Toska (Dark World Saga Book 1)

by A. R. Kingston

  “Why you ungrateful son of a bitch,” Nadia growls. Reaching out, she slaps Victor across the face. Though her hand connected with a powerful smack, she leaves no print behind on his face. “After everything, I did for you, you think you can just turn around and walk away from me? I saved you, you despicable bastard.”

  “Saved me? You call this…” he chuckles while pointing out himself with his hands “…saving me? No, Nadia, you cursed me. You gave me a gift I never asked for and one I can’t return no matter how much I try.”

  “If it were not for me, you would have died alongside that little tramp of yours that night.”

  She spits out those words as a spitting cobra spits out its venom, solely with an intent to kill. Nadia wanted to hurt Victor, and I can tell that she has. His bright eyes flash hot with anger. Moving with superhuman speed, he wraps his hand around her neck and slams her against the wall. His face pressed close to hers, Victor bears his fangs at Nadia, breathing heavily as he glowers at her.

  I have never seen Victor get this angry before, he was always an even-tempered person, and he would never have struck a woman. It is amazing what a century and a half of misery will do to a person, or maybe it was Nadia who turned him into this untamed beast. The way he glares at her, his fangs out, eyes full of animosity, he looks every bit like the fearsome monster the villagers live in fear of. Clamping his hand tighter around her throat, his sharp fingernails dig into her skin causing black blood to drip down to her shoulder.

  “Don’t you ever speak about my Katechka that way again, you hear me, you nasty whore. I know how much you hated her, you wretched creature, you were always so jealous of her. Want to know why that is Nadia?” Victor slams her against the wall again, causing it to crack. Nadia lets out a croak as she tries to answer him. “It’s because you have got no prayer of coming close to being even half the woman she was, and you knew that. You should have just let me die that night, with her, like I wanted to.”

  “Victor please…” I grab hold of his arm, horrified by what I was seeing “…this isn’t like you. Please don’t do this.” I start pleading with him “Let her be, you are better than this Victor.”

  Somehow, through some miracle, I think I have managed to reach him, as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Having calmed himself down, Victor releases his grip on Nadia’s neck and lets her drop to the floor by his feet. Turning his back to her he goes to walk away from her, but Nadia was not one to take no for an answer. Screeching hysterically, she extends her arms, grabbing hold of his leg, pulling herself up to his hips while holding on for dear life.

  “So, this is about her? After all this time, you still can’t get over Katya and be happy with what you got here. I gave you everything Victor, tried to be everything you would want me to be, and you still reject me for her?”

  “Dumb bitch.” Victor yanks his leg from her grasp and continues to walk away as she crumples to the floor. Stopping in the doorway, he turns around to look at her. “It’s always been about her, from way back then, I belong to her. You mean nothing to me, you never have, and no matter what you do, you never will, because you can never be her. My heart died with her all those years ago, there is no way in hell anyone can replace her for me, and that’s the way I like it.”

  Leaving it at that Victor heads out the door walking briskly for the stairs with me happily trailing along, anxious to leave this cursed place behind. Without warning Nadia comes rushing out of the room, hollering like some caged wild beast which has recently lost its freedom. Barreling straight for Victor, arms out she shoves him with her Hercules like strength. Losing his balance, Victor tumbles down the steps, stopping as he hits the wall under the window of the landing. I look at him sprawled on the floor in panic, but he finally moves, and I am relieved to see the fall has not hurt him.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Victor.” Nadia calls down from the top of the stairs; an accusing finger is pointing down at him “I won’t let you. I made you mine; you belong to me. You are fooling yourself thinking you can walk out on me like this, just wait till you see how much I’ve been holding back.”

  Nadia’s short hair is disheveled, her dress got pulled down to reveal her bare breasts, and her eyes are filled to the brim with madness. In her current state, she reminded me of a young Baba Yaga, a fearsome Russian witch who flies around in a giant mortar. Angrily she takes a step down the stairs, heading right for my Victor who is still lying helplessly at the bottom.

