Some sort of Rap type thing

Danielle Steinman

Rap-ish

You rub your lap,
And you tell me that you’re Santa,
With one eyebrow cocked,
Like I should give a damn about you,
So you like the way I look,
Doesn’t mean I owe you anything
And yet you keep getting pissed,
When I tell you I'm not interested,
Don't tell me to lighten up,
After I try to pry you away,
Stop touching my legs,
Take your paws off my waist,
Get your fucking fingerprints
Away from my face,
How many times do I have to say “Nay”
Before you realize that I’m not playing games?
I’m sick of this shit,
I’m too smart for this shit,
I never asked for this shit,
And I can’t believe you assholes
Can get away with this shit!

Goldie Locks and the Three Douche Bags

“Cindy!” the assistant manager snapped, “Table 17 hasn’t ordered yet, oh- and table 14 needs refills.” He whizzed past her in a breathless fury.  Weekend waitressing is not for the weak at heart.  She caught onto this fast.  It was bearable when people ate their fucking high cholesterol, over-processed food without any complaints or remarks pertaining to its shitty quality.  It’s a hit or miss at a chain food restaurant.  This plain and simple fact is sometimes lost on people.

When leaving the cozy beer scented nook of a college university, one usually assumes that the world is waiting for your resume and eager to hire.  After almost a year of sending in resume after resume and not hearing back, Cindy felt sorely misguided and anxiety set in. She took up a job waitressing full time at Applebees to pay the rent (She refused to cave in to her mother’s desperate pleas to move back in with her to save money.  For Cindy, it would be like putting training wheels on Lance Armstrong’s bike- An insulting and humiliating regression).  She had a clear vision of what her life would be like after graduation, and it felt like she was being swept down by the neck into an undertow when there were no visible signs of danger to prepare her- no white caps, no waves.  Just sun.

She threw up her curly, honey-blonde hair into a messy bun that settled firmly on the crown of her head.  Taking three deep breaths, she strode over to table 17.  As she was turning the corner she stood up straight and put a smile on her face that felt as natural as a Twinkie tastes.  “Hi Folks, my name’s Cindy.  Can I start you guys off with some appetizers?”  She was relieved to see that she was serving a small family.  They leave better tips than high school couples that touch each other underneath the table.  The woman looked too well dressed to be in such an establishment.  Her Ralph Lauren polo T-shirt didn’t have one wrinkle in it.  She loathed this woman.  Wanted her to choke on a chicken bone.  Her husband dressed similar to his wife, wearing khaki pleated pants and thick framed glasses adorned his clean shaven face.  Their son looked to be about 14, and didn’t look too thrilled to be there with them.

Twenty minutes later, Cindy forged her way through the maze of tables and made it to table 17 without dropping the tray.  She slowly placed the food on the table in front of them and their surveying eyes.  The woman dipped the spoon in the Minestrone soup and then slowly put it towards her puckered lips.  Her eyes widened with a blank furiousness, “Ouch!! This is scalding Hot.”  As she was dabbing her blistered tongue with her napkin and taking sips of water to alleviate the pain, her husband held up his fork which had a hunk of steak impaled at the end and held it right in front on Cindy’s face and said, “This steak is cold.. how long has it been hanging out like this. Take it back.” He shoved his plate to the far end of the table.  The son already gobble down half of his meal and was probably oblivious to his parent’s complaints.  Cindy assumed he’d learned to block it out.  So that was the final straw, that was it.  Cindy ripped off her apron as if it were on fire and handed it to some girl at table 3.  When she got outside, she lit up a cigarette and drove home.

