3. Vlad
3
VLAD
AGE FIFTEEN
S taring down at the tattoo artist, I watch as he traces the contour of his design on my arm, the needle of the gun penetrating my skin in what should have been a mildly painful jab. Given my already deteriorated pain receptors, the only thing I can feel is a ticklish sensation as he moves the gun across my skin.
"It's so pretty!" Vanya gushes from my side, craning her neck to get a better look at the emerging design.
I grunt in agreement.
In just a short week, I'd gone from bare skin to almost full body armor. I'd long wanted to erase the ugliness of my skin and bathe it in something meaningful, yet pleasing to the eyes.
Misha's preferred nickname for me—freak—isn't just related to my less than normal behavior, but also to the marks that run across my body. So many cuts, he'd called me a Frankensteinian abomination when he'd seen me without my shirt off.
Cuts and ridges of healed flesh run all around my torso, arms, and legs. Although my back had not been spared, my chest is the worst, with a thick scar running from my sternum to my belly button. Like a tree, it branches out in smaller lines, some more prominent, others shallow.
My face is the only unblemished thing—a wonder.
To avoid people's questioning eyes, as well as the condemnation or pity in their expressions, I'd decided to cover everything up in ink.
Although I'd wanted to do this for a while, the tattoo artist had advised against doing it before I reached puberty, since the designs might get distorted with my growth spurt. And so the moment I'd seen a change in my body, I'd made the appointment.
It's been a week since we'd started the process, and it had taken a lot of convincing that I could take the successive pain. Luckily, he's one of the Bratva's go-to artists and he must have heard about my not-so-stellar reputation, because the minute I'd looked a little contrite, he'd ended up accepting the job.
Vanya's been at my side throughout, marveling at the designs and trying to convince me to let her get her own. Of course, that would never happen, since our father would have my balls if anything happened to his little girl.
So far, the tattooist had finished my legs, chest, and back, as well as my right arm. The left arm is the only one still needing some more ink.
I'd spent sleepless nights with Vanya choosing the designs, and we'd discussed at length the cohesion of the entire picture. She, more than anyone else, knows what it means to me.
The bodysuit is split into three events—before, during, and after.
On my chest, right under my navel, a wooden chest with intricate designs sits half-opened—Pandora's box. Black inked smoke erupts from the confines of the chest, slowly turning into skulls, each painted with an expression of malice, despair, and desolation—evil unleashed upon this earth.
The corrupt spirits take up most of the space on my chest, their rotten faces reaching my shoulder blades and dissolving into a calming mist. From my shoulders to my wrists, Buddhist runes run all along my arms—all meant to contain the evil, keep it from spreading like a disease.
In a similar fashion, my back is a mosaic of warriors in different fighting stances, all tasked with the protection of the box. Alternatively, they are also meant to offer a buffer between the forces of evil and the outside world, should the box be unwittingly opened. Vanya had come up with that small detail.
"Sometimes, little cracks become holes of astounding magnitudes," she'd said, hinting at the possibility that no matter how hard one may try not to open the box, it will snap open regardless. So she'd suggested a safety mechanism. Something to keep the bad from spilling out.
"The warriors will protect you, but they will also protect the world—from you," she'd thoughtfully commented, taking a pen and outlining her idea on paper.
Her words had struck a chord in me. She knows me so well she's aware that there's a high chance I may snap at some point in the future.
Then the last piece—the legs—portrays what will happen when the last remnant of good will be vanquished. The descent into Tartarus. The place where evil makes its playground, and the last stop.
The final destination.
But should everything else fail, the wretched spirits unleashed from Pandora's box would not only venture into hell by themselves. No, they'd drag any innocent soul they could find.
And that... should be avoided at all costs.
"I can't believe it doesn't hurt," Vanya notes as the needle goes deeper into my arm.
"It hurts sooo much!" I pretend to complain, winking at her.
The tattoo artist raises his gaze, looking between me and Vanya, his eyebrows knitting together before he shrugs, his attention back at his work.
