by Poppet
I came to set the earth on fire, and how I wish it was already kindled! Luke 12:49
Withdrawing the skinning knife from my boot I lean over him, my hold on his neck unyielding. “Do you know how Moses baptized the people of Israel when they were dedicated to the lord?” Slowly tracing around his eyes with the point of the blade I watch him tremble, tears running to pool against tempered steel.
“No-o.” Foma's voice cracks and shock is already draining his body of fight. It also robs me of the full impact of the pain I have chosen to execute.
“He took the blood of the sacrifice and threw it over the people. First the altar, then the tent, then the people. When God chose Moses and Aaron he marked them with blood on their right ear, foot, and hand. I need your blood to make you holy before death, Foma.”
“Meeeekah!” he shrieks, but I'm done with his weakness. He has a weak mind, a weak soul, a weak voice. “Pleeeeease!”
“Past' zakroi!” (Shut it) I snap.
The son of God never begged for his life. That's the difference between the chosen and the sinner, we don't fear death.
Tearing his shirt from his body I use it to gag him, slicing off the sleeves to tie him to the chair, then slowly I splice through the muscles up his forearms, watching the blood spill to the foul floor.
“I have no bowl to collect your blood, Foma. But that's okay, I'll cut you open until you baptize your body, so that you can die well and have a chance to escape purgatory. I'm merciful, Foma, even if you aren't.”
Gurgling in his throat is the only indication he is in agony, and I savor every incision down each cheek, under each eye, down the middle of his neck, deliberately avoiding every main vein to prolong his life – his suffering.
Because … I have made a decision. I will take his rib while he is still alive. Also it means I don't get blood spatter all over me, just bloody hands. Life is in the blood and every life is God's. Washing my hands in his blood means I touch the only part of him which is still holy. His spirit is coal black like his mind, but I think Polina will enjoy the irony of this. I'll give her a rib and it'll cost me nothing, and in the process I save his soul from damnation.
“You're so blessed Foma, I am saving you from Hell.”
His eyelids are drooping and his pupils glaze with surrender.
Foma is an apt sacrifice for my bargain with Polina.
Removing my jacket and shirt so I don't get them dirty, I assume the position and punch into his side as hard as I can, the crunch of ribs a beautiful symphony. It is the antidote to her pain, her years paying him for something he shouldn't have owned. It was on loan, did he not understand that every life is on loan.
He folds, his head hanging, blinding his own sight with blood, helping him find purity again. Slamming my fist over and over until my knuckles object, I watch his bowed head, saddened that he's passed out and deprived me of the screams of being cut open while his heart beats.
Sliding the blade inside his armpit I cut down from the soft skin to the thicker flesh over his ribs, skinning and slicing until bone is exposed. Reaching to my back I withdraw the hammer from my waistband, positioning the knife and bludgeoning, severing bone on two sides, then jimmy it free of muscle, dropping Polina's payment to the floor.
Amused and chuckling I walk back to the ucheniki, telling Ivan, “I'm going to wash my hands, collect the rib.”
He nods, pride glistening in his eyes.
They know everything. They know this day is long overdue. Some men cannot find salvation with penance, only with the first baptism.
Passing Misha on my way to the kitchen, I instruct, “Start the process.”
He pats my shoulder in support while I go to disinfect, leaving his post to squirt fire gel everywhere. We don't care if it's linked to arson, no one would ever suspect a famous rock band of committing murder and burning a premises to the ground. No one will miss it and the cops will be glad to see the end of this mafia black hole. Foma has befouled this end of Oakland for long enough.
Scrubbing his blood from my skin and nails, I dry off after disinfecting with vodka from the bar, strolling back through the gloom to the office still waxy with sulfuric lamplight. I take my time putting my shirt on, threading the nagyka whip back inside loops, locking it closed and pulling on my jacket, lifting the hammer and collecting a metal can of gel from Misha. Dousing the office and the still breathing man with barbecue gel, I step back, using the last of the vodka to wash clean the end of my hammer, hiding it back under my jacket in case there are witnesses in the alley. There won't be, Gavril, Pasha, and Bogdan will make sure of it, but just in case I conceal the weapon.
