20. Perish in Pertsovka #2
“Not for nothing, Nik,” Mama snaps, her voice edged with frustration. “I told you—I tried everything. Different treatments, different doctors. None of it worked. Stage four doesn’t slow down unless there’s a cure, and this time… there isn’t.”
“I…” My voice wavers. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
I storm to the door, yanking it open and leaving without a backward glance.
Betrayal burns through my chest like acid, every breath ragged, every step fueled by rage. By the time I reach my car, I slam the door so hard the glass rattles, then I tear out of the parking lot. There was only one place I could go—one place I hated, but needed.
The factory looms ahead, spilling thick black smoke into the sky.
I cover my mouth and nose with my hand as I step outside. The stench of metal, oil, and sweat is unbearable. I haven’t been here since I was a boy, back when visiting my father’s job still carried a hint of pride. But that pride is long gone.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist asks from behind her desk when I enter the building.
The room is as bleak as I remember. Beige walls, dark wood trim, and mustard chairs ugly enough to burn my retinas. “I’m here for Vadim Kozlov.”
She lifts the phone, murmurs a quick word, and motions toward the chairs. “He’ll be out shortly.”
I sit, foot tapping restlessly as every second drags by.
My father finally appears, his face streaked with soot, overalls reeking of smoke. “Nikolai? What are you doing here?”
I stand, squaring up to him. “Thought you should know Mama collapsed at work today.”
He wipes his hands on his overalls, unfazed. “And that couldn’t have been a phone call?”
My breath hisses out in fury. “Maybe because she’s in the hospital. Going on hospice. Early.”
His eyes grow wide, then narrow again.
I smirk bitterly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. And don’t pretend you didn’t keep it from me.”
He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, boy. Don’t get smart with me.”
A wave of white-hot ire crashes over me. “Careful? My mother—your wife—is dying, and you don’t think your son deserves to know?”
He steps closer, his face inches from mine, jaw clenched. “Don’t come into my job demanding answers, Nikolai. You won’t like where it ends.”
That old threat. The one he’s used my whole life to shut me up. But not this time.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I shove, fury spilling over.
His response is flat, dismissive. “Because I didn’t. Irina didn’t want you to know, and I wasn’t about to cross her. That’s it.” He turns away, already walking back toward the double doors. “Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
I’ve been betrayed twice in one day. Within hours. No empathy. No remorse. It’s unreal, like I’ve stepped into some nightmare.
Because why would Mama keep this from me? Dad, sure—that makes sense. But Mama? She always tells me everything. We never keep secrets, especially not about health.
Back in my car, rage and hopelessness pump through my veins. Blinding, all consuming, and full of pure poison.
I don’t even know where I’m driving until I’m already there. My hands have a memory of their own. By the time I pull into the cracked asphalt lot, the neon sign glares down at me. The Fig and Ash.
The place where I used to drown every sorrow. Every failure. Every wound. Of course I ended up here. It’s the one place that promises a quick fix, even if it’s a lie.
Snow begins to fall, light and soundless, blanketing the car like a warning I refuse to heed.
Gabriel, Dillon, and Lily immediately pop into my head.
I know I could call them, and they’d be here for me if I asked.
They would listen without judgment, because that’s who they are—good friends.
But I’m already here. There’s no point dragging them into something not even I want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
I grab my coat and step inside, shoving thoughts of my friends to the back of my mind.
The bar hasn’t changed. The air is stale, heavy with sweat and booze.
The floor sticks beneath my shoes with who-knows-what.
Torn vinyl stools sag along the counter, while rows of bottles loom behind the bar like old temptations waiting to be claimed.
Flashing beer signs buzz in the corners.
The jukebox wails a sad ’80s ballad, its crackling chorus clawing straight into my skull.
And the smell. I stifle a gag in my throat. Urine. Smoke. Spilled alcohol. I can’t believe I ever called this place home.
The bartender glances up mid-pour. Blonde curls piled messily on her head, neckline low enough to make my skin crawl. Her eyes light up when she spots me.
“Nik?” Her voice pitches. “Oh my gosh, it is you!” She practically shrieks. “How the hell ya been?”
I inch closer, trying to place her face. Nothing. Maybe Kaley? Kelsey? Kylie?
She rolls her eyes with a laugh. “It’s me—Kelly. Remember?” She winks, and my stomach churns.
“Ah, come on,” she says, already pouring what used to be my usual.