"He's weird," Vanya complains, getting up from her chair and stretching a little around the room.
"Vanya!" I let my voice boom a little, worried she might be up to some type of mischief. She can do whatever she wants, but only after my tattoo is done.
"Chill, I won't do anything," she sighs, her shoulders slumping as she comes back.
"Good. If you behave, I might put in a word with Father to let you get your own," I mention, and her face immediately lights up .
"Promise?" She's quick to interject, and I shake my head in amusement.
"Promise," I chuckle.
Vanya's body has similar markings to mine, and I know she's self-conscious about them, too. Worse than me, there's a scar bisecting her right eye. Over time, it's healed, so that now there's only a faint line above and below her lashes.
Still, she's at an age where her appearance is very important to her. While I'd promised I would talk to our father on her behalf, it will not be easy, since she's not allowed to interact with me in any way.
Even now, I'm scared that the tattoo artist will tell Father about her presence here. But when Vanya gets something in her head, there's nothing I can do about it. I couldn't tell her no when she'd asked to come with me.
When can I say no to her?
She's the only one I have. The only person I can freely talk to.
Over time, things have only gotten worse. I've managed to get my impulses under control, and I've tried my best to assume a more friendly disposition. All in the hopes that people wouldn't run away from me.
It hadn't helped.
Now, more than ever, people seem to be more terrified of me when I try to smile or crack a joke. For all my efforts to assimilate with other people, I've become even more ostracized.
There's Marcello, but he's different. Although we do get along, I can tell he hates what he does. He does his part of the job, but his eyes are dead inside when that happens.
He's not like me... He doesn't get the thrill of cutting inside of the human body, the fascination with what hides inside—a million unanswered questions, yet the answers are staring us right in the face.
He doesn't understand.
Yet for all his disgust toward our extracurricular activities, he's the only one aside from Vanya that doesn't revile me. He can stare me in the eye and challenge me, without fearing I'd slit his throat in a moment of fickleness. He can talk and argue with me, about nothing and everything .
He doesn't realize just how much those little things matter to me. Not when people run away from me the moment I try to open my mouth to talk.
"This should be it," the tattoo artist sighs, leaning back to examine his work. "You need to be careful now." He proceeds to instruct me on how to take care of them.
Soon, Vanya and I are out the door and heading back home. The tattoo shop isn't too far from our house, but we take a detour as we sneak down some of the more populated streets of Brighton Beach.
"Wait!" Vanya exclaims as she hurries toward one of the shop windows, looking quite awestruck as she gazes at the dresses on the mannequins.
"You know Father will n ever let you wear something like that," I say, amused, as I nod toward the length of the dress. It barely reaches above the knee, and Father has a steadfast rule for all his daughters. Nothing that shows too much skin.
Vanya sighs in frustration, her eyes darting between her drab mid-thigh dress and the one in the shop's window.
"Do you think he'll ever let me wear something like that?" she asks in a rather hopeless tone.
"I doubt it," I answer honestly.
Being the Pakhan of the Brighton Beach Bratva means that Father's image must be impeccable. That extends to his own family—especially his daughters. The standards are different, of course, for his sons.
The women of the family must be demure, with a shy disposition and malleable enough to their male counterparts.
The men, on the other hand, show their strength through the amount of violence they can wreak on their enemies, the ruthlessness with which they lead.
As far as that goes, I'm Father's model child, even though I know that deep down he's terrified of me. Vanya, on the other hand, is the opposite of everything they stand for, and so far she's managed to hide her dark side well. No one besides me knows what she's truly capable of.
Luckily, my father has my other two sisters, who are the epitome of decorum—sweet and demure .
"Damn it," she curses softly, her eyes still focused on that piece of fabric.
Without even thinking, I grab her hand, going inside the shop and filling her arms with stacks of clothes.
"Go on, try them," I urge her when her eyes widen in question.
"Really?" Her voice is small as she asks and I just nod. "But we don't have money..."