  A burst of anger speeds through me like wildfire, engulfing my body in warm flames. I know Nadia wants to hurt Victor more, I can see it in her eyes. The fire deep in my blood singes my veins as my heart keeps pumping out this inferno through me in my fury. This woman already stole my Victor from me once; there was no way I was going to let it happen again. The flames licking my skin no longer hurt me, I focus my rage on Nadia as she goes to take another step down.

  With my fists clenched I take in a deep breath, sucking the blaze back into my heart. My skin turns a bright shade of carnelian as the fire rages on inside me. These flames are strong; I can see them burning in the back of my eyes. Nadia takes another step towards Victor, and I unleash the demon inside of me by forcefully putting my arms out in front of me.

  “Stay away from him!” I shout as beast rips out of me with all its might.

  I feel a warm wave pass through me as my body lets out a dynamic pulse, exploding out and beyond my reach. This pulse reverberates around the building with a small shockwave, cracking the window behind me and scorching the walls and floor within my grasp. Nadia is sent soaring through the air, hitting the wall with a force hard enough to crack the plaster. Befuddled, she props herself up, staring in my direction in horror, unable to figure out what had just happened to her.

  The fire has left me for the most part. Only darkness which had filled me when we entered the city remains, but the demons inside have calmed down. I look over at myself in shock; I want to know what this power is and where it’s coming from. Seems like the thing that has claimed Moscow as its own also had a profound effect on me, waking up a sleeping beast inside me, one I was unaware of.

  Remembering Victor, I instinctively turn to look at him at the bottom of the stairs. He wasted no time in getting back up to his feet, dusting the plaster off his coat. The wall behind him continues to sprinkle white powder down on him. Puzzled, he looks up the stairs, staring right at me. He gives me a side nod before turning and rushing down the remaining stairs.

  Afraid of being left behind, I run down after him, floating through the door he did not bother to leave open for me. The Lada is still parked and running where Victor has left it, guess no one wants to steal a car this old, better picking on the street anyway. Sticking his bag into its truck, Victor shuts it with a dull thud, looking back at the house in disbelief, shaking his head with a smile. We both get into our respected spots in the car, I have determined from now on the front passenger seat was going to be mine, and set off down the brightly lit street.

  We are headed down Gogolevsky Boulevard in the direction of the Moskva river. This street is lovely in Summer months; I love to visit it once the weather warms up and the snow banks melt. In warmer months, it is alive with green trees and colorful flowers, bustling with tourists and locals alike. The elongated park situated in its center makes the best place to people watch from an empty bench.

  Tonight though, it is almost as dead as I am. At this late hour, in the month of December, it appears haunted like something out of a horror story. The trees stripped bare of their leaves, covered in snow, look like skeletons, extending their slim fingers down to the lifeless sidewalks. A crow cackles from one of the trees, making my blood turn to stone at the sound of its ridged cry.

  Never much cared for crows, the cemetery in Dedinovo was full of them, and I have come to regard them as harbingers of unforeseen calamities. Tonight, the omen of its cry was not lost on me, because as the car rolled away, the damned bird stopped crowing as if its message had bee
n delivered. I’m not sure what any of this means, or what is going on in the city, but somewhere in the darkest niches of my heart, I have a bad feeling about it all.

  I’m zoned out in my thoughts when Victor bears left at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, driving along the river. The cathedral is a magnificent white structure made of carefully laid bricks, made to stand in contrast against the city canvas. It sits on the banks of the river; it’s five impressive gold colored onion domes with their large crucifixes can be seen from deep within Moscow. The sheer magnitude and grandeur of it will steal your breath away if you manage to get close.

  This isn’t even the original structure; the original one was destroyed when the Bolsheviks got their way. The structure to my left is new; it had been rebuilt on the banks of the Moskva River after the fall of communism. Even with all the disdain, I hold for religion, I was glad to see it happen, for few things are as frightening as losing your individuality in the name of conformity.