“The lake of fire is the second death,” I tell Foma, stepping to the doorway to wave my hand at my brethren to exit.
“You okay? Don't you want to do it from the door?” asks Ivan.
Shaking my head, I smile. “I want to see him burn before I go. She hurt this much where no eyes can see the scars, but I'll have to live with them forever, working through the scar tissue over her heart. Now I cast him into the fire to purify his soul.”
Misha nods, walking with Ivan back into the moody weather.
Turning to Foma I lift the book of matches. It seems fitting that I use a book to cast him into flame, if he'd read the right book he could have saved himself from this. Striking the flame I flick the burning match heads all igniting as one at the slumped body still tied to a chair, coated angelically with his own blood. He's bright red with a beer bottle rammed in his ass. It's better than a gerbil, I think.
His hair singes off first, then his eyelashes, his eyelids blistering and popping when his eyeballs start melting. The smell is a festering cesspit and I hold my breath, only turning away when his entire form is doused with fire, then I run through the crackling pyre for the exit, slamming through the metal barrier and into daylight and brisk air. It reminds me of a few men and an angel in a fire, none were harmed. I am that angel. And the bible says, 'he looked like a man'. That's not a coincidence, angels masquerade as men all the time.
Inhaling I look up at the rain, reminded that God purified the world with it. That's why it's been raining all day. Today is a day of purification. This is how angels do housekeeping, with rain and fire. We are the ucheniki, the disciples, the living angels keeping score. Righting wrongs. And now we celebrate, because that's what angels do.
We make music, we dance and rejoice, and we go to church.
I hope there will be a few sinners in church tonight, I could really use a decent fuck.
~ Chapter 12 ~
Darkness within darkness,
The gateway to all understanding
~ Lao Tzu
Polina:
It is a strange day, the kind which haunts the soul. Every moment I expect attack, I expect this to be a trap, a test, but no matter what I clean or cook or do, no violence storms into my home. Now I do the unthinkable, pushing the boundaries to see if I'm being watched, because I feel it. I feel I am being stalked by dark eyes concealed just outside of my aura. My skin crawls with warning, with knowing.
Taking a deep breath, expecting agony to crush my wishes when I fall under the whip of retribution, I step outside where I am forbidden to go. I am also forbidden to drink alcohol, so I take with me the vodka in tomato juice, going to sit on the lawn under the recently delivered night sky. She is such a newly born baby she smells new and fresh and clean, an innocent darkness yet to feel the criminals wake, yet to hear the screams of the despairing.
The grass is cool and the autumnal chill seeps into my soles, still damp from the rain. Resting back I stare up, wishing I could count all the stars. I am ignorant and my ignorance bothers me. I know I am deficient and wish I could fix my flaws. Ignorance makes me vulnerable, and I hate being vulnerable.
Cool air fingers my nape like a ghostly lover, and I shiver, turning to look behind me, feeling the scrutiny. Scanning the dark park I feel like a child locked back in the container. I can't see much but my instincts scream that da
nger approaches.
Steeling myself for the bratva I sip my vodka, defiant. I refuse to do as I'm told. For some reason when I'm told no, then the burning to do it scorches my heart until I do what is against the rules.
Rules don't serve me, they never have. Men have too many rules, like their god. Maybe that's why god is a man, he tells other people what to do but doesn't have to follow the laws he makes others follow. He's allowed to murder and do unspeakable things, but we're not allowed to murder. Why make us in his image if we can't play the same games he can? If you tell me not to steal, I will steal just to make a point.
In my heart I am free, I will die anyway, so I will die free, outside drinking my Bloody Mary. It seems funny, drinking my alcohol the same color as my blood, it's the same as my life. For a finger puppet death is nothing, it's a fact of life.
