by Monica James
The minimal possessions have me guessing Serg slept here. The cupboard has no doors, so I’m able to see the bare coat hangers. My suspicion continues to mount. There is no way they stayed here without any belongings.
They were definitely tipped off.
Rage swarms me, and I kick the bed frame, it spinning and slamming into the wall. Opening the gas can, I pour gas around the room, ensuring to douse this place good and proper. Even if Serg had anything hidden, he would have taken it by now. This place is just an empty shell.
I’m too late. Again.
With a snarl, I storm from the room, going from bedroom to bedroom and drenching everything with gas. I’m blinded by sheer fury. When I get to the last room, my ragged breathing and thumping heart are deafening, but I will myself to calm down.
This room isn’t as bare as the others, and that’s because it belongs to my mother.
The double bed has been made in haste, but it shows that even in light of fleeing in the dead of night, Zoya can’t help but be a perfectionist. No surprise to why she stuck with Serg. He was the perfect son, after all.
Me? I was a disappointment who killed her only shot at happiness. And I mean that literally. She loved that vermin, Boris Ivanov, which is one of the many reasons I killed him. Any therapist would tell you my rage comes from the unresolved issues I have toward Zoya. All these supressed feelings and all that.
But in reality, I just hate freeloaders.
Zoya could have gotten a job when my father died, but instead, she thought she could win the love of any suitor who had enough zeros in his bank account by welcoming him into her bed. Most disposed of her when they grew bored until she met Boris.
One year was all she needed to forget about the so-called love of her life.
They married, and when she got pregnant with Serg, it seemed she was about to live her happily ever after. She was so close.
Dropping one of the empty cans on the floor with a thud, I walk over to the foot of the bed and slump onto the end of it. I place the other can beside my feet and take a moment to look around the bedroom.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in the vicinity of my mother that she almost feels like a mythical creature. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, pushing past the spilled gas from my hands and clothes and focusing on her sweet floral scent lingering in the air. I associate it with my childhood—a time before Boris and Serg existed.
My father was a driven man and worked his ass off to provide for us. My childhood is divided into halves—before and after him.
Before he died, I was happy. I didn’t appreciate that happiness until he dropped dead of a heart attack. He did his best to give us everything, but times were tough, and when he died, we went from living comfortably to barely surviving.
After he died, my mother revealed what a weakling she truly was. She bed-hopped, uncaring her son who lost his father was witness to her immoralities as she never bothered to close her bedroom door. All she cared about was herself, and when she found Boris, she thought she’d found her meal ticket out of hell.
He was a cruel asshole, but it didn’t bother her. All that mattered was he was rich. When they married, he saw me as nothing but a nuisance, a tie to Zoya’s past—a tie he wanted to sever. He punished me for everything, and Zoya stood by and said nothing. She watched him beat me with his belt night after night for merely being alive.
When she fell pregnant, and with a son nonetheless, Boris’s punishments became harsher. He didn’t just want to punish me; he wanted me dead. And most times, I wished that I were. He beat me until I was unconscious. Then he would throw scalding or freezing water over me to wake me, only to repeat the punishment again and again.
He robbed me of food as a power trip. He wanted me to know that the food I ate was because of him. In the end, I would rather starve than break bread with him, so I began stealing to survive, and this was where I found solace in three other kids who were just like me.
Borya, Oscar, Astra, and I were thick as thieves in every sense of the word. We understood one another because our parents were carbon copies of the other. It made sense for that friendship to extend into adulthood. Yes, they were immoral and bad, bad people, but so was I.
But when you don’t have anyone in this world, you take what you can because our friendship was on an equal playing field. That was, until they hurt the only person I ever loved. Our friendship meant nothing because my дорогая changed everything.
I interlace my fingers between my splayed legs, unbelieving this is how my life turned out. My pinkie ring catches the moonlight, the one which once belonged to Boris, the one I cut from his finger when he was still alive. I was thirteen when I ended his miserable life. He didn’t suffer enough, but knowing what his death would do to my mother and her son canceled out any regret when I slit his throat.
Zoya never forgave me for my sins, but that’s okay. I never forgave her for hers.
I learned how to survive on my own, and the streets became my training ground. All I had was my street smarts and my three friends. Now, I have none of that. Things have changed, and I must start from scratch.
Turning my chin, I see something shiny on the dresser. I clench my jaw as my entire body contorts in fury. It seems they left something behind, but this was done with intent. This is their way of announcing they’re three steps ahead of me—again.
Standing slowly, I walk toward the dresser, eyes focused on the ruby necklace. The jewel itself isn’t what has captured me, but the meaning behind it. This necklace belonged to my grandmother, my father’s mother. Zoya knew how much it meant to me, so she gave it to Astra. That’s the kind of person my mother is.
Astra was wearing this the day I shot her dead. Serg must have stolen it from her corpse before he fled into the dead of night like the coward he is. And here it is. A clear fuck you.
