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GALINA
I’ve seen this before. This exact scene. Arsen lying in a pool of his own blood, dying right in front of my eyes. The last time it was just a nightmare.
This is real.
“Arsen! Arsen, no! Arsen! Get up!” I cry.
Yevgeniy keeps his hold on me as I struggle to escape. He ignores how I fight, turning around to grin wolfishly at Ruslan. “Molodets, son! You got him!”
It clicks with me then—I understand what’s happened. No longer struggling, I instead turn, staring in disbelief at Ruslan. His face is pale as old milk. He’s gripping a pistol that looks massive in his tiny hands.
“Ruslan?” I whisper.
He sniffles, starting to shake, the tremors coming faster and more violent by the second. “I … I …” he stammers.
Beaming with sadistic delight, Yevgeniy turns again so he can see Arsen. “You should have fired when you had the chance, Arsen. I guess you don’t have the courage of a ten-year-old. Or maybe you’re just weak. Did Galina’s kindness soften your backbone? Hm?” He cups his ear. “No response?”
Arsen lies in the snow. He doesn’t budge. Clutching my mouth in horror, I throttle down the bloodcurdling scream that wants to break free. I’m scared that if I start, I’ll never stop. Oh God, Arsen ...
“I didn’t mean to,” Ruslan whispers. His voice is fragile, on the edge of panic. “I thought …” He drops the gun, gawking at it like it’s turned into something else. It might as well be a king cobra for how he looks ready to flee. “It was real. It wasn’t supposed to be real.”
“Ruslan?” my mother asks, as aghast as he is.
He rolls his eyes toward her. He hasn’t blinked in far too long. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Mom whispers to him. She cradles the boy, trying to stabilize him as his shaking grows worse.
“Stop crying,” Yevgeniy snarls. “You should be proud of what you’ve done.” The sirens that split the air make him freeze; he stands tall, staring at the sky, then back toward the road. “We need to move. Everyone get in the car. Now.”
I keep waiting for Arsen to get up. For Mila and his men to burst from the bushes, rushing to his aid. Arsen’s blood stains the snow all around him. But nothing happens.
This is my fault.
I did this.
“I said let’s go!” Yevgeniy snags me by my elbow, forcing me up into the driveway. There’s a black Mercedes parked with only a light layer of snow on top. He shoves me into the back, then shouts for my mother and Ruslan. Mom shuttles the boy into the back seat, holding him in her lap. He’s still crying.
Yevgeniy hurriedly swipes snow off the windshield before jumping into the driver’s seat. We’re not even buckled in when he starts the car. I’m thrown back from the force. He’s speeding, rushing to escape the area before the cops or Arsen’s men close in on us.
Ruslan’s sobs fill the vehicle.
“Shut up!” Yevgeniy roars. “Stop crying! You have no reason to cry!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ruslan sobs. Snot pours from his nose, his whole face cherry-red. We’re free of the suburb, and the car spins on the black ice. It’s a miracle we don’t fishtail into a tree. Once we reach drier, clearer roads, Yevgeniy speeds up. The tires scream, but Ruslan’s crying is loudest of all.
The brakes squeal sharply as Yevgeniy turns us around a corner into an alley. The car jostles to an abrupt halt, sending my mom and Ruslan falling to the floor.
“Mom!” I gasp.
Yevgeniy leans into the back seat and slaps Ruslan clear across the face before wrenching him from my mother’s arms.
Ruslan stops crying, the utter shock of the assault robbing him of his voice.
“No son of mine will be a crying suka! What we did back there, what you did, was vengeance! Hold your head up high with pride!”
“Leave him alone!” I snap, pulling Ruslan back to me. “He’s not heartless like you!”
A terrible darkness swirls in Yevgeniy’s pupils. He considers me with disdain, saying nothing for a full minute. The only sounds are the faraway sirens and Ruslan’s heavy breathing.
