearly played her role. Although the sound was “off” for the lab listeners, her gestures and presentation clearly conveyed the storm of emotions now available to those around her.
– Was that her doing? – Yevgeny asked.
– Exactly!” he confirmed, even with some pride.
– Well, I don’t understand you at all! -” the chemist spread his hands. – Such a girl! And you! What did you say to her?
– Classic, dear friend! Classic! Friendship might have worked if nothing significant had happened between us. But my suggestion to occasionally spend time without commitment seemed insulting to her. The presence of other partners was simply unacceptable, and the proposal I made in the morning led to the act of physical retaliation. That’s all!
– You know, if I were a girl, – Yevgeny did not utter the usual disparaging words men often use about women. To him, they were girls, even when they mocked a fat spot from a forgotten sandwich he had sat on himself. “If I were a girl, I’d call you a bastard, a misogynist!”
– “Something similar was presented to me by Karina this morning.
– And?
– I didn’t object, -” he nodded. – It would be foolish to object, especially since…
Silence fell. He studied the smoking group; Yevgeny did too, but their focus was clearly different. Zheka watched the bubbling, emotion-filled smoking area; he had already noticed something else.
– And who is that? – he finally asked.
– Where? – Yevgeny didn’t understand.
– There, the thin girl with the elegant cup in her hands. – She wasn’t smoking or participating in the general discussion but stood aside, observing with indescribable interest.
– I don’t know… – Zheka shrugged. – Probably someone new. She wasn’t here yesterday.
– Interesting… – he sipped his tea. – Interesting…
– You only react sexually to women! – Yevgeny noted reproachfully.
– I have high testosterone, high blood pressure, and, they say, southern blood. Otherwise, I cannot respond to young girls. Yes! My reaction, in most cases, is linked to the sexual component. I react sexually to almost everything. I don’t understand how others manage without this. They probably suppress their essence. No other way!
– Maybe that’s why you have problems?
– Admit it, it’s not my problem. It’s theirs.
– I can bet…
– Bet, bet, give me pleasure…, – he leaned back in the chemist’s chair. – And then I’ll tell you what Karina can do. You’re curious, right?
– Curious, -” Zheka replied with a touch of irony. – Then I’ll go and see for myself what you can’t. Deal?”
– I dare not impede, – he nodded, putting the cup aside. – But I warn you, you won’t hear anything new or good about me. Only the truth! Now, start…
2
Keeping the promise he made to himself – to go to bed earlier today – once again failed. Alas, the subway, close to eleven at night, trains running every fifteen minutes, and, surprisingly – or, conversely, predictably – empty cars.
The triple-seat, so disliked by him when the train was crowded, was now the only place where he had the strength to collapse, slipping through the doors that had swung wide open.
The train was clearly not new, but had recently undergone a major overhaul, so the familiar yellow lights were now replaced by LED strips. The light cut his eyes with its intensity, its high-frequency flicker making everything seem unnatural, almost like how his perception used to feel in nightclubs flooded with neon and specialized LED lighting.
He was alone in the car. Through a couple of windows separating him from the next car, he spotted a pair of teenagers passionately kissing at this late hour…
Fatigue hit only when his legs finally stopped feeling the strain. His eyelids fell involuntarily, shielding his consciousness from this world. And apparently, consciousness was only too happy about it.
The car rocked. The slight elevation changes and track curves are hardly felt by most in the subway, but if your internal “gyroscope” is finely tuned from a couple of reckless days and burdened by the grind of workdays, all these bumps and bends are felt much more sharply.
The train followed its path, speeding up, passing a span, slowing, stopping at another platform, throwing the hydraulic doors open, closing them, and moving to the next stop. In his head, everything blurred. The previous day seemed distant, intense, and unbearably unpleasant.
“Getting a proper sleep is definitely not happening!” flashed through his mind between thoughts of two meetings where he had been practically crucified over failed projects and memories of the scene in the smoking area, where he had been publicly scolded by nearly the entire female staff. He didn’t care much about the first – projects continued on schedule – but he had been reprimanded more for his lifestyle and behavior, which the management and other departments did not approve of, though they couldn’t openly voice it in an official meeting – corporate ethics, damn it!
As for the scolding in the smoking area – it was almost amusing. He must admit, he had secretly enjoyed watching the reactions sparked by his separation from Karina. He had given the female social environment a topic for discussion, apparently the only thing keeping it alive.
Zheka. That was the issue with Zhenya. Apparently, he had offended him somehow. He didn’t understand the cause of Zhenya’s withdrawal and retreat.
“Nothing significant enough to cause this reaction was said,” he wondered. He even seemed to have apologized. Or so it seemed to him. But again, his senses, already hazy after the process of recovering from the hangover, suggested that Zhenya had accepted the apology formally, not verbalizing the cause of his offense, leaving it in force.