It makes no difference if I die by murder or heart attack, the result is the same, the equation equals the same. I don't panic about the how or when or why, just so long as I die free in my heart and mind. Looking up, feeling the approach of the cold soul, I watch the night give birth to light. She is a babe herself and already she brings us new hope, a full moon so swollen and bright she makes my spirit smile. In every darkness there is a sliver of light, a twinkle of life, a glimmer of illumination because mankind isn't whole until we cast a negative version of ourselves on the ground. Even on the darkest night we cast a shadow like the undeveloped photo, the one dimensional potential of who we could've been before we received form and color.
Darkness follows us all the days of our lives. Like the moon we all have a dark side, a shadow there to remind us that we cannot escape it, not ever. A paper doll cut from ether stuck on the back of your feet, always there to taunt your intimate moments, intruding on all privacy, the one witness to your every sin. Maybe when we die god rips our shadow away and tortures it until it confesses all our secrets. Long ago I stopped being afraid of the dark because I looked in the mirror and saw my own. My eyes are the color of promise rings, my hair the shade of a summer sun, and it's a disguise because inside I am empty.
If Mikah shakes me hard enough he'll hear how hollow I am, my blessedness leeched out when I screamed so hard my throat broke. I couldn't speak for ages because it hurt. I lost my mind on a dirty mattress in a prison cell, but still I think, still I react. I hate that about me. I hate that sometimes he makes me shake, but more than that I hate that he makes me feel good. Good doesn't last, good is a disguise for deceit.
The savage is kind, but he's not a kind man.
Why is he kind to me? What mind game is he playing with me?
The crunch of dry grass on the edge of the lawn has my heart racing but still I sit, pretending I am not aware of the peril sneaking up behind me.
What will it be this time? A plastic bag? A choker chain to drag me around? Stripped and forced to crawl on the gravel while he makes me suck a dog off? I've seen it all, I've lived it all. They can't hurt me. Not anymore. Polina knows how to play dead because Polina is dead. The shadow crawls over me, touching my body's shade on the turf, his male, mine softer and already little next to his. It's because he stands while I sit. Men like that.
“What do you want?” I ask his darkness touching mine, shielding our eyes from the moon – and each other.
Never look the devil in the eye, that's when he owns you. His shadow will dance with yours under the full moon, but it's only when you turn to look up at him that he becomes your lord and savior.
I am a dirty angel, just ask Mikah. Is that why the dark god has come to stand behind me? Is he here to take me back to my prison?
He's not built like one of Oleg's goons, so he must belong to Mikah's brotherhood. Or maybe he really is the devil and my time on Earth is overdue, my return by date expired.
The dark silhouette on the grass says nothing, but a black gloved hand comes over my shoulder to hand me a piece of paper and a switchblade.
See that? The devil looks after his own.
I take the blade and flick it open, feeling it in my palm like the first billow of warmth reheating my iced up heart. It is security and comfort, a friend on a dark and solitary night. It winks with the reflection of the newly blossomed moon, flashing at the lord who answers prayers. It is like the mirror smugglers used, a silent signal between cohorts. I angle it to peek at him.
“Thank you,” I tell the darkness fondling mine.
“Read the note.”
He has a nice voice, warm and potent, powerful. Not the devil then, just a man. Men don't impress me, not even the one god I've met impresses me. I thought the day I met god I'd be happy and enjoy his companionship, that he would be a father to me and hold me on his knee and kiss me where I hurt, but god doesn't do that.
I hand the note back over my shoulder to him, refusing to look at the stealthy stalker who has waited all day for me to be exposed in the yard. Why didn't he come to the door? I was alone all day, so why wait until now? “I can't read,” I tell him, loathing the shame coating my tone.
“It says, the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he says.
“I don't understand.”
The shadow divorces mine, growing long and monstrous when he walks around me, the tall man standing in front of me and staring down. It's impulse to look up at him, making eye contact, his body illuminated by the strong aura of a moon so full it looks like it cannot rise this night, it's too heavy to float up high to kiss the cosmos, tonight it is gorged with light instead of prayers, and only prayers rise when inflated with the spiritual helium called hope.
