CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
I paced back to the room and slipped inside quietly. I pulled the chair over to a higher wooden beam on the ceiling and bound the rope tightly around it. I was an expert at this, and in my fury, it became the best work I’d ever done.
I stood down from the chair and moved to check Dima. I held his small face in my hands; he was still disorientated and not fully aware of his surroundings. “I’m sorry my little soldier. I’ll make this right,” I whispered softly fighting back the pain from ripping a hole in my heart.
I pulled back the bed sheets to see Ruslan half naked clutching an empty vodka bottle. I rolled him onto his side and positioned his legs at the edge of the bed before pulling him to a seated position. His arms flopped as I wrapped one around my shoulder and lifted the beast to the chair.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” He grumbled in his still drunken state.
“Do not play games with me, Ruslan. You know what you did to Dima.” I steadied my voice into a calm, collected threat.
“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about. Crazy, old man.” He lied.
“Take this.” I handed him a piece of paper from my back pocket.
He swiped it from my hand. “What do I need this for?”
“You’re going to write exactly what I tell you to write.”
“Fuck you, old man,” he said trying to get up from the chair.
“You’ll do as I say.” I traced my blade across his throat, positioning it against his carotid artery.
“If you don’t ... you die the hard way. Bleeding out isn’t fun.
It’s your choice. Giving you two options is more grace than you deserve, but either way your death is non-negotiable, it’s imminent.
Now do as I say.” I slapped his cheek hard with the back of my hand.
Fucking piece of shit. I wanted to take my blade and slice him ear to ear.
I wanted to stab him repeatedly, slowly, carefully, ensuring I inflicted the most amount of terror and pain.
But I needed to be smart. I needed to return to my Ropes origins, my Ropes morals.
I needed to protect my grandson, my little Dima.
Muscle memory soon took over, and I became the Lion for what I hope is the last time.
I forced the piece of shit to scribble a confession, a goodbye note. I took it from his trembling fingers and tucked it into the side pocket of his shorts.
“You chose the rope over bleeding out, good decision. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure,” I said taunting him with a smile on my face.
“You don’t have to do this old man,” he slurred.
I moved closer to his face and whispered, “we both know, I do. And we both know, I want to. You deserve far worse, but my boy is alive and waiting to go home.” I nodded at Dima asleep on the floor.
I lifted Ruslan to his feet and forced him to stand on the chair.
In his drunken state he rested one hand on my shoulder, as I held his scared limp body in position, placed the rope around his neck then stood back for a moment and allowed him to look into my eyes.
I wanted his life to end with the knowledge that Dima lives, while he does not.
“No one hurts my boy. My boy is loved; my boy is safe.” I spat out my words and in a moment of pure vengeance, I kicked the chair backward. It tipped over on the ground.
His body soon began to convulse as he tried desperately to lift his arms. It was a standard reaction of a dying man to try to reach for the rope around his neck.
A short drop execution meant instead of breaking his neck in a quick death he’d suffer longer, both physically and mentally. It was exactly what he deserved.
His body thrashed; his hands clenched into fists by his side. His eyes widened and popped as I forced him to stare into mine. Saliva drooled from his mouth and dripped from his chin. Within minutes his skin was pale, lips blued and hands prickled purple.
It was more humane than he deserved. If only I could’ve taken him back to the Logovo.
Before I could take Dima home, I went back to my truck to fetch a blanket to wrap him inside. The weather here in Moscow is below freezing and I couldn’t see my boy’s jacket anywhere.
Leaving him was a huge mistake.
I returned to find my poor boy surrounded by vomit, clutching his throat and staring up at the body of the beast as it drained of color.
I’d hoped to return sooner while he was still sleeping and carry him to the truck.
I wanted to protect him from having to witness such a scene.
To have to question what had happened to him.
This is a pain I’ll forever bear. I’ll forever feel guilty for allowing him to see this.
For allowing him to have to experience such trauma in his young life.
I promised Anna I’d take care of her son, but I’ve already failed.
“Dima,” I called out.
He didn’t respond. His eyes fixated on the body.
“Dima, look at me,” I said a little firmer as I moved to stand in front of him and shield his eyes from the horror I’d committed.