"We do. I do, so don't worry," I assure her, leading her toward the changing rooms.
Her lips tremble slightly and she launches herself at me, her arms going around my neck in a hug.
I close my eyes, relishing the small gesture.
No one touches me.
No one dares, anyway. It's little moments like these that remind me I'm human, with human needs.
When was the last time someone hugged me?
I... don't remember.
Has anyone ever hugged me?
"Go!" I say again, shaking myself from my musings, happy I'd decided to do this for her.
She dashes into the changing room, and the sound of hangers crashing to the floor tells me that she's beyond excited.
A smile plays at my lips as I absorb some of her infectious delight.
Vanya proceeds to show me every single dress, and I give my approval, letting her know she can buy whatever she wants.
I have some money stashed away, and since I don't need it for myself, I can at least spend it on her.
When she's done trying them on, we pay for the dresses and head out. Before going home, though, I also take her to a drugstore, so she can choose something for her face.
Since she's so bothered by her scar, maybe there are ways to cover it up without resorting to tattoos. Stopping in front of the makeup aisle, I help her decide on a shade of powder closer to her skin tone.
When we've also paid for the makeup, the smile she gives me could light up the entire world. So satisfied am I with the turn of events, that I start thinking of what jobs I could do to make more money .
Vanya deserves everything and more.
Hand in hand, we finally go home.
M y eyes linger on the piece of the puzzle, trying to visualize the entire picture. It takes me a couple of seconds to imagine all of the possibilities and soon the entire puzzle forms itself in my mind. With a sigh, I start putting the pieces in place.
Sometimes I don't even know why I bother with puzzles, since it always takes me the same amount of time to finish them—regardless of the difficulty level.
Since my father had decreed that I'm only allowed to kill with his permission, my spare time has nearly doubled. At first I'd tried reading some textbooks to get my diploma, but even that had been too easy.
Having an eidetic memory means I only need to read something once to remember it forever. A bit ironic, considering my own memories are almost non-existent before the age of eight.
I move to the next puzzle, and I study the picture for a second, hoping this one would prove slightly more difficult than the previous one.
I'm focused on solving the puzzle when a bundle of clothes drops in front of me, the already laid out pieces scrambling around.
I frown, slowly raising my gaze to meet Father's angry one.
"Why do you have these?" is all I ask, noting it's the same clothes I'd bought Vanya a couple of days ago.
"Why..." Father sputters, shaking his head and taking a step back. "Imagine my surprise when your brother told me he saw you carrying a bag full of clothes. Girl's clothes, no less," he says, assessing me shrewdly.
Misha... Of course he'd go running to Father.
"So what?" I shrug, unperturbed.
"Son," he starts, clearly uncomfortable, "maybe we should have a talk."
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at him.
A talk ?
When he sees me silently watching him, he releases a fake cough, his eyes darting around suspiciously before speaking again.
"I know you're at an age where..." More fake coughing occurs. I almost want to roll my eyes at him and tell him to spit it out already. "Where you're noticing girls," he finally says, and the corner of my mouth quirks up.
So that is the crux of the issue.
My brother's conquests are legendary, if one is to believe the street rumors. There's not a girl he hasn't fucked. Of course, according to the rumors. One look at Misha and you could tell he probably paid people to spread them. And considering the coward he is, I bet he even has performance anxiety.
"Indeed," I drawl, leaning back on the palms of my hands and waiting for whatever Father clearly has to tell me.
"Maybe I should ask your brother to have a talk with you," he adds thoughtfully after a while, and my face immediately scrunches up in disgust.
"Don't worry about it, Father. I am perfectly fine as I am. And I have no interest in..." I pause, choosing my words carefully, " that , at least not yet," I say honestly.
Does he really think any girl would want to associate with me? Grown men go out of their way to avoid me. Girls react the way girls do—they take one look at me and they run off screaming.
Apparently Misha is not the only one with a reputation in the neighborhood.