“Don’t tell me you forgot me that easily.
We had some fun nights together, you know.
” She slides the pertsovka across the bar with a sly smile.
“Because I,” she says, her voice dipping, sultry and low, “wouldn’t forget hands like yours. ”
I think I’m going to hurl.
Still, my hand moves on its own. I grab the glass and take a long swig, the vodka burning a path down my throat. It’s familiar, bitter, almost comforting in the worst way.
“Right,” I force out. “Kelly. Didn’t forget.” I lift the glass in a mock toast and dip my chin. “Thanks for this.”
“Don’t mention it, Sugar.” She smirks, grabbing a cup and wiping it half-heartedly with a dirty towel. “I’ll keep ’em comin’.”
I want to say no, but I don’t. I’m already here, touching the one thing I swore I’d never touch again.
Everything has finally collapsed on top of me. Mama. Dad. Opening night. Kasper breathing down my neck. And Eleanor. Always, always Eleanor. She lives in the back of my mind like a ghost I can’t exorcise.
Five pertsovkas later, and I’m floating. My mind finally quiets, the pain dissolving into a haze. I can almost convince myself this is better. A forgetful bliss. Just me and the glass. This drink won’t lie. Won’t betray me like my parents; demand excellence or care about opening night.
But then it betrays me anyway, because every swallow brings her face with it. Eleanor, splintering me with just a thought.
I drag a hand down my face, groaning. Why can’t I stop thinking about her? I came here to forget. To erase thoughts of today, yesterday, and tomorrow.
“Another,” I slur, pushing the glass toward Kelly.
“You’d better slow down, or we won’t be able to have any fun tonight.” Kelly’s fingers trail along my forearm like tiny marching soldiers.
If I wasn’t half-plastered, I would’ve shaken her hand off in an instant. But that’s the price of drowning your thoughts. You pay in clarity and strength.
Another pertsovka slides in front of me, and I tip it back in three quick gulps. Liquid fire slithers down my throat, and with it comes the ghost of my past.
Nik from ten years ago would’ve kept drinking until he couldn’t think, walk, or speak. But the man I am now is supposed to know better. I’m saved; redeemed. A man who no longer craves this life.
And yet, here I am. Not seeking God. Not praying. Not fighting. Just caving.
The voice in the back of my mind begs me to stop. But I can’t. I’m not ready to face the guilt I know will crush me in the morning.
Three more pertsovkas later, and I call it a night. I slap a few bills on the sticky bar top and push to my feet. The room tilts sideways, forcing me to grip the counter just to stay upright. My eyes burn as I squeeze them shut, willing the world to steady. It doesn’t. I’m well and truly wasted.
“Kelsey,” I hiccup, praying I won’t puke until I’m alone. “Call me a cab?”
Her expression sours. “It’s Kelly.” She rolls her eyes, but grabs the phone off the wall and mutters into it. “Someone’ll be here soon.”
Relief slumps through me. I tug my hoodie on, fumbling with the zipper, and stagger toward the exit. I don’t care if it’s snowing. I can’t survive another minute in this place. Not without letting it chain me all over again.
“Nik—wait! You can stay here. It’s snowing out there,” Kimberly—Kelly, or whatever—calls after me.
But I ignore her. I yank the door open and stumble into the night. The wind slaps my face with a thousand icy needles, cold and cruel and almost welcome.
I slump against the brick wall, letting my head fall back and closing my eyes.
Even in the dark, the world spins like a carousel gone mad.
How did I used to do this every night? Call it age, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a subway at full speed—except I’m alive, forced to endure the wreckage I’ve brought on myself.
Seconds, minutes, hours—who knows—later, a cab horn blares. What a relief. I stumble toward it and nearly weep when the first blast of heat smothers my frozen face. I rattle off an address that isn’t mine.
Maybe my brain knows what my heart needs before I do, and I don’t have the strength to question it.
By some supernatural mercy, I make it up the steps and to her door. I don’t even remember if I knock. My body simply gives out, sliding to the floor until my head rests against the familiar green door I’ve seen so many times these past weeks.
I’m wasted. So, so wasted. But my heart begs her to open it. I need her smile, her soft hand in mine, her voice whispering that everything will be okay.
And as if God hears my desperate prayer, the door swings open. I topple backward, hitting the hardwood with a thud as the light stabs my eyes.
Her silhouette hovers above me, and even in my drunken haze, I know there’s no better place in the world to be.