Page 86 of Violent Possession
I think of Seraphim, the way he spoke, the light laugh that always came before methodical destruction. I think of Alexei, the cold, impersonal way of someone who likes to watch his opponent crumble from the inside out. I think of myself, what’s left, what can still be called “me”.
I look at Alexei. He’s the only one still here, the only one who hasn’t run and hasn’t hidden. The only one who demands, at least, an answer from me.
“I’m here,” I say. And it’s the cleanest truth that has come out of my mouth in years. “Aren’t I?”
Alexei stares at me for a long moment.
“The doctor will be here in an hour to check your stitches,” he says. He walks to the door. “Rest.”
Then, he leaves the room, leaving me alone with this fucking humiliation.
I lose track of time.
Perhaps there is no time here. Perhaps there is only empty space between the doctor’s visits (always hurried, always afraid), the changing of my dressings, the arrival of meals I barely touch. The sun and moon dissolve into the city lights, all beyond the bulletproof glass, and inside this luxurious aquarium nothing is real except the pain and the brutal absence of any human sound.
My body, at least, does its job: it rebuilds, hardens, closes itself off. Pain is a companion, but it’s nothing new.
Alexei appears here sometimes. Working on a laptop in the armchair or just watching the city from the window. He doesn’t touch me. He barely speaks to me. He just... observes.
For me, it’s worse this way. I’d rather he hated me openly, that he screamed, that he took out his frustration and fear and wounded pride on me. But no—he opts for ice, for absence, for this glacial distance that makes me feel less than nothing. And I watch him back, trying to understand what goes on behind those eyes that have once again become dark and impenetrable.
In the corner of the room, there’s a wooden chessboard. The pieces are arranged beside it, disorganized, waiting for a game that never happens. Every time, my gaze returns to the black knight, which stares back at me with mockery. I never understood chess. In the neighborhood where I grew up, we played checkers, dominoes, games where the punch is quick, not this thing about thinking twenty moves ahead.
After who knows how long, I can’t stand the monotony anymore. I stumble to the board on my good leg, limping, and pick up the black knight. Heavy, cold. Honestly, feeling it is better than reading the twenty newspaper articles about executions Marcus sent me, saying they were the Malakovs’ doing.
“Do you know how to play?”
Alexei’s voice, coming from behind me, makes me jump. I turn around.
He’s at the office door, arms crossed and a clean expression. He caught me by surprise, but I won’t give him that satisfaction. I slam the knight on the table, feigning indifference.
“I know how to break it with my hands,” I say. “I can barely read, let alone play chess.”
He doesn’t laugh at my shitty joke. Instead, he approaches. “Sit down.”
I stare at him, suspicious, but sit in one of the chairs.
“Do you at least know the names of the pieces?” he asks, picking up the white king, the tallest and most flamboyant piece.
“Everyone knows that one,” I say. “The king.”
“Good.” He spins the king between his fingers, without looking at me. “He is the most important and the weakest piece. He only moves one square at a time. If he is captured, the game is over.”
He sits in the chair opposite mine, with the board between us. He returns the king to the table.
He runs his slender fingers over the fallen pieces, quietly. You don’t have to be a genius to conclude that chess is Alexei’s kind of game, but he stares at it as if chess is the last thing on his mind right now. A memory, perhaps. A decision.
He’s been giving me this cold shoulder since the conversation about Seraphim. To think I’d be a traitor because of him… I can’t even blame him for it.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
He continues feeling the pieces, lifting them, studying them.
“The story I told you at dinner,” he begins, without looking at me, “about you being an enemy agent... it got out of control.”
He takes a deep breath, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him look so... tired.
“My brother found your juvenile records. He gave them to my cousin.”
