Page 35 of Violent Possession
The blade rises.
No mess,he said. That’s one part I have no intention of following.
I always havethe same dream.
It’s always the same pieces shuffled in a shitty lottery: him, me, the smell of rain on the pavement, fresh blood in the air, and the feeling of floating a few inches from my own body.
Today the dream starts in Bakersfield, but not therealBakersfield. A dreamlike, saturated version, where the walls of our shitty apartment are made of cardiac muscle, pulsing with some anticipated anxiety. It doesn’t really rain in Bakersfield, but here it does—a thick, constant rain, beating against the windows that never closed properly.
The scene is the same as always: Seraphim, at ease, sitting on the edge of the sofa torn by time and fights, his shirt open to his chest, the knuckles of his fingers still damp with blood. The other guy,this time’sguy, is tied to an office chair, his legs trembling, half-dead with fear before he’s actually dead. And me, as always, leaning against the doorframe, pretending I’m not participating, pretending I’m just a spectator to this grotesque theater.
But I’m not. I never was. My presence is part of the script, and Seraphim knows this better than anyone. He gives me a look with an apology in it, or maybe a cry for help. He begins the questions, the same questions, always in that low, affectionate voice. The voice that could convince a pig to happily walk into the slaughterhouse.
In the dream, I know everything that’s going to happen before it happens. I know Seraphim will take his time. He’ll explore the borders of physical and psychological pain. He’ll poke, provoke, pull out confessions that don’t matter to anyone.He’ll laugh the way only he could: a dry, joyless sound, with the very concept of happiness being an inside joke that only he understands.
I feel the blood rising in my throat, I feel my stomach churn, I want to scream, but I don’t. I stay there, static, part of the furniture. Until finally, in the dream as in life, I can’t stand to watch anymore. I step onto the stage, gently push Seraphim aside, and end it all with a clean cut. I hear the guy in the chair’s sigh of relief, and for a moment, I believe he’s thanking me for ending it quickly. But it’s just an impression. He’s already dead.
The next second, the dream cuts to the motel room. I’m on the floor, cleaning the knife on the back of my sleeve, and Seraphim is leaning against the window, looking out at the world, waiting for some divine sign. The neon light from a pawn shop near the highway paints his face blue, then red, then blue again. Police sirens.
“You didn’t have to do that.” He says it without looking at me. There’s no censure, no anger. Just weariness. A weariness I understand to the bone.
“The guy was already broken,” I say, without lifting my head. “No one deserves to suffer for nothing, Sera. Not even scum like him.”
“I know,” he replies, and his laugh is an involuntary spasm. “But it’s like Ineedto feel that, you know? Just to be sure I’m still real.” He turns, and now he looks directly at me. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”
“Everyone has their vices,” I murmur, pulling the cloth back between my fingers. “Yours just makes more of a mess.”
He approaches, slowly. When he crouches in front of me, he seems like a mirage, so close I can count the fine scars on his jawline, the almost imperceptible tremor of the muscles in his neck. He takes the knife from my hand, gently, and places iton the floor beside us. Then he takes my hands, as if they were delicate. As if I hadn’t just killed someone.
“Myrddin,” he says. My name tastes like something forbidden in his mouth. “You always see. You know when I go too far. Promise you’ll pull me back if it happens again?”
In the dream, my heart races. I want to say yes, that I always will, that I willforever, but I can’t say anything. I just nod, my face burning with shame, with desire, with fear. His fingers trace over my knuckles, where the skin is already starting to heal, and I feel like crying and laughing at the same time. Like killing and dying. Like staying there forever, trapped in that limbo of brutal tenderness. He rests his forehead against mine, and we’re just two boys trying not to fall apart.
The dream always ends the same way: I wake up with his name in my throat and cold sweat running down my back.
I sit up in bed, gasping. I bring my right hand to my face and feel the artificial weight, the phantom absence of what was mine. I shouldn’t have slept, much less with the prosthesis on.
I hate that I still dream of Seraphim, even after everything. I hate this stupid loyalty that won’t die, I hate knowing that if he showed up at my door right now, with that fallen angel smile and an impossible plan, I’d sayyesbefore he even finished the invitation. The metal arm would just be an afterthought, a thing of the past, as if I didn’t feel a fucking phantom pain shooting down my shoulder every fucking day.
I tried to stop you, Sera. And you tore a piece of me away.
A tear runs down my face, and I feel angry with myself. Beneath it, there’s that rotten hope that maybe, this time, things could be different. But I know they won’t.
I let my head fall back and take a deep breath, waiting for the trembling to pass. I thought this shit with the Malakovs and that idiot Kirill hadn’t affected me. I judged wrong.
I get out of bed. I need to pull myself together. In the bathroom mirror, my face is still marked by a series of fights, and now, with a vulnerability I hate to see. I try to wash away the image of Seraphim, the sound of Myrddin, with cold water. The shit won’t come off.
So I bury it by force.
Seraphim isn’t here anymore.Alexeiis. He gave me an order, and Ipartiallyfollowed it. I dealt with a guy. Dumped the body. Came back to the hotel. I hope he deals with the corpse. It’s not my jurisdiction.
Would he be mad that his little dog slipped the leash a bit? There was blood everywhere. I think that qualifies as amess.
If he reallydidn’twant a mess, would he have sentme? A slightly uncertain, slightly dangerous performance test. I’ve only known him for an hour, but it was enough: he’s not a fan of uncontrollable, dangerous variables.
What happens now? Does he send his men to give me a beating as punishment? Take me to a basement for a real interrogation? Or does he simply discard me, leaving me to rot in this room until the money runs out? Each scenario has its appeal, but the uncertainty is what keeps me awake.
Suddenly, I hear a vibration. A vibration on the wood, from a phone on a table. But my phone—myrealone, not the burner I broke after leaving Kirill’s apartment—is in my pocket.