Finding Prince Charming

Claire buried her nose into his chest, willing an indent to form so that her nose would fit perfectly into Will’s boyish chest. The couch was too small to fit both of them forcing the couple to press tightly together, not that it would have been any other way. Claire never thought that this would happen, that he would actually appear. Prince Charming was a made up man that she spent endless hours waiting for. She would lean her forehead against the chilly window wishing for him to appear and toss pebbles at the thick glass. But he hadn’t shown up that way. Instead Prince Charming strolled into a party at a Dave’s rotting apartment. Claire had a mixture of god knows what in her red solo cup as they lightly flirted with each other over the drunken swoons of other party-goers. It went from a stumbling hug to a short nap locked in each other’s embrace. Claire was shocked that it had turned into more, her Prince Charming actually remembered her later, and still wanted to see her. Before she knew it a year had gone by and they were still snuggling as tight as possible, fearing the other might slip through their tight arms.
However, he was not the Prince Charming she had expected. Will argued with everything Claire said, their constant bickering over nothing always escalated into a shouting match. Will had a past with girls that tore at Claire’s heart, imagining him saying the words she cherished, like I love you or you’re beautiful, to other girls. Will had a stupid haircut, it made him look like one of the Beatles, that Claire desperately wanted to change, but unfortunately he was loyal to his hairstylist. Will was Prince Charming, and despite the many ridiculous qualities that Claire wanted to fix, she couldn’t help but be in love. His stupid haircut was fun to mess up, she knew he loved her more than any of the other girls, and the arguing…well the arguing wrenched her apart, but Will seemed to think nothing of it, so why bother disagreeing?
This night was important to Will. He had rented a cabin far away from the opinions and drama of the people in their lives. The tiny cabin was barely bigger than the queen sized bed that pulled out of the once blue couch that was now closer to beige. The check in counter had provided VHS’s of movies that they had believed were high forms of art when they were six, such as The Goonies. As the classic treasure hunt film played, Will was squeezing Claire tightly, hoping she wouldn’t feel what was in his pocket against her sensitive skin. He knew without a single doubt that this was right, that she would be his forever and there was no way that his love for her would ever change. He found no fault in their relationship; after all, arguing is typical when you are in love. He knew what her answer would be when he asked the question, but his stomach was still somersaulting throughout his entire body, making the other organs very anxious.
When the movie finally came to a close Claire sat up slightly, partly squinting her eyes and raising the corners of her lips into a smirk, indicating that she was ready to advance the night. Instead of leaning in to kiss her Will pulled away and sat on the ground. As a line formed between her brows Will pulled out the small blue velvet box, effectively erasing that line and replacing it with arched and stretched eyebrows. With lots of confidence Will finally asked,
“Will you marry me?”
…
The moment stretched on and on as he waited and soon the line transferred to between his eyebrows.
“I can’t” Was her only response.
What else was she to do? There was a part of her that she could never share with him, a part that needed to be shared between married couples. If she didn’t have sex with him she was sure that Will would have to look to other women for it. As a child Claire had been born to a young woman taken in by a cult. This cult believed that women should remain pure until they fully committed themselves to the cult: mind, body, soul, and bank account. As a child they mutilated her, stitching her up so that no man was ever able to desecrate her “temple.” Sometimes this was easily reversible but the man with the shaky hands that had performed her procedure had stitched haphazardly making it nearly impossible to correct. She had been rescued from the Cult of the Bank (as her adoptive family named it since they were terrified she would go back to find it) shortly after the haphazard procedure. The rest of her life had proceeded normally, and she never even knew something was wrong until she was a teenager. Despite this impediment Claire desperately sought love and affection from her Prince Charming, but now that he actually existed and now that he wanted to be with her fully and forever, she didn’t know what to do.
Will froze, incapable of speech. He knew Claire’s heart; it was obvious that she loved him so desperately that it was close to obsession. But doubt began to niggle at the edges of his heart. Maybe it had been an act, maybe she loved someone else. Then he remembered she hadn’t said no, she had said she couldn’t. What the fuck did that mean? Did he still have a chance? Unable to formulate words as his tongue was busy rolling about his mouth refusing to listen to the brain trying to have some control, Will just sat there staring.
And Claire stared back.
Was this the moment to finally tell him? It would break her heart to have him refuse her over her mutilation. But could she leave it at that and break his heart? The silence dragged on, both of them unable to make eye-contact. The credits of the movie slowly showed the titles of all the songs and then came to a halt before the screen turned blue. Both of their hearts felt like a witch doctor had thrust his fist through their chests and clenched their hearts in his massive fist. Will began to shake with the fear that had settled like a blanket over him. Finally unable to bear the clenching of her heart Claire decided to tell him, she couldn’t break his heart even if he would break hers. As she spilled the story all over the cheap cabin room the witch doctors hand squeezed tighter and tighter, anticipating his reaction.
But Will reacted differently than she had imagined, he didn’t thrust her hand back to her side and storm out. Instead he remained silent with and even stronger look of confusion plastered over his face. Until finally, the expression softened into a look of concern. Claire knew this look, he was going to try and help her, fix her, make all her problems go away, like he always strived to do.
“We can fix this! We will make you all better; we can travel the world until we find the perfect specialist.”
“But what if we can’t?”
“We will honey, don’t worry.”
“But what if we can’t? How are you going to deal with that?”
“It will be fine; we can still do other things, but I am sure we can fix it. Now, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” Claire responded. She felt hopeless.

Purple Soles

My mother was sadistic about hair. Her hair was perfectly formed into a hard helmet with the aid of her aerosol can of hairspray. This sadism stretched to my hair. As was the typical style of 1952, my strawberry blonde hair nearly reached my shoulders and had I let it loose and straight instead of puffing up the top and curling the ends it would have brushed my shoulders. My make-up was designed to accent my bright blue eyes and puff out my slightly thin lips. My posture had been ram-rod straight since birth because my mother constantly stood behind me pulling back my shoulders. She taught me how to smile when I wanted to cry, how to see to every whim of others, how to cook a five-course dinner that assaulted all the senses and how to show my body off to its best advantage. All this she taught me so I could attain the perfect marriage by keeping my husband happy, not even considering how to make me happy.
All was going according to my mother’s plan as I had the perfect wedding, with the perfect stark-white dress, the perfect church with a stark-white steeple, and of course the husband with the perfect amount of money and status. Ethan took me home after our fast-paced courting and even shorter wedding. I was content with my new grand apartment in New York City. It had high ceilings, a tall fireplace and giant windows with bright blue curtains long enough to make Scarlett O’Hara three ball gowns. Everything was bigger than life, including Ethan. Ethan’s features matched mine but he had a wildness about him. His blonde hair never stayed perfectly parted to the side; there was always that one mischievous lock of hair that wandered about his forehead. His blue eyes crinkled at the edges and sparkled, constantly seeking pleasure. His lithe body easily encompassed mine, and he easily led me to the bedroom and brought me through the motions with a well-practiced hand. At the end of our first night together I felt proud that I had pleased my husband. My mother would have been proud.
The days went by and I cleaned our home, did our laundry, cooked dinner, set the table, and waited for Ethan to return home so I could feed his hunger and satisfy him. Quickly days turned into weeks and the routine lost its sparkle. Our courtship had been fast and just as fast I was losing interest in the marriage routine of solely pleasing my husband. I began to notice that Ethan always stayed late at work, but my mother told me to ignore it, he was just dedicated. I began to notice that he only enjoyed me when I rushed to fulfill his current desire; which could be anything from cooking a tuna casserole to tying him to the bed and spanking him. He was never interested in pleasing me or lifting a single finger for me. I began to notice that my favorite part of the day was when I ran errands. When I walked on the concrete sidewalks I felt purpose in my stride, and a beat coursing through my leg muscles. There was something about the world rushing past me with the cars going to specific places and people with a purpose entering and exiting buildings. While I walked to the corner store to retrieve the dry cleaning I felt that I too had a purpose and I belonged to this world. I could feel the fresh air brush my skin and struggle to blow my hard hair back and I felt free and oriented. I started to make these trips outdoors more and more frequent, jumping at any reason to run an errand or meet a girlfriend for coffee at Barney’s. I never stopped catering to Ethan, he was my sole support and the center of my life, I truly did want him to be happy, and it made my mother happy to see the marriage progressing so pleasantly.
As my life progressed I agreed with my mother that it was all worth it, I had a comfortable home with pleasant experiences all about me. Yet, I was still noticing that my husband was staying late, and not only that, he was taking a lot of business trips. Once again my mother told me he was just diligent. Then I began to notice that he was less interested in sex; the intervals between pleasure increased from every other day to once a week and then to twice a month. My mother told me it was my fault. I wasn’t showing enough interest in him and he was probably just trying to relieve me of duties that I loathed to perform. So I struggled to show Ethan that I didn’t loathe it, I rather enjoyed sex with him. I ran out and bought a satin slip that I hoped he would enjoy and I began to try and coerce him into bed. That worked for a short amount of time but quickly he lost interest in me again. My mother claimed that I must be bad at pleasing him. So once again I worked very hard to pleasure him, asking for as much direction as he would give and doing any acts he wanted me to, including making love on my precious and clean kitchen counter where I cook all his meals. When he lost interest again I knew it couldn’t be me. I was perfect after all, I kept myself in perfect condition and I did everything for him that he could possibly want. Ethan just seemed to have something about him that made him wander and give in to whatever swayed him at the moment. My mother told me not to bother with it anymore. He wasn’t doing anything wrong and if I kept worrying about it and snooping around it would only lead to trouble.
I couldn’t do that. Something was going on. Ethan was slowly swaying away from me and giving in to other temptations. I wasn’t sure what I would find but I knew that something was going on at his office late at night. He was not diligent. So I stepped out of my shelter and walked among the crowds of people with determination in my step. I pushed through the door of his office building and ascended the stairs to the fifth floor. The legal office suites that he worked in were deserted. I softly padded across the lush carpeting to Ethan’s corner office where light streamed out through the crack between the dark wooden door and beige carpet fibers. When I grabbed the icy cold brass door knob I felt a moment of static apprehension. I swung the door open anyway.
My eyes quickly shut, unable to take in the sight of my husband standing in front of his mahogany desk with his designer navy pants wrapped around his ankles as his butt clenched to thrust into a skirt attached to legs with red and white polka dot pumps that was stretched across the desk. I swirled around wishing my hair would move freely so it could block my eyes from the sight faster than I could turn my head.
Back at home I packed my Coach bag, knowing that I could not stay there for one more hour. As I piled all my perfectly beautiful things into my overnight bag I realized that I had nowhere to go. I left the apartment and I walked out upon the streets among the people with purpose. I just wandered aimlessly, unable to find my beat. My husband was my entire world and now it had become infested with despair and my heart crumpled in upon itself. Finding a warm alleyway I leaned against the building and slid my back down the slimy brick to the ground. I closed my eyes but I was still haunted by that one image, the shoes. Those red and white polka dot pumps were gorgeous. But the soles of the shoes were purple when they were supposed to be red. They were imperfect. They were re-soled by a shoemaker downtown that would fix worn out pumps by adding a thick layer of purple rubber. I knew this because my mother often visited this shoemaker. My mother had the same exact pair of red and white polka dot pumps with a purple rubber sole.