“Alright, we’ll figure it out tomorrow…” passed through his mind. It had been worse before. He always found a way to connect with Zhenya, and sometimes his friend forgave far more than was warranted.
When she appeared, he didn’t even notice. Just her hair, gathered into a bun, brushed across his face as the train curved, and slipped away. A few seconds later, it happened again. His eyes instinctively opened, searching for the unknown irritant.
The irritant stood nearby, leaning her hips against the handrail separating the entrance from the triple seat. Her warmth washed over him, and now he felt it.
A wide pelvis, slightly plump buttocks hidden beneath a skirt of unknown cut and colorful material, the curve of a tired yet feminine strong back. A light upper garment with a slit running the length of her back and a single button at the neck, and unruly black hair – all appeared to him suddenly, immediately holding his weary gaze.
The car was empty. It had plenty of free seats, yet for some reason, she hadn’t moved more than a few steps, collapsing tiredly against the handrail at the entrance. Her entire posture spoke of extreme fatigue and a sense of helplessness, and through the slit in her back, the clasp of her bra looked at him. The lingerie was purple, which, to him, said something about its owner. He was convinced that the choice of lingerie color reveals more about a woman than almost anything else.
The clasp opened easily. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing. Apparently, it was a surprise for her as well. She jumped on the spot, covering her chest with her hands, where the dislodged element of clothing disrupted her comfort, revealing his intentions.
She stood a meter away, hunched over, nervously adjusting what he had just undone, her gaze almost incinerating him. If it had been up to her, she would have crushed him right there, but something prevented her from acting on her desires. Without saying a word, she stepped aside, sat on a distant free bench, and immersed herself in her thoughts.
She was already over forty. A network of sparse wrinkles had started to cover her once youthful and firm skin. A smooth layer of makeup indicated that she had used it for a long time, applying it carefully, probably spending considerable time each morning. A small handbag was all she carried, apart from a massive necklace. Light sandals completed her look…
She was clearly distressed. Her gaze darted around; her eyes lived their own lives, flashing with light, shooting deadly lightning, then dimming to a distant glow hidden deep within the abyss of her dark pupils.
– You have no reason to fear me, – he said, sitting down next to her. – I won’t harm you. Believe me. True, I can be unbearable at times. But there’s some charm in that, isn’t there?
She was about to jump up, to say something, but he gently took her hand, holding it lightly in his palms, and she found nothing to answer.
He spoke. Despite her fatigue, the words poured out of him effortlessly. It even seemed to him that he was merely a conduit for someone else speaking through his mouth. Fatigue, the sense of unreality, stripped him of any restrictions or responsibility, and he could allow himself to say almost anything he wished. She, apparently, wasn’t paying much attention to the content, enchanted by the way he spoke. Their states created a resonance, and now he simply couldn’t leave her; she needed someone, at least for this night…
***
Morning, as always, destroyed everything. The light of the rising sun, breaking through the closed curtains, dispersed all the romance of their encounter, and now each of them wanted to rid themselves of their partner as quickly as possible.
Without a word, he took a shower, using her shampoo, shower gels, and an enormous towel. The whole procedure took no more than five minutes, and the cup of coffee she handed him said it all: “Good luck!”
By morning, she seemed older. At least her loose hair, the thin robe over her bare body, the absence of makeup – apparently she had washed at night, while he had been lost in sleep like a tired child. Their eyes never met. He assessed her figure, remembered all her curves, the shape of her breasts, her surprisingly firm, slightly protruding stomach, and the place where her legs met, where he was allowed almost immediately, right in the hallway, without even having time to take off his shoes.
All the way to her apartment, he spoke about something; she listened, lost in her own thoughts, never attempting to pull her hand from his. Several times he tried to adjust something, but each time he attempted to free his hand, even briefly, she would immediately squeeze his palm, and he would return to her side. She lived in a district built during the industrialization era, a former tractor factory area, in one of the anonymous Khrushchev-style apartments. She apparently lived alone, but didn’t seem deprived of male attention. He didn’t particularly care. This was exactly the kind of situation where a woman needed someone – someone for one night, or at least not for long, without obligations or attachments. That suited him perfectly. In fact, that was the type of relationship he usually sought, and, of course, as soon as he entered her small apartment, he let his libido take over, taking charge of everything, including her.
He drank the coffee. It was hot and overly sweet – too sweet even for him. All this time she stood nearby, eyes lowered, shifting her foot on the linoleum, thinking about something, lost in her own thoughts.
He felt an urge to do everything “quickly,” right there in that hallway where it all began, especially since he was sure she wouldn’t object – or at least wouldn’t resist… But something inside held him back. He didn’t want to ruin everything, even if the act was desired, possibly by both of them, in favor of a proper farewell.