"Oh." He frowns slightly, eyeing the clothes on the floor.
"Son... are you..." he stammers, and I want to groan out loud. Surely he's not about to ask me about my sexual orientation? "Gay?"
I blink once, slowly.
"No," I answer, staring him in the eye. "I'm not gay. Nor am I a transvestite," I add, knowing that's the next thing he'd ask.
"I see," he replies, strengthening his spine. He is, no doubt, happy he won't be shamed by a gay or gender non-conforming son.
In our culture, admitting to such a thing would be like signing my death warrant, and I know Father would be sad to let his favorite weapon go .
Not that I hadn't thought about it too. He's right that I am at an age where I should notice girls, or boys or... someone. But I can't muster the interest for anyone or anything. My thoughts are centered only on my next kill—when, who, and how.
Besides, even if I were, who would dare approach me?
I give him a nod, carefully lifting the clothes off my puzzle and depositing them next to me.
"Vanya's going to kill me," I mutter under my breath, knowing she'll be pissed if anything were to happen to her new clothes.
Father stops dead in his tracks. Half turned, his profile is bathed in shadows as he looks at me strangely.
"What did you just say?" he asks, his words slow and measured.
"Nothing," I lie. I'm not about to throw Vanya under the bus. Not when her presence is the only thing keeping me sane.
"Yes, you did," he continues, coming toward me. His eyes darken, and I'm having a hard time identifying the emotion on his face.
Is he angry? Shocked? Afraid?
His features are drawn up in a combination of all three, and for a moment I find myself unable to react.
"No, I did not," I repeat, keeping up the ruse. For good measure, I even let my lips widen in a small smile.
"Yes, you did. You said your sister's name. I heard you clearly." His hand reaches for my shirt, lifting me up.
Stunned, I look at him confused. This is the first time in years he's willingly touched me. Never mind that it's also the first time he's dared to go against me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, feigning ignorance.
"You think Ilya didn't tell me about your little adventure at the tattoo shop?" he asks, and I have to keep myself from reacting. It won't do anything but provoke his ire, and it's the last thing I need right now.
I can't afford for him to lock Vanya away or prohibit her from ever visiting me again. That would be unbearable.
"It's not her fault," I immediately start talking. "I convinced her to come with me there. She was worried about upsetting you, but I forced her." I look Father in the eye as I say this, wanting him to believe my words.
"Her... your sister," he continues, his face the same mix of unrecognizable emotions from before.
"Yes. Vanya didn't want to, but I convinced her," I repeat, and watch, almost in slow motion, as his eyes widen, his hands releasing my shirt.
I get myself together and put some distance between us. I wouldn't want to hurt him, even by accident. I'd made a promise that I'd never harm my family and I will hold myself to that.
"Vanya... you spoke with Vanya?" Father repeats, almost as if in a daze. I nod.
"It's not her fault. Please don't punish her, Father."
He raises his eyes toward me, the corners sloped downward. His face suddenly looks old and weary.
"How long have you been talking to Vanya, son?" His tone is gentler, and my eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"It's not her fault," is all I say, but Father is quick to assure me no harm will come to her.
"I know she... that she's your twin," he amends, and that gives me a little hope. Maybe he will see how important Vanya is to me, and that she should stay by my side.
She is, after all, my better half.
"From the beginning. She's been sneaking to see me. Please let us hang out. She calms me," I say, hoping he'd understand.
"She calms you?" he asks.
"Yes, she does."
"Son..." he starts, shaking his head, and taking a step back, "Your sister's dead."
"What?" I blink rapidly, afraid I misunderstood him. "What did you say?"
"Your sister's dead. She's been dead for the last seven years," he explains, but I stop listening.
My ears are ringing, a deafening sound pulsating in my eardrums. My hands go to cover them, hoping to lessen the impact of the noise, but nothing works .
I fall to my knees, eyes wide, limbs shaking.
No... he's lying.
"Vanya's alive," I state, full of confidence. Why, I'd seen her just a few hours ago.
