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It’s a good thing they didn’t stick Natalia and me up here. She’d have broken the silent rule within the first five minutes. But as I keep cleaning, I realize I don’t mind the quiet so much. It’s relaxing, and I can stop every now and then to appreciate the view of the water.
Hours pass. Finally, the door at the back of the apartment opens—and Ilya comes out.
The relative ease I’ve discovered over the last two hours shatters the instant he walks into the room. He has on a plain red t-shirt inside out and backwards, the tag fluttering under his chin, and a pair of loose cotton shorts.
I stand perfectly still, waiting for him to notice my presence, ready to explain myself. But instead, he turns into the kitchen and pulls a bowl out of the cabinet. I watch as he pours himself a bowl of cereal, splashing milk over the edge of the bowl in the process. Then he sits down to eat.
Sonya doesn’t stop her work, but I can tell she’s moving slower to avoid making any noise. And when she catches me watching her, she mouths, “He has a routine.”
I nod, but I don’t really understand. How can this man be capable of making his own breakfast and getting dressed, but talking to people sends him into an uncontrollable episode? What kind of accident would cause something like this?
Sonya waves her hand again and gestures for me to get back to work. Reluctantly, I do.
I sweep the wood floors, then double back to dustpan the piles. Even though I pass directly behind Ilya’s chair, he doesn’t show any sign that he has seen me at all. It’s eerie.
The rest of the morning passes this way. Sonya and I circle around Ilya like silent satellites, registering his every movement and need without making a sound.
Until Sonya gasps.
The small noise is so surprising after not talking for two hours that I look over just in time to see the glass cup shatter against the hardwood floor.
Ilya has been sitting in a chair near the window flipping through picture books, but he’s out of his chair the second the cup hits the floor.
All morning, he has been relaxed, moving through what I guess is his usual daily routine. But now, his shoulders are tense and his face is red. He’s trembling from head to toe.
“I’m so sorry,” Sonya says. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or Ilya.
Either way, Ilya doesn’t hear her. He starts yelling for Kirill, screaming his brother’s name again and again. “Kirill! Kirill! Kirill!” He’s rocking back and forth and pulling at his clothes. Every tug is more forceful, and I’m worried he’s going to rip his shirt to ribbons.
“Ilya,” I say softly. “Ilya, maybe we could—”
He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head. His hands are in white-knuckled fists at his sides.
“Stay back,” Sonya warns from the kitchen.
But she doesn’t have to remind me. I know better than to be within arm’s reach right now.
To illustrate that point, Ilya suddenly swings out with both fists. It doesn’t look like he’s trying to hit anyone, but his body can’t hold what he’s feeling. Emotion is ripping out of him in whatever way possible.
Then he runs to the wall he was at yesterday and starts shredding the wallpaper again.
“Go for help!” Sonya orders me. “Find German.”
I hear her, and I know I should listen. But Ilya doesn’t seem like a threat anymore.
“I think ripping the wallpaper calms him,” I suggest.
“He’s destroying the apartment,” she hisses. “Go find someone.”
Not listening to her is a risk. She’ll try to fire me if I screw up. But I can’t seem to be afraid of Ilya. If anything, I’m worried for him.
From the side, even with his scars, he looks so much like his brother. They share the same perfectly straight hairline, the same broad build, the exact same shade of green eyes.
I creep towards him slowly.
“Rayne,” Sonya warns in a low snarl. “Rayne!”
I ignore her and move a few feet down the wall from Ilya. I’m not sure if he sees me. If he’s even capable of seeing me right now. His body doesn’t seem to be absorbing many inputs. It’s all about output. One-way traffic.