  Today this cathedral sees thousands of visitors a year from all over the world. God-fearing sinful souls who are constantly looking for absolution. Fools, with their crosses and icons, who bow down in extravagant buildings decorated in paintings of a God who turns a blind eye to their suffering.

  Paying close attention to the building as we drive by I feel an identical sense of bitterness I had felt the night I returned to this mortal world. The emotion which springs from the shame I feel at being one of those fools is so compelling I feel the darkness grab hold of my heart, digging its claws deep into my core. With a loud wail, I grab hold of my crucifix and rip it off my neck, tossing it on the floor of the car. I know it will just reappear back in its place once I step far enough away from it, but for the time being, I am content with not having it on me.

  “How could you?” I scream hitting my fist against the side window, it connects with a muffled thwack. Victor looks over at the empty seat alarmed, almost going off the road while I continue to simmer unseen. “How could you let this happen to Victor and I? All our life we were told how benevolent you were, how much you loved us…but that’s not true, is it…is it? You are oblivious to the suffering we all go through, and just when you think it will end, you bring us back to suffer some more.”

  Working myself into a state of frenzy I know I’m not fooling myself, or anyone else for that matter. I’m well aware there is no God to listen to me moan about how cruel this undead life is. At this point, not even Victor can hear what I have to say, but getting it out in the open makes me feel better. As we drive away from the church my breathing calms, the mania subsides, and I return to my usual self, wondering what demon had come taken hold of me moments ago.

  We start to cross the bridge which spans across Moskva River, and I look back out to the church. The river has large chunks of ice floating in it, no doubt it’s a cold night out, soon enough the whole river will be frozen over. My heart still pulses savagely as I take in the appearance of the church one last time before turning my head away from it. From Victor’s window, the lights of the Kremlin illuminate the skyline to my left, their echo shimmies on the water that has not yet frozen over.

  Victor and I had seen it up close once, back when we were alive; he brought me to the city for a special occasion. Little did I know back then what he was planning, but Victor asked me to marry him right outside those red brick walls. It has changed a lot over the years, and yet, at the same time, it somehow remains the same. Or, perhaps, it’s the heart of it which endures while the insignificant details conform to the times. Us humans are the same way, constantly changing to fit the period, but deep in our soft husks, the essence remains unchanged.

  I return to the safe world of my own, private thoughts, traveling far away from the reality that is at times too much to bear. Victor does not drive far; I don’t even notice we have pulled over not far from The Tretyakov Gallery. The art museum was a man’s vision at a public institution which would display some of the greatest works of art Russia had to offer. Designed to look like an old wooden house so prevalent in the villages it’s bound to catch your attention and draw you in.

  I remember telling Victor how much I wished to visit it and look at all the works of art; I did mention I loved art, it has a way of calming the soul. Dearest Victor, sweet as he was, had promised me that as soon as it opened its doors to the public that he would take me. We never got the chance; it opened not long after we died. A couple years ago I visited on my own, and it did not disappoint, but the whole time I yearned for Victor to be with me. Doubt it will happen now, given his recent allergy to sunlight, and my inability to blend in if I was to somehow figure out how to become visible. One of many dreams shattered by the events of that night.

  Heartbroken over a life lost, I look over the gallery as Victor retrieves his bag and locks up the car. Silently, we set off, strolling down a narrow brick street. Back in our time, there would be horses and carriages traveling by us, but not anymore. All there is, are cars parked on either side of the street, choking it down to a narrow walkway. With my hands behind my back, I stroll by Victor's side as he alternates between staring at his feet and gazing up at the starless sky.

  We are mostly alone on the confined street; there are no other people around, they are all hiding inside. The city has become far more dangerous over the years, robbery and murder are no longer uncommon. I suppose this is what happens when the human population expands, the evils in society grow with it. Despite the streets being deserted we are not lacking in company, something trails behind us, keeping a close eye on us, I can feel it stalking us in the shadows. All my instincts are telling me to run, but I refuse to give into my fear, so I continue to walk as alarm bells are sounding in my head.