Everything

Once, in a faraway land, there lived a businessman. He owned more gold, property, and materials than anybody else in the country, and because he had everything he needed, he didn’t bother to talk to anybody else. But he was human, and like all humans, he craved more.

He mechanized his business to gain more gold, and as his coffers grew, the coffers of others dwindled, because there was only so much gold in the land. He pursued his goal with abandon, and as cruel as his acts were, he could not be stopped, for his acts were permitted by law.

There came a day, then, when he had all of the gold in the land, and nobody else had any. Happy as a lark, he gloated over his wealth, but the people were incensed, for they had no money. So they turned to him and said, “You may have all of the gold, but we have all of the wood chips. We will use wood chips from now on, wood chips will be our money, and you shall have none!”

And so the people began using wood chips for money. They continued to live and work as usual, and the businessman had no part in it. Now in his anger, he gathered all of the wood chips in the land, again unable to be stopped. He then said to the people, “I have your wood chips! You cannot do anything to me now! And I shall once again be superior to you!”

But the people squared their shoulders and said, “You may have the wood chips, but we have all of the apples and oranges and lemons and limes and berries and grapes, and we shall share them between ourselves, and you shall have none!”

Now again the businessman was scorned. Unwilling to be left out, he went around the land and took all of the apples and oranges and lemons and limes and berries and grapes. But the people were not moved: “You have the apples and oranges and lemons and limes and berries and grapes, but we have the bushes and trees and vines on which they grow! You have our food, but we have their source, and we can feed ourselves!”

When he took them too, they said, “You have the bushes and trees and vines, but we have the water and the soil and the sunlight they grow on!”

And the businessman took control of the water and the soil, but he could not take control of the sunlight. The people laughed at him. “Sunlight cannot be taken!” they cried. But the mood of the people then grew somber, and they spoke to him, “All we have now are sunlight, and hollow homes. What kind of lives can we lead if we have naught but spaces and can fill them only with sunlight that cannot be used, except but to witness this emptiness?!”

But the businessman did not listen, for he had everything he wanted. And so the people, with nowhere to go, all soon died, leaving only their hollow homes behind.

And yet things did not fare well for the businessman. He had the gold and the wood chips, but nothing to use them for. He had the apples and oranges and lemons and limes and berries and grapes, but he could only eat so much, and they all rotted away in time. He had the bushes and the trees and the vines, but they only bore fruit once a year, and they wilted as well. He had the water and the soil, but he could not manage them by himself, and so they ran dry. He had the sunlight, which everyone else once had too, and by that he was allowed to witness his suffering.

And very soon, he died too, and with nobody to live there, the land went to rot.

fog

fog

It wasn’t the drugs they were pumping into him that bothered him the most. He kind of liked the numb fog. It was nice to be free from his usual storm of thoughts. He was more concerned about his lack of freedom and privacy. Even though he had a private room he could never be alone for too long. Every half hour someone poked their head through the doorway to make sure he was still breathing. At night they would shine a bright halogen flashlight through the door’s small windowpane, looking for the rising and falling of his chest as he slept. He couldn’t even take a shit without someone knocking on the door. With each passing day this concerned him less and less and the fog grew thicker. Suicide had always been an escape plan at the back of his mind, but it wasn’t easy in here.

