Kotik

Chapter 25 Vitali Andreevich Konstantinov The Record Skips

Vitali Andreevich Konstantinov: The Record Skips

Ionly heard static before there was music.

And then the music wouldn’t go away, even if I hated the song. I woke up with the same line on repeat over and over and over again.

It can make a man crazy, and I’m not crazy.

I think I will die I think I will die I think I will die—die young, the song ricocheted in my head.

And you listen to something enough, you start believing it’s God giving you signs. Trying to get through to you through verses overheard in passing cars.

Just noise noise noise.

That’s how it was until I saw her.

And then Yekaterina Petrovna became my song, and she was stuck in my head on repeat, and probably would be for the rest of my life.

Even before I knew her name, although it didn’t take long to learn it. People aren’t careful. They leave records all over.

Sign here, sign there. Have to file you away.

Have to track you from the moment you are born to the moment you die and put you in a little file at ZAGs.

But it’s not just ZAGs. They spread you out across four different institutions—no central data system.

I’d know. I died. But it doesn’t matter who I died as, because that person was a mistake forced to live as a mistake.

Afterwards, my name became Vitali Andreevich Konstantinov.

Then, Good Boy.

And as hard as I’ve tried to scratch that one out of my flesh, out of my soul, they buried that deep, and it isn’t in any written record, and it wasn’t going anywhere. Carved into me in a way that forced me to the outskirts of humanity. Of her life.

No closer, never closer.

Not until I learned how not to be ‘Good Boy.’ Not for a while. But, she’ll wait for me.

Katya.

I became fascinated with her, although ‘fascinated’ is up for interpretation.

I watch as Katya walks to work.

She’s arm-in-arm with her best friend since grade school—Elena Olegova.

Twenty-three. A nurse. Lives in a bad district.

Buys her coffee after long nights out, because she can only afford it after spending time with those types of friends; otherwise, it’s cheap, bitter instant powder.

I know her type, her type likes my type.

I watch as Katya goes dancing.

She’s self-conscious, and she does not need to be.

No creature in the world has ever been so graceful.

She never dances with men, which is good, because I’m not ready to be tested.

I don’t know if I’m okay yet. I don’t know if I can talk myself through that like I have to with other things. Sometimes the record skips.

I have to know more.

I learn that Katya’s mama is Olga Nikolaevna, born in October, 1951.

She doesn’t work. She has a health condition, but I can’t find what it is because she’s had it for a while, and all the fucking files in the hospitals are gone.

But I know she likes asters. She always stops to smell those when she walks to the bakery on the other side of the market.

Never buys anything extra, never for herself, but she pauses to look at things through the windows of electronics stores.

She grew up in a different time, with a different mentality.

It doesn’t take much to make her happy. Help her feel pampered. Important. Ease her life somehow.

Katya’s soul is beautiful. Whenever she goes out, she buys white chocolate for her mama. Katya doesn’t like white chocolate; she doesn’t care for chocolate at all.

This is helpful to know because I’m learning that buying girls chocolate is good, but not Katya, so it doesn’t matter to me.

Her brother, Maxim, walks to school with Olga Nikolaevna when it’s light out in the mornings. He’s fond of electronics—and I used to love electronics as a kid. Mine are a little different now, more complicated and built to destroy things and kill people, but I can still relate.

He needs help with math, and I know math. I taught myself math; I can teach him math. That’s why her family is made for me. I’ll fit right in. I have to fit right in.

I watch as Katya cooks.

I know because her window is cracked, and I can smell the pierogi. They smell like something you’d leave for God to salivate over. She buys no fancy ingredients, but I bet she could do wonders with some. I’d like her to cook for me, and when she moves in, I’ll get her whatever she wants.

But Katya wouldn’t like me. There is too much wrong with me. Too much is broken. So I have to become someone she would like. It’s not time yet.

I wrote you a love song, but I spelled every word wrong, Vivi Tex sings in my ear as I solder in the back room of the warehouse.

I can learn. I’m good at learning. There is knowledge all around, but people just walk by and ignore it. They sit with their hands folded in their laps until someone opens up a textbook for them. Until someone forces them to read. Convinces them to prove they’ve read it, like a test.

I test myself.

