Igor Sokolov

Meanwhile, Peter was standing outside the lounge, next to the doorway while conversing with Griffith.

“This place reminds me of being a teenager, even though I’ve never been here,” Peter said with a deadened expression. “It’s that old feeling that I’m being surveilled. It’s claustrophobic with all these performing monkeys, flaunting their decadence, talking about me behind my back. They sometimes have this ghetto jargon, which seems more common for the rich than the poor nowadays. I can’t understand them. The pressure’s too much here anyway. It’s gonna give me a headache.”

Griffith chuckled. “You don’t know what pressure is, Peter. Even I see that.”

Peter was silent and then replied, “Yes, I guess I’ve been good at faking it.”

“You know, you’re a boy at heart. Everyone says that about Daniel, but I think it’s actually true for you,” Griffith said with strange warmth.

Chapter Three:

After Daniel arrived home that night, he heard Igor’s still small voice behind him, “You’re just like the rest. I wish I hadn’t been such a fool. I would have prepared better if I’d given myself the chance, or if you had.”

“What does that even mean?” Dmitri turned around impatiently.

Blank ecstasy filled Igor’s glare, as he wrung his hands in a mousy manner.

“Oh, you’re gonna play these games, I see—you’re gonna torture me for longer. I wish Peter had set the dogs on you.”

Dmitri painfully studied him. “I don’t even recognize you anymore. This is absurd. You must tell me you’ve reflected on everything that’s happened. . . I know you’re in there somewhere.”

Dmitri realized that in these few seconds, he had denied that his brother’s behavior was nothing new or incongruous. A childish search for strength and sensibility, had won his senses as he stood before him.

“Come on, give me a chance,” Igor replied.

“For what? None of this has been about you. It’s too late, anyway. What’s there to argue about?”

“You’re right. I guess there isn’t. Why am I here? Why am I doing this?” Igor laughed with a hollow smile, spreading out his arms. “You’ve got this all figured out. You’ve got all the answers.”

“You had all the answers, but you did nothing,” Dmitri said sternly.

Igor shook his head and laughed again, beginning to pace with his hands at his hips.

“All I have asked of you was to show a little determination, but you’ve wallowed instead,” Igor said, his tone becoming still again. “You go ahead living in your fantasy, pretending I don’t exist.”

“The problem is I can’t just pretend,” Dmitri replied, tense and somewhat hoarse. “Now tell me, what is It that you want?”

“I want you to buck up and show some spirit. You’re dragging everybody down and boasting about your accomplishments. You barely pay attention to me. I’m struggling out here in the real world, while you rest in your laurels or moan about your wife. When you are gonna move on?!”

“How on Earth have you come to those conclusions?! You even talk about Peter as if he’s still your friend! As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead to all of us—he ran off like the rat scumbag he is! He’s nobody! But you see him like a father! And now you’re bringing me into this! You wanna drag me down with you! Well I’m not going there!” He stormed into his mansion and slammed the door, gulping with agitation and bewilderment. His life prior to Nadya’s death still seemed illusory and irretrievable, as if joy had been hubris and salvation suspect. Had these tricks been bound to expire? Or if they weren’t insane concoctions, would his former self ever seem real again? It deserved the repose that petty tyrants butchered, as he had wasted his energy and wore himself thin.

In the morning was Dmitri’s monthly visit to Dr. Abigail, who treated the liver damage caused by a hallucinogenic many years ago, at the hands of Griffith’s followers. Like each appointment was conducted ever since his first, he lay on a blanket-less bed with the bottom of his shirt raised to just below his chest, from back to front. He vividly recalled that during his first visit, at the age of fourteen, her treatment caused a soothing sensation in his stomach, as if it had been mended by an exotic consistency, a potion he had drunk. Her presence eroticized this sensation, in a similar vein to his dreams two years prior. It complemented his partial bareness, with an air of power that stood over him. Her large round glasses and impeccable features, were bright with half-feigned formalism, quietly proud and inward-gazing. She looked about twenty-three, and in her voice was possessive vivacity.

But like Daniel, his past was rent and buried by repression, allowing random pieces into his mental vicinity.

“How are you feeling these days?” she asked.

“I’ve been struggling, as you might expect,” he replied, slurring his words while trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “But I’m getting much stronger. I’m much more alert, and I can concentrate far better. The sick feelings have gone away completely. I’m just not sure about the remains of the toxin itself. I hope it will no longer be a concern at all by the end of this month.”

“Well, based on our scans it looks like you’re in good shape. I’d be surprised if it wasn’t over by then,” she replied. “The swelling has decreased tremendously.”

Dmitri sighed with relief, his hand twitching once in remaining traces of anxiety.

“This has all just been an epic joke. I was worried I’d get to another fork in the road, but it looks like there’s hope,” he said, yawning. “I’ve certainly gotten my physical strength back, lifting weights and trying to be as levelheaded as possible. I think that’s infectious, you know?” He felt that he bordered on revealing passions too personal and irrelevant, at which he asked, “What is the next step? What should I do now?”