They took away his belt and shoelaces; in fact they took away his clothes and shoes altogether. They were replaced with loose fitting dark green scrubs and cheap, foamy green slippers. Perhaps he could fashion a noose from a bed sheet, but where would he tie the end that wasn’t around his neck? There were no closets with hanger rods or showers with curtain rods. The few hooks he had for his two sets of scrubs were designed to break from the wall if there was more than the weight of a few scrub tops on them. Hanging yourself was a cliché anyways.

Another “guest” had been creative. She took the orange plastic cap from one of the Gatorades they were constantly drinking and used its rough edge to gouge her wrists until her white, flexing tendons were exposed. Her shredded radial arteries pumped bright red blood onto the fresh white tile floor of the isolation room. Good thing there was a drain in it, because she made quite a mess.

He remembered watching her through the small, double paned window in the closet sized room’s padded door. Normally it would have been quite a disturbing site, but the drugs took care of that. It was more like a TV show now. Eventually she slipped from the plastic bench in the corner and slid to the floor, face down in the expanding red puddle. Minutes later bubbles stopped foaming from her mouth. Her black hair seemed to darken as her skin paled, slowly adopting the porcelain white of the surrounding room.

The show was over so he turned and shuffled back to the rec room. The ping-pong table with plastic paddles was available. A nearby chair seemed like a better idea. He was so tired anyways. With a deep sigh he dropped into the rough, faded yellow armchair and dropped his head back. There was an interesting water stain on one of the ceiling tiles. The kind he could stare at for hours. Hours of numb, thoughtless existence as an oxygen processing, food consuming, shit and piss generating machine.

Little Babies

There was once a young man and a young woman. Together they walked through the gray, ruined streets of a Queens, New York ghetto. Their hair was fair and eyes the color of cobalt crystal. Their faces, however, were faded and scratched, bruised and beaten. Their clothes reflected homelessness, lack of necessity, and punishment (as if the holes had been self-inflicted). The night sky held darkness, but the street lights (although some had been broken), gave enough light to guide the pair’s way through the dirty sidewalks.

The girl held the boy’s right shoulder up, attempting to guide him in his stagger. The boy, his face was especially pale and flowing down his emaciated legs were little rivers of dark red liquid. He whimpered softly, working with all his might (and his left arm) to stop the blood from escaping his thigh. The girl’s eye makeup had been running down her face since it happened. “We need to find somewhere to hide. We need to stop the fucking blood. You’re leaving a blood trail.”

“Fuck no,” the boy said desperately, “We’re almost there.”

The girl stopped moving. She paused, “You can’t be serious. You can’t be fucking serious. You’re bleeding Danny, and you’re bleeding because you needed it again.” She went to push him down, to physically stop him, but knew they were following the blood trail.

Danny smiled a contorted, twisted smile and continued staggering, holding his thigh. “It’ll be fine once I get it.” The streets were cold that night and the sounds of car alarms and horns could be heard all around him as he felt himself fading away. The girl’s eyes began to well with tears “Baby, no.” But the boy continued looking downwards at the cracks in the sidewalk, the overflowing trashcans, and the fluttering streetlights. She grabbed his arm and they continued on.

-

The girl pulled the boy towards an almost invisible black door hidden away in an alleyway. She pounded on it, screaming for the creature behind the door to open it. The boy falls gently to the ground, unable to walk anymore. A click, and suddenly an old woman opens the door a crack, “Back for more, I see, my babies?” The girl shutters and slowly nods her head, “For him, not for me.” The woman retreats back inside and leaves the door open.

The girl grabs the boy and drags him inside – he is almost unconscious “Sara…” he whimpers.

And inside it is dark and cold and damp and a wave of smells flow that are so disgusting that the girl and the boy have to hold their nose to keep themselves from vomiting. The woman peers over from her kitchen. “What will it be, babies? I hear the veins are ripe today.” She cackles at her own joke.

“Sara, just get me a little bit. Just go get it and we can leave” the boy whispers. Sara walks over to the kitchen table and picks up a tiny bag filled with white tiny white rocks. “How much?”

The old woman giggles slightly as she walks to inspect the baggie. She wears a blue floral moomoo. She wears a baseball cap with the initials NY on the front. She is covered in lesions. “Oh, oh, I guess eighty.”

A shot rings out. Suddenly, the old woman falls to the ground. Sara inspects herself – she is covered in blood. The hag is missing an eyeball. Blood seeps from the hole onto the floor onto her dress onto her hat. There is blood spatter all over the kitche cabinets. There is a distinct smell of gunpowder.

“DANNY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Sara screams. She feels her head lighten. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. She falls to the floor, on top of the woman. She is now covered in blood, the blood of the woman. The blood of the old woman with all the lesions all over her body.

Danny cries out. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he drops the small revolver to the ground and suddenly feels himself unable to move. He gently settles down on the shag carpet floor and closes his eyes to sleep.

Twenty minutes Sara wakes up to a pounding on the door “Open up, babies.”