  Victor takes a right turn at the end of the street, and we continue to walk another block or so before he stops. I find myself standing outside a mint green building from around the turn of the century, one which somehow managed to survive the deconstruction of the city. Back in those days it’s four stories would have towered over most structures in Moscow, today, however, it’s dwarfed by the new landscape of the city.

  Its once proud exterior has seen better days over the years, time had not been kind to it. Parts of its walls have faded or chipping paint, some of the decorative white trim is now falling off, leaving scars on its face. There is graffiti all over the lower portion; illegible letters spray painted over the mint in black. White iron bars cover the windows on the first floor, ones which have not been boarded up, indicative of the type of neighborhood we are in. Victor opens a flimsy wooden door. Unlike most of the entry doors in the city, this one is not locked, no point in keeping the residents here safe from the dangers of this hostile world.

  The lackluster interior fared no better than the rest of the building. At first glance, it appears the walls were once covered in sage arabesque tiles, most of which have broken off and crumpled to the ground. A few survivors remain, waiting for a day they too will crumble to the floor in a heap of dust. An acrid scent of human excrement, cigarette smoke, mold, and carrion linger in the modest entryway. This is a drastic change from where we came; I can’t even begin to speculate as to why Victor has come here.

  From under the robust cement staircase, a homeless orange tabby slinks over, with a rolling purr it begins to rub up against Victor. He kneels to give the animal a pat, spending extra time scratching the cat behind its ears. The small furry critter looks up at me; its chartreuse green eyes analyze me cautiously. For some reason cats have never had a problem seeing me, it’s like they were built to be living spirit detectors.

  Sure enough, the tabby walks over to me and lets out a meek meow as it stares at my face. Quickly I duck behind Victor, peeking out from his shoulder, I press my finger to my lips signaling for the cat to be quiet. It sits on the cement floor, flicking the tip of its tail, the orange monster refuses to break off eye contact with me and instead tilts its head at me quizzically. We square off staring at one another, until the cat finally gives up, l
ooking down at the floor it begins cleaning itself.

  Turning to face me, Victor looks over the spot I am standing at in bewilderment. Casually shrugging his shoulders, he strokes the cat one more time before walking up the stairs to the first door on his left. Putting his hands in his pockets, he fishes around for his keys, finally pulling out the keychain, looking over the keys closely. It seems to take forever, but he finally finds a small brass key he was looking for, prying the panel door open.

  The studio apartment he leads me into is almost entirely bare, aside from a handful of things which were left behind. The wallpaper had given way to the moisture some time ago, and only a few scraps of damask blue still cling to the walls for dear life. Only two windows had been placed in the tiny space, both facing the street. One of the windows had been boarded over at some point, on the other window hung a thick wool blanket to choke out the sun.

  A heavy chestnut wardrobe closet sits pressed against the wall by the door acting as a room divider between the living space and the kitchen. A small counter and sink are sandwich between a cream gas stove and vintage refrigerator across from the armoire. Across the stove is a square table, covered by a red checkered cloth, barely big enough to accommodate the two chairs that are sitting beside it. The red vinyl seat cushions have split open from the wear and tear, their stuffing bleeding out onto the wood floor. There are no light fixtures in the place, just bare wires hanging from where they once lived.

  Across from the door, against the wall lies a dirty, worn out mattress. A spring sticks out from the plush cushion like some parasitic alien creature bursting out of a man’s chest. Placing his bag by the wardrobe, Victor locks the door and goes to sit down on the bedding. Spreading out his legs, he rests his arms on his knees and tilts his head back with a loud sigh, closing his eyes as he presses tightly against the wall. I sit down next to him, watching as he pulls my ring back from his shirt. He studies it carefully in his hands; its sapphire appears like an entrance to a cave with no light to make it shine, tears start streaming down Victor’s pale cheeks.