Noah
Also, not to be unkind but if he was assaulted like Arsen thinks, he needs more than just a therapist. He’s gonna need a doctor’s appointment, blood tests… He could have picked something up from one of these creeps. He might need medicine.
Noah’s gentle reminder felt like a baseball bat to the back of his head. Arsen didn’t know exactly what had been done to Ever, but it was clear he’d had some level of assault forced on him. He did need all of the things Noah suggested, but Arsen worried taking him somewhere to be poked and prodded would just re-traumatize him.
Not that Ever seemed all that traumatized in the first place. Was Arsen trying to force Ever into the role of victim like Felix said?His stomach churned at the thought. He just didn’t want to hurt him, and it seemed impossible that someone who had suffered the abuse Ever had could just be…fine. But…who was Arsen to say he wasn’t?This was all too much.
Arsen
I’m going to bed
He powered off his phone so he wouldn’t be tempted to dive back into the conversation to defend himself. None of it helped. Well, a therapist for Ever would probably help. And a doctor. Hopefully. But neither of those things helped Arsen feel less like a predator. He stared at the door across the hall. Was Ever in there waiting for him? Was he dreading his arrival? Was he even still awake?
Arsen closed his eyes. He would just give Ever some space. They could figure it out in the morning.
* * *
“You can’t be weak. The world breaks weak men.”
Arsen blinked back tears. His muscles ached and burned. How long had they been standing there like this? It felt like hours. He was somehow both hot and cold, his organs shaking within him, his teeth clacking together like it was the dead of winter, even as salt stung his eyes and beads of perspiration rolled down his skin.
The room itself felt too small, like he couldn’t breathe, but that was because his father’s large body was wrapped around him, looming over him, his paw-like hands covering Arsen’s, squeezing until the metal of the gun dug into his skin. Even with his father’s hands on his, the gun was slippery in Arsen’s damp palms. He just wanted to drop it and run, but there was no escaping. His father was a big man and he always got what he wanted.
Was Arsen crying? He couldn’t even tell. He didn’t know. His whole body was malfunctioning at once.
Logically, Arsen knew he was dreaming. A part of him recognized that there were differences between this dream interpretation of his mother’s death and what really happened that day but it didn’t matter. It didn’tfeelany different.
The dreams weren’t always like this—so vivid. Sometimes, they were hazy, like his brain was wrapped in cotton. Other times, they were sharp enough for Arsen to smell his mother’s blood as she bled out on the kitchen floor.
Sometimes, like tonight, he was right back in it. His father’s hands on his, trying to force him to pull the trigger. Other times, he was standing to the side, an observer watching as his father berates them, intimidates them, beats them with his fists, until it finally culminates in this one…last…stand.
Just like most dreams, there wasn’t a linear timeline. It didn’t run from start to finish like a movie. It jumped around. Things changed—minute details. No nightmare was ever quite the same.
It had been a good night. He’d thought his father would be pleased. But, as usual, he was wrong. His report card started it, but it could have been anything. Whatever he could use as an excuse.
Arsen was no longer holding the gun. There was no gun. He was back at the beginning of his memory. His dream. His nightmare. Whatever it was.
His father was furious. “You think you’re better than me?” he asked in Russian. “You think you’ll get a big fancy job and a fancy car and leave this place?”
Goosebumps erupted all over, not just at his father’s tone but at the sound of his father speaking Russian, breaking his own rule. Only English was spoken in the house. He’d said it was to help Arsen and his mother better acclimate, but it was really just another form of humiliation. A way to mock them for not speaking English as clearly as he did.
Arsen blinked in confusion. “What?”
His father sneered at him. “Oh, now, you don’t speak your native tongue?”
There was no right answer, Arsen knew it. His mother knew it, too. His father lived for these games, for these traps. Arsen was too American, not American enough. Too Russian. Not Russian enough. He spoke too much or too little. He didn’t try hard enough or he tried so hard he must be mocking his father’s lack of education. Arsen wasn’t going to win this.
That was when his mother stepped in. “Ilya,” she said sweetly, stroking his face. “Why don’t we skip dinner and go out? We can go to the club and—”
That was as far as she got before his father backhanded her, driving her to the floor. His father was so big and she was so small. Or maybe she just seemed so in comparison to his father. She never acted small. She was so tough. And yet, that was where she stayed, on the floor, her skirt hiked up high on her thighs, her face swelling rapidly.
How had it devolved so far so fast?
It was just a normal fight.
Until it wasn’t.
Arsen was back in his father’s arms. He was trying to force his finger over the trigger. But it was impossible. Arsen’s hands just weren’t big enough. He was only eleven. And it was a big gun. Heavy. His mother often rolled her eyes behind his father’s back as he waved it around, and when he wasn’t there, she would tell her friend, Anya, next door that he was overcompensating. That it made him feel like a big man when he flashed it at people. They would laugh.