Get Him to the Prom

So, I’m just going to throw it out there. Back in high school, my life was downright fucking awesome. Not only was I the captain of the track team, but no one in the county could outrun the great James “Was-That-The-Wind-Just-Now” Asher (yours truly). I held record for the hundred meter dash (just 11.02 seconds, mind you. Go check. The record still stands today). I mean, I did well enough in school, which seemed to please my parents. My dad could care less about the occasional C or D. He grew up fixing cars for a living. The crap we talked about in senior AP English (Literary Composition through from the Dawn of blah blah blah) hardly caught his attention, or mine, for that matter. The teachers loved me no matter what. I brought them win after win, giving the school something to be proud of. That was enough, right? And the best part? Prom was right ‘round the corner, and I was accompanying Pamela Stewart, the single-most attractive girl on the track team. This was objectively determined, mind you. She survived the jocks’ rating system with an outstanding nine point three out of ten (individual categories being ass, tits, and thighs). Basically, Prom was going to be the perfect little exclamation mark punctuating this marvelous statement of awesomeness which was my high school experience.
It was going to be damn fine… That is, until I got a boyfriend.
Dan and I had been dating for a month or two before the prom, in total secrecy, of course. Neither of us had the faintest idea we were into each other. Before all this, he and I would just chill after class, play a game or two. Super Smash Brothers was an amazing time waster. He was the cutest thing, clutching that awkwardly-shaped N64 controller, tongue poking past his lips, trying oh-so-hard to send Link (my character) flying into oblivion with a well-timed smash attack. Ah. Memories.
I’ll spare you the details of how I asked him out. It’s an Oscar-worthy story, mind you. It’s filled with some wonderfully-awkward dialogue. “Wait, you knew I was gay? Did the Adam Lambert poster give it away? Please don’t let anyone know. You don’t hate me, do you…? What..? You like me…? Oh, now you’re shitting me.” I hear that type of story’s common. It’s a little hard to pull of that corny romance scene when you’re not sure if the guy of your dreams is going to deck you in the face for checking him out.
Anyway, Prom, right. Dan wouldn’t stop mentioning it, and it was breaking my heart to be accompanying the subject of the entire football team’s desire instead of my partner. How could I deny them their chances? This was going to be the highlight of their entire life, anyway. Pamela took the news well enough. “You’re going with a guy…? So you’re like a fag, then?” And my parents did, too. “How long have you been dating? Don’t tell your mother, it’ll crush her.” And last but not least, the principal. “We don’t allow that sort of thing to happen here. The tickets are marked for one man and one woman only.” And this was true. Tacked to my wall are two tickets, stylishly themed in black and white to fit the retro theme the prom committee fought endlessly over. In tiny, used-car-dealership font, “Men’s Ticket” and “Women’s Ticket” were printed along the bottom.
At this point, Dan was entirely invested in going. One night, while he combed his fingers through my hair (he had a fascination with doing that, just idly combing, messing it up just to reset it in its place), he told me how he never went to his own prom. His boyfriend at the time would never show affection in public, let alone out himself to his entire class. Perhaps I was worried that Dan would think of me just like his ex, which I know is stupid now. We would have stayed together even if we never went to the prom, but I made it my goal to get him into that dance.
After outing myself to Faith, one of my closest friends (“Oh snap, I always wanted a gay friend!”), we ended up confronting the principal together. No progress was made, but we did receive a much needed clarification. “I only want to see a mix of dresses and tuxes out there. It’s how we’ve always run the dances, and I don’t intend on making any crazy liberal exceptions for one student.” With a bit of wild dreaming from Faith, and my own persistence vision of bringing Dan to the prom, we formulated a plan.
Dan and I arrived that night, arm-in-arm, approaching the concealed gymnasium doors stylishly painted black and white. All tuxes were to be black and white, and all dresses were to be black and white. I could see inside—not a person stood out. I knew Phil “The Goon” was inside, along with the rest of the track team. I couldn’t make out one of their faces in the sea of monochrome. Principal Stick-Up-His-Ass was taking tickets by the door along with a few National Honor Society members. We staked out the area, waiting for the principal to leave his post for just a moment before we made our grand entrance. Dan went first, and I followed as closely as possible, fumbling and risking breaking my ankles each and every step.
Tim was at the door. You know in cartoons when a character’s eyes bug out to the size of dinner plates? I never thought I’d see it for real. “Christ, James, what the hell is this? Where’s Pam?”
I did my best to carry on, feigning normalcy. “She’s off with Ted. Y’know, the football captain. She seems to have a thing for captains.”
Tim scanned us, one at a time. He ran track, but he had a bit of muscle on him. “Just be careful in there, alright? Let me know if anyone gives you a hard time.”
I expected an even greater reaction, but I knew how these things went in high school. What was secret between Faith and me was sure to be spread all about the school in the matter of… Oh, about twenty-two hours, three minutes and fifty-two seconds, give or take the time friends-of-friends-of-friends on Facebook hear. Dan led me inside, looking absolutely stunning in his rented tux, all prim and neat.
I followed in behind, wearing the only ‘acceptable’ outfit Principal Stick-Up-His-Ass couldn’t fight, Faith’s ill-fitting prom dress from last year, too slack about the hips and dragging about the floor. We had met the principal half way—dress and tux. The night went well, and hardly a soul knew we were there. The monochrome wave of people pulled us into comfortable obscurity. Of course, that didn’t save us from the odd comment here, or awkward point and giggle from the preppy girls. Most of my peers would find out from the Facebook promptly posted and tagged that very night.
Sandra Marie We had homos at the prom?! Why didn’t anyone point them out?
May 12 at 2:52am • Comment • Like
…They weren’t all like that, y’know.
Sara Spears Aw! James, you’re so cute! Way to stand up for yourself. <3
May 12 at 2:59am • Comment • Like
It was hard, at first, dealing with this new public part of myself. Luckily my mother was entirely internet-inept, and didn’t join the five-hundred and three users to view my prom pictures. The other runners started avoiding me during practice. The lunch table was never crowded anymore. But for everyone I lost, I seemed to make gain someone new. It’s how I met Becky, Jacob, Laura… Y’know Laura, right? And Faith and I have been besties ever since. And y’know the best part? The prom after that had a turnout of ten, count ‘em, ten same-sex couples in attendance, each in accompanying dress and tux, as per his ruling.
Guess it was an alright experience, overall. I hate to say it, but looking back on those embarrassing-as-fuck photos makes me miss Dan. I hear he’s doing fine with the new guy. Two months they’ve been living together, now. I hope for the best. I guess a lot just floods my mind when I look at them… I see the awkward way I cling to Dan, the way he grips my shoulder, holding me close. The other hand brushing through my hair. Too much to say anything concrete.
Well, there’s one thing that comes to mind: “God, I look fucking ugly in that dress.”

