Chapter Thirty-Four
Maron
Blyad!
Perhot’ podzalupnaya!
I make my way back to the living room, cursing under my breath. The house feels empty without her, and I fucking hate it. But more than that, I hate the pain of knowing that I missed the first six years of my daughter’s life. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so excruciating. Or maybe I did. When Cordelia died. Or when I saw Mindy and Maurice together. When I learned that she betrayed me.
She betrayed you, mudak!
And now, there’s this bullshit. Sharon, my daughter, whom I could have loved and cared for since the moment she was born, was kept hidden from me. It feels fucking unbearable, clawing at my insides like a caged beast desperate to break free.
I need a drink. I need a fucking drink, right now. It’s the only thing that can numb this motherfucking pain.
I tear open the minibar, my hands fumbling for the open bottle of Stoli inside. I rip off the cap with ferocity, then raise it to my lips. The searing burn that courses through me immediately dulls the ache inside. It’s been too long since I’ve given in to this urge.
But one sip of vodka is nowhere near enough to numb what’s plaguing me. So, I drink more. And more. And even more. By the time I gulp down half the bottle, the room begins to spin.
Fucking woman betrayed me.
Again.
I tell myself this over and over again, as if I’m trying to fill the unbearable void she left behind. I keep drinking until the expensive bottle of liquid slips from my hands and shatters against the ground, spilling its remaining contents on the floor.
What a fucking waste.
But I don’t give a shit. I let my body slide down onto the ground, feeling the sharp pieces of glass pierce my skin, leaving small cuts on my palms. Blood drips down to the floor but it’s the least of my concerns. My thoughts are racing like bolts of jagged lightning, each more torturous than the last. Yet, even as I drink myself into a stupor, the vodka provides no relief. No matter how much alcohol I consume, the pain remains, lingering like a dark shadow.
Tramoxine.
That will do the trick. The pill I poured blood, sweat, and tears into, the one that helped so many fucked-up people. The one I never tried on myself. Maybe that’s what I need right now.
I push myself up and stumble forward, struggling to reach the cabinet where I keep my samples. My trembling hands fumble with the lock and my anticipation grows with each passing moment.
But then, I pause. A part of me that is still sober somehow manages to think logically. I am drunk as fuck. If I take Tramoxine under the influence of alcohol, it could be fatal.
It takes more than a fucking pill and some booze to kill you, Korolev.
Fuck it. Besides, maybe I like the idea of dying. It’s peaceful. No more racing heart, betrayal, crushing disappointment, seething jealousy, haunting guilt. Just sweet oblivion and freedom from this fucking shitshow we call life. A welcome release from the constant struggle of existence.
The room is still spinning as I lurch towards the cabinet once more. With a forceful yank, I pull at the doors. Locked.
"Fuck," I snarl.
I awkwardly rummage through the top drawer of my desk for the key, almost spilling the contents in my haste. After a short but frustrating struggle, I find it. I pick it up, insert it into the cabinet lock, and swing the door open, revealing the neatly labeled files behind it.
Jackpot.
The real treasure lies behind those files. Twenty boxes of Tramoxine. I kept them aside for experimental purposes, for friends and associates, but they were never used. Until now.
My hands, shaking from the booze and my growing anxiety, rummage to find the boxes behind the folders. But there’s nothing there.
Nothing.
"What the fuck?" I slur.
I sweep the folders aside, sending papers flying across the room. The shelves where my samples should be, stare emptily at me.
The samples are gone.
Vanished.
All of them.
Unless I’m too fucking drunk to think straight.
I find my way back to the minibar and open another bottle of Stoli. What’s one more drink going to do at this point? I’m too fucking pissed to care anyway. I take a long swig, wincing at the burn in my throat.
The room is spinning faster now. I try to stand straight, but my legs won’t cooperate. So, I slide back down to the floor, leaning against the cabinet I just rummaged. The bottle slips from my hand, clattering on the floor. I don’t bother picking it up.
My eyelids are heavy. I fight to keep them open, but it’s a lost battle before it even began. The last thing I think about before I pass out is the missing Tramoxine.
Where the fuck are those samples?
Then, oblivion takes over.