"Son, look at me," Father says, and numbly, I do. "Valentino Lastra found you and your sister in a cage. You'd been taken by a madman and..." He pauses, taking a deep breath. "Your sister was already dead when they found you two, and you weren't far behind. I... the doctor told me you'd likely blocked the information because it was a traumatic event, but this... Bozhe , you've been seeing her from the beginning..." He shakes his head, "This isn't normal."
"Dead?" I ask, my mind honing in on that one word. "Vanya's dead?"
She's been dead this whole time?
No! All this time, she's been here with me.
"She's not dead," I state again, and out of the corner of one eye I see her. But before my very eyes, the fifteen-year-old Vanya that had grown alongside me suddenly morphs into a child, her clothing torn and dirty, blood pouring from every orifice.
"No..." I mutter, and my feet start moving, chasing whatever phantasm resides in my head. "She's not dead," I say again, running after her.
I don't know where I am or where I'm going. Time ceased to exist the moment Father dared to imply my sister is dead.
She's not.
How can she be dead when she's been by my side all these years?
I've seen, heard and touched her. We spent days and nights talking, debating, and sharing our most personal thoughts.
She can't be dead!
I stare at the empty subway seats, my mind a mess of thoughts. I'd followed Vanya's form all around the city, hopping from stop to stop in hopes she'd talk to me.
Confirm she's not dead .
Even now, my senses are on alert, looking for any sign of her.
I can't help but think back to all the moments we shared, looking for clues it might have been all a lie. But as I examine each interaction, I'm left with a sense of terrifying loss. Because to me, it all seemed so real.
But if it's not...
My vision falters, and images start to get jumbled in front of me, everything fuzzy and unclear. I bring my hands up to rub my eyes, willing the fog away from my sight.
"Vanya," I whisper as I see her in the next wagon, leaning into the door. She's smiling mischievously, her head tilted to the side as she's studying me.
I jump up, getting to my feet and following her.
The door pings as the train reaches the station and Vanya quickly runs out. I follow, hot on her trail.
She dashes out of the subway and toward the park across the street. It's already night out, and I find that I'm having an increasingly hard time focusing on her form.
Her giggles fill my ears as she runs across the green expanse of the park.
"Vanya!" I call out her name. She turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at me before changing direction.
It's only when I start panting, already out of breath, that she stops, tentatively stepping in front of me.
She looks ethereal in her long cream dress, her face pale in the moonlight, the scar on her face even more prominent.
"Vanya," I breathe out, the need to touch her—making sure she's real and alive—eating at me.
I take a step further. When I see she's not running anymore, I take another step.
"Brother," she replies, her voice a soft melody to my ears.
But as I lift my hand, reaching out to touch her, my fingers pass through her form. Like a hologram, her smile never falters as my hands claw at her non-existent shape.
I keep touching her, hoping at some point my hands would meet solid flesh .
"Why... how?" I'm stunned as realization starts to flood my brain.
She's not... real. She truly isn't real.
I stare at her in wonder, her sweet face forever frozen in a welcoming smile.
"No," I shake my head, taking a step back. "This can't be..."
My mind is going crazy, thousands of scenarios forming in my head, and none of them pleasant.
My sister, my twin... my everything.
She's dead.
She'd been dead for seven years.
While my brain starts rationalizing this information, my heart—that pitiful organ in my body, useless except for pumping blood—can't bear to let her go.
So entranced am I by the illusion in front of me that I don't even hear the steps behind. I only feel the blow to my head as I'm pushed to the ground by the intensity of the attack.
Voices... I hear voices. But somehow I can't translate them into meaningful phrases. I know people are talking around me, but to me it's only incoherent sounds.
Lifting my gaze up, I see around ten people, some my age, some older, all crowding up on me.
A few of them remove switchblades from their pockets, brandishing the weapons in front of me, all the while saying something. Their lips are moving, sounds are coming out of their mouths, but for the life of me, I can't understand a thing.