Seizing the necklace off the dresser, I clench it so hard, it cuts into the skin of my palm. But I welcome the sting as I envision it’s Serg’s neck I am squeezing tight. Zoya will also suffer the same fate because she made her choice when she sided with this asshole.
History is repeating itself because just as she tried to fill my father’s shoes with Boris, she is trying to fill my shoes with Serg. They can have one another.
Placing the necklace in my pocket, I don’t hesitate and begin dousing the room with gas. It gives me great satisfaction to soak Zoya’s sanctuary, and when I reach into my pocket for a pack of matches, that satisfaction turns to utter joy.
Striking the tip, I flick it onto the bed, mesmerized as the floral bedspread goes up in flames. The heat from the flames thaws out the chill to my bones, but I won’t be whole until I find my mother and do to her what she did to me.
I may be standing here, breathing and functioning with a beating heart, but I’m dead inside.
The flames lick at the walls, setting them alight quickly. With one last look, I exit the room and repeat the same action in Serg’s bedroom. I then robotically pour the remaining gas down the hallway and stairs.
Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I light the pack of matches and stare into the flames. Yes, I failed—once again—but they know I’m onto them. Therefore, they know I won’t stop until I find them. They’ll be running for the rest of their lives, looking over their shoulders, and for now, that will do.
Tossing the packet of matches onto the stairs, I turn and walk out the front door. The fire crackles loudly, a small victory for me because I will burn every house in this city until I find them.
Pavel waits for me by his truck, smoking casually. This is just another day at the office for him.
Adam was my supplier after I killed Chow, but he is nowhere to be found. I don’t know if that is by choice or if Raul found him and made him pay for having dealings with his father’s killer. With every corner I turn, it seems I’m faced with another hurdle more complex than the one before it.
I rub over the postcard in my pocket. It’s ridiculous that such a t
hing can provide me comfort, but дорогая has that effect on me. She always has.
Sighing, I jump into my SUV and bid farewell to Pavel. I am so done with this day, week, month, year. I plan on going home and attempting to sleep. There are no pit stops close by, so I turn up the radio and roll down the window, hoping the loud music and fresh air will keep me awake.
I stick to the backroads even though I’m the only idiot on the road at this time of the night. I don’t mind the quiet because it gives me time to think. I need a new game plan. I thought I was one step closer to getting back my life.
Well, at least a semi balance between then and now.
I did learn a lesson from my life before. I will never exploit another human the way I did Zoey, Willow, and the hundreds of other women in my past. I thought controlling another person would somehow give me more power—that it would help me regain what I lost in my youth, and that it would fill this void in my life—but it never did.
Each woman I broke, just broke whatever shred of humanity I clung to.
So yes, I want my old life back, but there are some aspects I’m glad burned to the ground. This life isn’t for everyone, but it’s the only life I know. I feel most comfortable here; it’s where I feel alive.
Static crackles over the radio, hinting I’m in a remote part of the countryside. Briefly peering down to change the station, I take my eyes off the road for a moment, but it’s a second too long.
When I return my attention back to the gravel road, I see that I’m no longer the only one out here because standing yards away is a woman in white. Instantly, I swerve to avoid hitting her and slam on the brakes so I don’t crash into the tree in front of me.
Jarring forward, I catch my breath before turning over my shoulder to ensure I actually saw what I did.
I did.
The woman is indeed frozen to the same spot, untroubled I almost ran her over. Something is very wrong with this entire situation. I need to put the SUV into reverse and forget I saw this stranger. This isn’t my problem. I have enough of my own.
But when she continues to stand there motionless, I groan. This newfound conscience has caused me nothing but trouble, and I’m sure this time is no different. Nonetheless, I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door.
Her back is to me, but I can see she is in a white slip dress. It appears she just got out of bed. But her dirty feet and legs contradict this. I walk toward her cautiously, unsure what I’m about to see. She is awfully thin, and on closer inspection, I see that her filthy dress is torn.
“девушка, ты в порядке?” I ask if she’s okay in Russian as I’m presuming she’s from around here. However, she doesn’t reply.
Her long golden brown hair hangs around her downturned face, and even though it’s quite mild, she is shivering. I decide to address her in English. “Miss, can you hear me? What happened?”
I can’t help but compare her to a scared animal, cowering and trembling on the spot. Something awful has happened to her. I recognize this look. Aren’t I responsible for inflicting the same pain on many?
“May I help you?” I ask, not wanting to startle her any further. But she continues standing there immobile. I stop when I’m a few feet away.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I haven’t passed a house for miles. Where did she come from? And why is she out here in nothing but her sleepwear?
“Can I call someone?” The more questions I ask, the harder her gaunt frame trembles. I don’t know what to do.
“My name is Aleksei Popov. I won’t hurt you. Will you let me help you?” I don’t know what she needs, but I at least have to offer.
I understand she’s hurt and scared, but her silence isn’t helping, so I decide to gently reach out and assure her that I’m no threat. As I step forward, the rustle of leaves beneath my shoes indicates my intentions, and the woman spins around swiftly.
I sigh in relief, but that is short-lived when I see what she has clenched in her right hand.
