She lowers her gaze.
“Follow me,” she says softly, in Russian.
As she leads me toward the staircase, I realise that perhaps my mother truly did ask for me, and this isn’t one of his manipulations to lure me here.
We climb in silence. Katya opens a door at the end of the corridor, and there, lying on the bed, is my mother.
She lies motionless.
Even from the doorway, I can see there is no rise and fall of her chest. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent against the dark of her hair. She looks frail, as though she’s been sustained by tubes for a while now.
She doesn’t look alive.
I doubt she is.
Footsteps stop behind me.
When I turn, I see the repulsive face of my father—Viktor Markev.
Disgust knots in my chest simply because he is still breathing.
“How gracious of you to finally appear,” he says.
I don’t respond, but I register the implication. He knows I’ve been in Russia.
My eyes remain fixed on the woman who gave birth to me.
“She’s dead,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “She died about thirty three minutes ago.”
I stay silent and nod once, still not taking my eyes off the figure on the bed.
I feel nothing… grief, rage, even relief remain out of reach.
Emptiness is all I fucking feel.
I turn and walk out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Viktor snaps, following me.
I keep walking. He has lost his leverage over me completely. There is nothing left here for him to hold over my head, so why would I stay?
“I’m talking to you, you pathetic excuse for a son.”
I don’t turn. That bastard holds no power over me now, less than ever before.
“I heard you got yourself a little girlfriend,” he says, suddenly. “Tragic, really. I’m told she’s dead. My condolences.”
That makes me stop.
I turn slowly and step into his space.
“What the fuck do you know?” I grind out.
He smirks.
“What do you know?” I repeat, stopping myself from closing my hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulge from their sockets.
He studies my reaction carefully.