He looked up at me, clutching his neck. I could see he wanted to speak but couldn’t.
“It’s okay, my boy. You’re okay. Come with me.” I wrapped the blanket around him, lifted him to his feet and carried him outside to the truck.
I lay my little soldier down on to the rear seats and drove along the roads in silence.
Every so often I’d call his name and tell him we were almost home, but each time he didn’t respond.
The drive was cold, silent, and marked with guilt.
My sweet, innocent grandson now had the knowledge that the person he thought was his father had tried to kill him.
How can I live with myself?’
The passage is a revelation and I stop reading. I’m ... I don’t know what I feel.
My grandpa saved my life. A stranger didn’t cut me free, my grandpa did. My mind races as I try to process this new information.
I remember being alone in the hotel room.
The smell of alcohol.
Vomiting violently.
Holding my throat.
Ruslan’s body. I didn’t care that he was dead, but the fascination of seeing him lifeless meant I couldn’t look away.
I remember grandpa entering the hotel room and shrouding me with the blanket.
It’s true I couldn’t speak. I didn’t utter a word for an entire year.
Fuck
It hits me.
Ruslan only ever intended to kill me, not himself. He poisoned me and then when that didn’t work, he hung me ... he never killed himself at all. He never intended to die. He wanted me gone.
What a fucking revelation.
What story would he have told if he succeeded?
Fuck him.
I breathe hard and close the journal. My hands shake and I lose grip on the book, and it falls from my hands onto the rug beside me.
The pages spread open, and I’m presented with a list of names and numbers.
I take another breath and pick it up. I skim through them all until I land on a page with one single name.
It’s the name of my grandpa’s friend—the one who came to the warehouse, the one who helped save me and my Little Sparrow.
His phone number is written neatly beside it.
There’s no real explanation about who he is, but the words ‘my brother’ are etched in front.
I know he’s a good man since my grandpa trusted him enough to ask for his help.
Miroslav Ananko (Miro) 985 xxx-xx-xx
I put his contact information into my phone, close the book and place it down on the table.
I sit outside on the old wooden bench outside the farmhouse and stare at the stone brick wall. The memory of Pawel and I fixing it for Grandpa is vivid.
You were irritated with him that day, so moody, so ... bipolar.
His final days of life were filled with trauma—trauma you caused, Dima.
You fucking killed his mother then lied to him about it.
You broke his heart, his trust, destroyed any feeling of a loving family.
His last Christmas on this earth was tainted with heartache because of you.
He was kidnapped, beaten ... killed ... all because he was your brother. You’re selfish, you’re a curse, Dmitry.
Fuck, I know the voice in my head is right.
I know I can’t fight the truth, so I accept it.
I wish I’d have been a better person to my brother but instead I argued with him, I forced him to help bury his mother’s body, all while unaware that I’d suffocated her—it wasn’t a natural death.
He may have suspected it was at my hand, but in his grief, and the pressure from grandpa and I, Pawel helped to conceal her murder—her murder I’d committed.
You ruin everything you touch. We said we’d be better. We said we’d take our meds, but then you betrayed me.
Arghhhh, shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!
I slap my hands hard onto the side of my head. Fuck. My temples burn.
Leave me alone.
I know I’m to blame for it. I know I’m not normal—I’ve had to pretend to be, but only to keep my freedom, only to be able to keep Natalia safe.
I’ve never tried to fool myself into believing anything I do is normal because I’m not that fucking insane to try to trick myself.
I know my mind, I know my morals and I understand I’m a fucking psycho by the very definition.
A psycho born from an act of violence, an act of selfishness, an act of pure, unfiltered evil.
I’m the fucking result of ... rape. And in the origins of life, I became the creature that killed, my mother, Anna.
I always thought the first death I caused was my grandmothers but now I know it wasn’t it was hers.
I killed my mother and as I took my first breath, she took her last.
My thoughts continue and I try to stop them.
I’m an abomination.
I continue to stare at the wall and imagine hiding behind it waiting for Pawel to find me the same way I’d done so as a child. Sometimes he’d leave and go off with his real friends, and I’d wait and wait until he returned.