Dazed, I bring my hand to the back of my head, not surprised when it comes back coated in a sticky substance. As I bring the bloodied hand into my field of vision, I can't help but become entranced by the blood flowing freely down my palm.
For a moment, the people surrounding me are forgotten. It's just me and the red substance. My senses seem to react to it in such a familiar way, my pupils dilating, my nostrils flaring as they inhale the metallic scent.
I bring one finger to my lips, smearing the blood and tasting its essence. On a sigh, my eyes close, my temples throbbing.
Suddenly, I open my eyes and there she is .
Vanya.
She's small... smaller than any child her age should have been. Her clothes are torn at the knees and all around her torso, blood gushing out from open wounds.
Her eyes are bleak as she looks at me, her small lips parted on a silent word.
I freeze as I take a better look at her face, her scar deep and gnarly, her eye almost hanging out of its socket.
"Vanya," I whisper.
She takes a step toward me before falling to her knees, more blood pooling on the floor.
Somehow, that blood is all I can see or think of. And as one of the people around charges me with a knife, my entire consciousness collapses.
I snap.
I don't know exactly what's happening. It's like I am, but I am not.
My hand reaches out to grasp the sharp end of the blade. I feel it cutting into my flesh, yet I feel naught.
I stand up, my eyes glazed with whatever's come over me. It's like there's no more room for logical thought. Everything is sensation... primal instinct.
Twisting the blade around, I wrench it free from his hand, using my fist to send it flying into his neck.
His eyes widen for a moment, but I don't give him any opening. I grab the handle of the knife, pushing it down his torso and cutting into his flesh, relishing the way the skin gives way to the sharpness of the blade, more and more blood pooling down.
It's like I'm an addict and I've finally found my drug, because as I see the red liquid accumulate in buckets on the ground, I can only whisper.
"More."
Two more men charge at me, and I quickly disarm them, using their own knives to end their lives.
Guts, intestines, and organs spill on the ground. And blood... so much blood .
I start laughing maniacally as I gaze upon the flooded asphalt, my only thought to cause a deluge of biblical proportions.
Blood... more blood.
The other guys are quick to flee, but they missed their chance. No, they never had a chance to begin with, because they chose the wrong target... at the wrong time.
Licking my lips, I smirk as I invite them to make a run for it, the need for chase already simmering in my veins, almost as much as the need to draw blood. Like a predator, the desire to earn my prey is almost as satisfying as finally getting the prey.
My eyes are quick to follow their retreating figures, and then I just run.
Thirst like I'd never known before claws at me, making my heart drum with the intensity of a thousand beats per minute. And in that moment, I know, deep down, that I'm not human anymore.
There's no more reason left behind. Just an all-encompassing urge to kill, maim, and destroy. Bathe in a river of blood.
The guys never stood a chance. One after another, they fall. My hands are haphazardly cutting through their flesh, and when the frustration becomes unbearable, I abandon the weapons in favor of my own hands.
Digging deep into the already wide open body, I wrap my fingers around the ribs, enjoying the way they snap under my strength. The way the organs turn to mush as I push into them, ripping everything apart to shreds.
More...
I don't know who I am anymore as I chase one man after another, turning their bodies into an unrecognizable mess of flesh, blood and bile. But the color is, oh, so alluring, that I can't seem to stop myself.
Even when the last one is down, this intense craving inside of me blooms even more, the need to continue killing almost overwhelming.
My eyes move rapidly around me, gazing past the park and into the streets, where unwitting passersby are walking around. I can almost feel the pulse beneath their skin, and my desire for more blood intensifies .
I take a step forward. And two. By the third one my legs feel heavy, my entire body falling under a strange lethargy.
From the corner of my eyes, I glimpse my father, a tranquilizer gun in his hand as he's aiming at me. He's not alone, and soon I realize I'm cornered from all parts.
Still, no matter how much I want to stay and fight, my body stops obeying me.
And I fall.