My headlights catch the glimmer of silver from the large butcher knife she holds. I slowly raise my hands in surrender, eyeing her and the blade cautiously.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I assure her once again. But it doesn’t make a difference.
Her frightened blue eyes dart between me and the clearing in the trees. She wants to make a run for it, and if I was wise, I would let her go, but I know if she runs, I will chase her. She reminds me of a time when the hunt excited me.
But I’m not that person anymore. I remind myself of the pep talk some two minutes ago.
If that’s true, however, then why is my heart galloping wildly within my chest?
The front of her slip is torn, which has the left side of the material hanging quite low. It allows me to see her chest rising and falling rapidly. A silver locket hangs from her neck. Her pale skin is covered in mud. Her snarled hair has twigs and leaves tangled in the strands. It’s hard to tell, but I’d guess she’s in her mid-twenties.
Her disheveled state points to the fact she’s someone’s captive, but she’s gotten away. And when she shakily raises the knife at me, it’s clear she intends to continue on her way.
She opens her mouth, but a winded wheeze is in place of where her words should be. She licks her cracked lips twice before she finally speaks. “Give me your k-keys.”
I stare at her, stunned that someone so frightened can sound so fierce. I wasn’t expecting that. The excitement inside me continues to build because that fierceness, those blue eyes, and that American accent remind me of someone else who, ironically, was in the same position as this mystery woman.
“I said give me your keys!” she shouts, waving the knife my way, interrupting my trip down memory lane.
“They’re in the SUV,” I reply calmly, gesturing over my shoulder. “You want them, go get them.”
A tiny whimper escapes her, betraying her bravado. She clearly wasn’t expecting that response as she isn’t the one currently being held at knifepoint. But I will not cower. I was only trying to help her, and this is how she thanks me. I should force her onto her knees for her insolence.
Shaking such thoughts aside, I focus on the situation at hand because that scratch, that darkness begins to rear its evil head, and I want to punish it with pain. I’m past this. But when the woman trembles, I realize that no, I’m not.
I’m still the messed-up asshole who loves to push the boundaries of pleasure and pain.
Run, little rabbit…I silently dare her, wanting nothing more than the chase.
The air turns thick, and the hunter becomes prey.
She looks over my shoulder, and I can see it in her eyes—it’s time to run. The dirt kicks up as her feet dig into the ground, and she takes off into a sprint. Inhaling deeply, I give her a three second head start before chasing after her.
Each step I take breathes new life into me, and I am charged in ways I thought were dead. Doing bad, vile things makes me feel alive. I see that now. I really am a fucked-up bastard. But I can deal with this self-discovery later because no way is this woman taking off with my vehicle.
Yes, I do want to help her because I won’t leave her here. But I can’t resist eliciting some fear when I do.
She is fast, and I can see her shoulders sag in relief when she opens the driver’s door. But that’s as far as she gets. I come up behind her, slamming her body against the SUV. She fights me like a wild cat, thrashing and screaming madly.
“Calm down,” I order, wrapping my arms around her. Her arms are locked by her sides, but that doesn’t stop her from attempting to break free.
“Let me go!” she bellows, struggling against me. I only tighten my hold, causing the knife to drop to the ground.
“I will once you tell me who did this to you. I’m only trying to help you.”
“Screw you! I don’t need your help. I got away from him. And I will get away from you.”
“Him? Who?” I ask, leaning back when she tries to break my nose with
the back of her head. “Stop fighting.”
This only encourages her to fight harder.
“Tell me who you got away from,” I order, focusing on what’s important.
“Why would I tell you anything? I know who you are. You look exactly like him,” she spits.
Her confession leaves me all the more intrigued. “How do you know me?”
“Let me go!” She continues to thrash about, and I’ll give her credit, she’s putting up a good fight. But I’m growing weary of her defiance.
“You can come willingly or not. It’s up to you,” I offer, picking her up and carrying her toward the passenger door. I must find out how she knows me.
She kicks her feet, screaming, and the sick bastard inside me hopes she only screams louder. In my excitement, I underestimate her, and she wiggles loose. The moment she’s free, she takes off into the woods.
“блять!” I curse, following in hot pursuit.
She hasn’t gotten far, but she is fast and ducks and weaves, throwing me off track. The full moon goes into hiding, forcing me to use my sharpened predatory senses. They’ve laid dormant for so long, but it troubles me how easily it is to step back into these well-loved shoes.
Her labored breaths fuel mine, and when she stumbles over a fallen tree, I jump forward and tackle her to the ground. She thrashes wildly, clawing at my face and my shoulders, but I pin her down with my body, prohibiting her from moving. Her subtle body beneath mine does things it shouldn’t.
“Stop fighting! How do you know me?” I demand, inches from her face.
She rears up and attempts to bite me, but I jerk back with a snarl. “Try that again. I dare you, малышка.”
My threat has the desired effect as she stops writhing. However, what she does next changes the course of everything. “You don’t scare me. I’ve met men like you before. But you, Serg, and the thousands of other men out there are nothing but cowards!”