Daisies

Daisies come in many varieties.  Spanish Daisies, Blue Daisies, Lazy Daisies, Shasta Daisies, Butter Daisies, African Daisies, Swan River Daisies, Sunshine Daisies; they all have their distinct qualities.  Some had shiny stems while others had fuzzy ones that felt like velvet on the tips of my fingers.  My grandmother had a plethora of knowledge about flowers.  She would share every bit of it with me as she tended to her little garden on the side of her home in Bathe Maine.  They have always been my favorite flower since I was a little girl.  She planted Shasta Daisies in a row, right next to the Dahlias and wild lilies.  Before her forgetfulness, she even planted a colony of happy daisies that lined the front of her house.

The house never had more than one owner, it has never been sold.  It was small, but never felt cramped.  The stairs spiraled up to my grandpa’s drawing room, and I could smell the strong scent of sharpies he used the closer to the top of the stairs I got.  Half-way up, on the right, was the stain glass window I touched every time I passed by.  Sometimes I’d sit there and look at the sun illuminate the reds, yellows, and browns.  My great grandfather grew up within those walls.  The fish plant was within walking distance.  That was where my grandmother worked.  The corner store that my great grandmother and grandfather owned was in the opposite direction just a few miles down the road.  The breeze in the summer time always smells light and salty, such a sweet and comforting smell to me.  Having a long bloodline of shipbuilders and sailors in my family lineage, I feel more comfortable in water than I do being surrounded by air.

Parkland Hospital had a heavy odor that made me feel nauseous as soon as it hit my nostrils.  Smelt like lasagna and sketchy sterile devices.  It was the hospital right down the street from her assisted living home and the hospital where I was born.  This summer I spent three days a week visiting with her and taking her downstairs for lunch or dinner.  She would tell me who gave her each one of her antique tea cups that lined up neatly on her wooden shelf.  I would choke back tears because I heard it every time I visited.  I choked back tears because I didn’t want her to know how much she was forgetting.  I would smile and nod and pretend I didn’t hear it before like a mother smiles and nods when their child tries to construct a sentence.  I enjoyed every word, but I didn’t want her to feel frustrated.  I had an encyclopedia of New England that I kept from my New England Cultures Class and she would open it up to Maine and read about Kennebunkport and famous fishing ports.  So that’s what we did, read and discuss.  But now, sitting in the visiting room, I couldn’t speak or read or talk or listen. I was just there.

As she came back from the MRI, the nurse asked if she had glasses.  Maybe she could see us better if she had them on.  People with Dementia take a much longer time recovering from a stroke than people without.  The Doctor tried to explain the grey and white matter in her brain and synapses and other brain physiology with his pen and the back of his clip board, but the scientific reason for this situation didn’t make sense from the mouth of a doctor or nurse or street vendor or a burrito.  All the same.  I don’t think scientifically and didn’t want to know what her brain lacked and what it didn’t lack compared to a healthy person.  The blankets on her bed resembled the ones in her guest room, white and woolen.  I went down the street to get her glasses.

There were several stacks of newspapers on her coffee table, but in the center was a colorful little vase of flowers.  I stuffed her glasses and the flowers into my canvas bag.  I felt the lump in my throat swelling until without any warning; I stumbled backwards into the wall and broke down.  I hoped she could see them.

Hot Blood

On that August afternoon in 1993, the most noticeable noise, if not the loudest, to the passer-by in the outskirts of Belgorod was the hacking and grinding of hoes and trowels mashing the soil and weeding the gardens of the Müzhev estate, accompanied by the clips of pruners, the snaps of loppers, and the occasional groan of the wheelbarrow axle. Not to mention the barking voice of Yana Bronislavovich, the head of the household, and the yaps of communication between the workers. At least it was quiet outside.

Inside, however, it was a rather different story. In the maroon-paneled dining hall, adorned with portraits, lit candlesticks, and an elaborate silver chandelier, Fyodor Yegorovich Müzhev, the reigning patriarch of the family, lorded at the head of a long linen-covered table bedecked with silvery platters and pitchers and pots and bowls. He was accompanied by his father, Yegor Pyotrovich Müzhev; his wife Valeriya Cesarova; his sons Mikhail, Grigori, Arkadiy, Aleksandr, Isaak, and his daughter Karin, all grown or close to grown; his older brother Sergey, his wife Nastasya Nikiforovna, and their four children; his younger sister Yevgeniya Yegorovna, and her husband Vitaliy Alekseyvich Krinov, also with four children; and his younger brother Vasily, his wife Radoslava Ivanovna, and their three sons. There were also four additional visitors: Yefim Gennadiyovich Pik, Vasily’s partner in crime; two blonde females that Arkadiy had brought in, patting their backsides; and Aleksandr’s fiancée, Yekaterina Andreyovna Ludova.

Fyodor, boxed-faced, built like a farmer and having topaz eyes that shone like fire in the light, led the family and a corps of guns, most hired but some loyal, in a network that smuggled chemicals, especially alcohols, and monitored sex and drug trafficking in the region, inside and outside of the Russian border. His paternal grandfather, Pyotr Dmitrovich Müzhev, used to keep prostitutes in the basement of the mansion, fucking them over wine and losing his mind. Yegor, disdainful of his father’s pastime, took a lower dose of alcohol daily but was all too happy to drink it nonetheless. When drugs entered the picture of crime he was quick to capitalize on engaging in the business, but was equally swift to ban all family members from using the drugs themselves. Now in a wheelchair at ninety-eight, he yet maintained a strict oral regime over his kin.

The wine bottles on the table were a fine Sangiovese, the courtesy of Tuscan friend and collaborator Antonio Tozzi, who had entered the family by marrying Fyodor’s first cousin, Fedora Matveyovna. Occupying the space on the tabletop were morsels of the most exquisite sort; borsch, beef Stroganoff, chebureki pastries, eggplant caviar, dishes that only an aristocratic family like the Müzhevs could afford every day. Such was the skill of Igor Isidorovich, the house chef, that not only would the Müzhevs be pleased; they would also stuff their stomachs, continue to eat until the platters and plates were spotless, and then ask for more.

