It seems that it is already becoming a tradition to spend weekends trying to convince myself that nothing special has happened and that I still hate Uritsky just as much as I did four years ago. Although, I cope with the second part of the task quite easily, especially considering that I still hear the phantom echo of his stupid laughter, which even through the steel door imprinted into every cell of my brain.

What a bastard, huh? Does he think that what he did to me in the past is not enough? What about myself? What, in general, came over me? I want to cover my head with a...