I take a girl out. I do what I’m supposed to—flowers, gifts, and open the door. I didn’t want to open the door or give her flowers, because she isn’t Katya, but I have to practice because I can’t afford to mess it up with the real thing. I learned my lesson already.

I don’t even remember the girl’s name. I didn’t know what she wanted to eat, so she ordered for herself.

I’d never let Katya order for herself because I’d already understand what she likes, but I’d let her find out things she hasn’t tried, because I want to see her discover the world I give her, and I do plan to give her the world.

I didn’t like that test. She asked me if I wanted to come up for coffee after, and I got irrationally angry. Didn’t care to explain myself, just left. She shouted insults to preserve her pride.

But I learned a lot from that. Flowers mean something. They are tools to communicate.

I wanted to send Katya flowers, but I wasn’t ready yet. It might mean she thought they were from someone else, and I couldn’t afford that. Because I wasn’t okay yet.

My Katya doesn’t date, and that is good.

She knows to wait.

There is a picture of her with a man her age from university. I have to assume it was more than a friendship, and I use that thought to practice self-control, because it infuriates me in a way nothing else does, and sometimes I snap—I stop hearing the music. It all goes dark.

Practice. Practice.

Self-control is not about quitting. It’s about knowing when to quit. And I’m not good at that when it comes to emotions.

What do I do with all this rage? Maybeth sings.

I don’t look into her work because I’m not ready. It has already taken me months to get this far because I hit a snag with her old fling and couldn’t quite move past that.

I leave when she is changing because I respect her privacy. She’s mine, but that’s a gift, and I want her to have something to give me willingly, or it doesn’t count.

It will still happen, but it won’t count.

I learn about champagne in case she likes it.

I learn about perfume.

Dresses. Fabrics. Silhouettes.

Designers. Shoes. I learn about purses, but she always carries just the one, and it’s practical and fits things she needs, so it isn’t a statement and I don’t need to get her a new one.

She can’t afford most of these things yet, so when the time comes, I’ll pick out the ones I think will suit her so she doesn’t get overwhelmed.

I learn that gentlemen don’t swear in front of ladies. I don’t keep the company of ladies, so I don’t get to practice that much.

Katya wears a short dress on New Year’s Eve, shorter than I’ve ever seen her wear before.

Her legs are stunning. Long. The way the muscles shift when she moves drives me crazy, and I’m not crazy. I’ll let her know how much I like it eventually, and that’s all she’ll wear for me because my Kotik will wish to make me happy.

The thought makes me so hard that I’m in pain by the time I get to the car. I don’t want to touch myself, because it’s hers and she isn’t here, but I can’t help it. I cum to her once, twice, and another time when I get home.

My head gets a little staticky when I think about it, so I have to remember self-control.

I can’t test if I can stand her touching me. I tried.

One of Sergei’s girls didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need to take her out to dinner or give her flowers. She went down on her knees right at the start, and it repulsed me. I didn’t even ask this girl to get on her knees; I only told her she could kiss me.

But it turned out I wasn’t ready for that because the moment she got too close, I hit her.

I didn’t hit hard, I think. But she bled, and she cried.

I saw the bruise on her for weeks. I couldn’t help it, and I felt bad.

Made Misha pay her more than she makes in six months, outside of Sergei’s tax.

But I know I can’t test myself that way again, and it scares me because I can’t hit my Kotik—never my Kotik. I have to figure out something else.

I’m a patient man, but all I can hear is her. It makes me feel crazy, and I’m not crazy, so I start listening to music. Loud. Everything I can get my hands on. Chloé Dae sings the kind of songs that make me think of Katya, so I listen to her often.

I imagine dancing to her music with my Kotik, so I learn to dance.

I’ve been learning a lot. She’s already making me a better man, because we are so good together. The record doesn’t skip as often, but it does skip.

I’m afraid Elena will take Katya to the wrong party with the wrong people, and I can’t handle that.

No one big-time hangs around her, and that’s good, but she’s restless and she’ll want the better deal soon.

So, I have my guys approach her. Pay for things.

Sway her away from the Chechens. Keep her occupied.

I forbid them from fucking Elena, that’s too close, and if she brings Katya around, I won’t be ready.

They aren’t allowed to flirt with my Kotik. She looks down about that, rejected, and it hurts me, but there is nothing I can do. It can’t be me yet, and I can’t take the risk of seeing that.