But the atmosphere was not at all homogeneous. Whereas most of the seniors were talking lowly in dark tones together at one end, the succeeding generation members chirped and cried merrily at the other. With polar ends like these, one wondered what might ensue.

Perhaps the most volatile spot was with Arkadiy, who joked and laughed boisterously, to the silent ire of his relatives, and his two lady-friends seemed quite happy to follow suit with him. In fact, they lost so much of themselves enough to their little fun that the girl on Arkadiy’s left reached, without looking, to take her fourth croquette of the meal with her bare hand, a motion that Arkadiy’s siblings and Yekaterina all shook their heads at. But her hand found its way to Isaak’s plate, which was right next to her, and grabbed a leg of turkey that Isaak was working on. Isaak, infuriated as he tended to be when crossed, much like his grandfather, slapped her wrist harshly.

The girl gasped, as if she didn’t believe she deserved her punishment. She glanced at the red blotch on her hand for a brief moment, and then laid her head in Arkadiy’s shoulder, sobbing. Arkadiy patted her long, slender hair, like a lover might, and then turned his eyes to Isaak, a childish complaint on his lips. Isaak responded indignantly, and two men quickly started picking and punching at one another, squabbling like vigorous, irritated eagles with disjointed beaks.

Aleksandr and Karin rolled their eyes. Sergey and Vitaliy’s children bore mixed faces of excitement. Vasily’s sons laughed. Mikhail didn’t seem to notice.

Grigori wiped his face with a grunt, and then stood up before any of the adults, marched straight around the table, and used his wiry strength to force his two warring brothers apart. He fixed each of them with a steely, imperious gaze as he held them by their shirt collars.

“Keep your friends and yourself under control!” he hissed at Arkadiy, and turned to Isaak, “Yourself too!”

Most of the other younger ones settled down, but Kazimir, Leonid and Konstantin continued to snicker.

It should not be a surprise that these two young men had brawled, though. Isaak had never approved of Arkadiy’s oblivious habits, which oftentimes got in his way. He usually took to sardonic mockery, his nasal voice getting under Arkadiy’s skin, but as we have just seen, he had little compunction against force. Arkadiy, with his closed mind, never understood why he got on his younger brother’s wrong side. He wasn’t prone to getting into a fight either, but when it came to women, he always took the role of knight in shining armor.

Aleksandr let his eyes wander to their spot. All of the men were leaning in closely, speaking in low voices so as not to attract the attention of the younger ones. It wasn’t like them to talk business at the table, but they always made exceptions. The elder women, though part of the circle, carried on as if nothing was afoot.

He didn't like the sound or the look of it.

* * *

The corridor was unlit, save for a lamplight resting on a thin bureau against the copper-with-red-rose walls. Aleksandr leaned on one end of this bureau, a glass of Shiraz-Kotsifali in his hand, and his face sunken.

“Don’t drink too much of that after already drinking wine with dinner,” said a kind but deep, grinding voice. “It’ll make your head spin.”

Grigori stepped into the light.

Aleksandr let the corner of his mouth curl into a smirk.

“Do you want a glass?”

Grigori snapped his fingers, and in a few seconds Yana, primly and elegantly dressed, appeared with a bottle and a glass on a mirror-surface tray. He filled the glass halfway, graciously obliging when Grigori motioned for even more, and handed it to his young master.

“Anything else for you gentlemen?” Yana asked, in the silvery tone with which he always appraised those two young men, and which he reserved for few other members of the family.

Aleksandr and Grigori both shook their heads appreciatively, and Yana bid them both goodnight, vanishing into the blackness.

“After three years of Sangiovese I’m no longer in the mood for the pride of Tuscany,” Aleksandr said.

They both chuckled, and before they stopped Grigori put in, “I don’t blame you.”

Aleksandr studied his brother. Grigori stood a few inches higher and he, and with an iron-bending build. He bore a cracked, sallow and boxed-in face with a thick mouth for a man of twenty-five, wiry, dark-brown hair that was thinning, and piercing green eyes, but beneath which lay a well of conviction, marked with a tinge of disdain. Aleksandr knew full well it was from watching the family power deteriorate and witnessing deals go bad.

One time, before Grigori’s twenty-second birthday, the family had caught wind of a rival family staging a power deal outside of Kiev. In response, Fyodor ordered that the exchange be monitored and the money stolen, and Mikhail, leading the operation, let his guard down. Retaliation by the traders went badly, but only because Grigori, acting as backup for Mikhail, had intervened. He saved Mikhail’s life, but at the cost of the skin of his left cheek from a gunshot. The scar, though faded, remained a black-and-blue to this day, and seemed to come alive whenever Grigori frowned.

Grigori was an idealist, but in the cruelest sense of the word. He was relatively young, but a man nevertheless, and already a killer. It wasn’t hard to see why Fyodor favored him over Mikhail, despite Mikhail being the firstborn male.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow to secure a heroin transfer,” Grigori said darkly. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

So that’s what Father and they were talking about.

“Whereto?”

“Kiev again.”

Hm.

“Who’s going with you?”

“Mikhail, along with Lazar and the rest of his and my men.”

Aleksandr chuckled again. Like Yekaterina, Lazar Boleslavovich Vossky had parents that had both served the family prominently, and had been friends with her during childhood. Close friends. And now she was Aleksandr’s fiancée. He wasn’t sure about what to make of it. He let out a breath.

“Well, just keep on your toes,” he remarked, “I don’t imagine Katrasov is going to soon forget us thieving his capitol. And you know what’ll happen if you dig into those drugs, too; Grandfather will whip your ass and cast you out if not kill you.”

“Don’t worry,” Grigori replied, “you know me.”

“I know you’re bound to get into trouble.”

“I’m good at making it.”

“Of course you are,” Aleksandr laughed, and they embraced heartily, clapping each other on the back.

“No drugs or thugs?”

“No drugs or thugs.”