He is nice to look at, much nicer than Mikah. But he is a stranger and doesn't belong with his toes touching the tips of mine.
“I heard god came to visit,” he states, his voice bland, schooled, careful.
“Are you an angel too?” I scorn, almost laughing. God only talks to angels and priests, right?
This time he smiles, and I'm transfixed by his beauty. There is something about him that makes him seem like the god the Devil prays to at night, he is the darkest of them all, and that makes him magnificent.
The darkness in my soul honors the darkness in yours, master.
Now I smile back because he is the sexiest evil to cover me with his shadow. I have never wanted a man, but this one I would sin for.
“Yes, I am an angel, his first angel. He called me Vengeance, but you can call me Victor,” he answers, his voice still smooth enough to simmer my sanity.
“What do you want, Victor?”
He lowers to his haunches to examine my face, the bruising and swelling, glancing at my arms and wrists before returning his surveillance to my eyes. “God is my enemy, Polina. He's yours too. That's what it means, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. We can be friends because we have a common enemy. You've been told you're a dirty angel, I was one of the disciples too, one of the brotherhood, but I have fallen from grace by finding sanity. You're on the inside and you have skills I could use. We don't have women in the resistance and could use a lady like you to join us.”
“Why me?” I demand, watching him because again I fear entrapment, he's waiting for me to fuck up.
“You know why. Keep the blade, keep it close, use it if you need to.”
“Why did you wait all day to approach me?”
He holds his knees, finally resting them on the lawn, stretching denim across the thighs of his long legs. I wish he wasn't wearing gloves because for once I'd like to know if a man is married.
“How do you know I was waiting for you?” he counters.
“I could feel it,” I state.
It's obvious to me, I know when I'm being watched, I also know when that observation feels like impending assault. I can read a man's eyes better than I can read my own name, and yet this man has eyes which speak of suffering and retribution.
Victor chuckles, nodding to himself. “You're good, Polina. Your instincts are honed sharper than the blade you hold. I waited because there are cameras set up around this property. The only two pl
aces to approach you are behind the tree where the mailbox is - at the end of the pathway to the front door, and this arc. It's a blind spot. You sat in it so I assumed you knew, giving me the signal to approach.”
“What now?” I ask, finding this useless. I don't understand why he's here.
“If you need help, if you need rescue, leave a note in the mailbox for me. I have people watching, it won't take us long to respond if you give us a distress call. If you can't leave the house put something red in the bedroom window, that'll be the signal for rescue. I know you're in prison, I know you will walk over every ember lit in hell, but you don't have to. You have allies, friends. Join the resistance and we'll make them all pay, I promise.”
“Why, Victor? Why do you want me to join this resistance? Why not just make me go?”
“I don't force, I give everyone a choice these days.”
“Why is god your enemy?” I pry, curious about the suffering stranger.
“He tried to murder me. He murdered my unborn children.”
I cock my head, tilting it so I can see into his eyes, asking, “Who is god to you?”
“Alpha, we call him Alpha. It sits better than calling him god. He is my father, I am his son.”
“God says that about everyone,” I huff, rolling my eyes and glaring away. This man plays stupid games, games that can get me killed.
“No Polina, I really am his son. I was the first child from his loins, he raised me in his compound believing that he is god and my mother was Eve. I have seen things that would make you traumatized, I'm telling you to join my side before they do those things to you.”
“You don't know what's been done to me, I don't fear these assholes. They're rabid dogs that run in packs, hunting together and feasting on the weak. I look weak, but I'm not as weak as they think.”
Victor raises his chin to sigh at the sky. “Polina, I am tapped into Alpha's surveillance and computers. Trust me, I know exactly what you've lived through. There are videos on snuff porn sites, there are photos, there are records in emails, he's compiled them all because he researched you. I know what you did, and I know you were a victim. You are a bird in a cage, the only difference is now you're in a different cage. They take dirty angels and clip their wings, they'll burn you, destroy you, and annihilate everyone you care about. They will turn your only friend from you. They will leave you craving death.”