“Take care, now.”

“You too.”

And then Grigori was gone, just like Yana.

* * *

Aleksandr awoke smoothly the next morning. The sun was shining, and the air was cooler than it had been the previous day. Summers in Russia were usually brutal, but this was a favorable day. When he roused, Yekaterina was still asleep, so he took advantage of her slumber to drape her large, curly black hair over her face and bury his head in her breasts, kissing them. She slapped him in the face upon waking, but they both laughed at it, and kissed for nearly ten minutes before getting out of bed.

Yana brought up their breakfast as he did every day, and left them to dine, off as he was to serve members of the family with whom he was less cordial, or more. After they finished, which took about an hour, wearing bathrobes over their pajamas and nightgown, they exited their room, arm in arm and merry in the face. As they marched down the staircase, they saw that the adults were gathered in the main lounge and waved. All eyes turned to them and narrowed affectionately, Valeriya and Sergey especially. Vasily let his eyes droop and shrugged frivolously.

Then the happy pair stopped in their tracks as the door from the lounge to the front section of the house below flung open and Lazar came rushing in. Although his hair was short, any longer hair he might have had would’ve been awry, for his body was shaken. His words seemed terrified, hiccupping.

Sergey and Vitaliy’s faces melted like chocolate in front of a furnace. Valeriya’s legs buckled and collapsed as tears began to trickle from her clamped eyelids. Yekaterina hurled herself downstairs to help as Yevgeniya and the other women brought her over to rest on the sofa. Vasily’s cheeks and brows steeled and he gritted his teeth, which seemed like fangs beneath his mustache. Fyodor grew red in the cheeks and began to pace, his breath becoming an audible hiss.

Aleksandr trembled as he made his way downstairs.

“What is it?” he asked Sergey, quivering.
“Grigori is dead,” was the reply.

* * *

That evening, most of the lights in the house were turned off. Aleksandr was again in his room, but this time alone. Yekaterina was in Karin’s room, trying to comfort her, as Nastasya and Radoslava consoled Valeriya in her great despair. Meanwhile, the family maid had gone into town to purchase supplies for the women. Yevgeniya went with her, in an attempt to exhaust her own tears.

The loss of Grigori was like a great hollow pit, hopelessly black.

Aleksandr took a tissue and blew his nose, so hard that it might as well have been a train whistle. Livid, he hurled the crumpled piece of paper, harder than he had meant to, through the door and onto the blue-and-violet carpeted hallway floor that Yana had just vacuumed. He cursed himself, banging his fist against his head, and then walked out his door to pick it up.

As he did, however, a shape in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Arkadiy had his body and ear pressed against the wall.

Walking soundlessly down the hallway, he saw that the door to the upstairs study was ajar, and a lance of golden light emanated from the slit. He leaned forward slightly and peered through.

The lights were on, and Sergey, Vasily, Vitaliy and Fyodor all stood in a circle, arguing in hushed tones and making small but aggressive hand gestures. In a corner, Yegor sat in his chair, hands resting on the polished wooden arms, and watching tersely.

“…my firstborn son!” he heard Fyodor mutter. “If I were not already planning to disinherit him it would be a disgrace!”

“We need to plan this out,” Vitaliy warned forebodingly.

“Plan?!” Fyodor snarled, “every minute we wait, Katrasov is making his next move!”

“We’re all angry, Fyodor, but yours is going to your head,” Sergey said, flustered, “and merely pointing the gun back at Katrasov and pulling the trigger isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

“Sergey is right,” Vitaliy said, “Katrasov has family and friends. He isn’t alone.”

“But neither are we!” Vasily steamed. “We need to do something or the other families will think we are cowards and encroach on us!”

“So we shall! But we cannot afford to be so straightforward,” Sergey said.

Sighs.

“So Mikhail sold out Grigori,” Sergey observed furiously.

“I thought he had given up on pursuing the role of heir,” Vitaliy said, “We should’ve kept a closer eye on him.”

“Damn correct!” Fyodor husked. “Tomorrow, he will be executed, with all male members of the family at witness, for his death and for what I will have to say to him.”

“But what’s this cock-and-bull about Lazar being there for a few extra minutes?!” Vasily said.

“I’m not sure,” Sergey said, shaking his head.

“The matter still isn’t over,” Yegor cut in, his voice weak but sufficiently clear. “A new heir must be named.”

“Sergey, you’re the first of our generation,” spoke Vitaliy, “Osip is your eldest son. Why not bring him to the front?”

“I am not the heir to Yegor,” Sergey replied firmly, “Fyodor is the de facto head. Then comes me, then you, then Vasily.”

Vasily twitched roughly, his eyebrows not losing their slant. But the others simply acknowledged him. Fyodor sighed darkly.

“My next-in-line,” he mused, as if beginning to ponder a great math problem.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Vasily growled. “Arkadiy is a weakling, and he cares about women and himself, more than anything else. You know as well as I do, Fyodor! He’s a womanizer and a drinking fool, not fit to survive the trade, unless we had no competitors and it only meant transporting alcohols!”

“So skip him, then!” Vitaliy put in, “he wouldn’t engage in the family business even if everyone told him to!”

“Nor has he yet done so,” Fyodor agreed. “That leaves…”

A chill engulfed Aleksandr’s flesh. Arkadiy glanced at him, his face melted.

“Aleksandr is young,” Sergey stated, “he needs some time at least.”

“And he shall have it then!” Fyodor snapped. “But sooner or later the future patriarch needs to be groomed for his role!”

They dispersed, a signal that the debate was drawing to an end. Aleksandr felt the blood in his upper body churning.

“I’ll go along with this,” Vasily said to Fyodor, “but only as long as my sons are involved more often in the business.”

“So be it, then!”

* * *

Morning in the house. All of the men in the family, from Dmitriy to Yegor, were gathered in the parlor. The women had been told to remain outside the house until the afternoon. All in the room were standing up, except for Mikhail who was sitting nervously in a chair, untied but under the vigil of two armed guards.

Fyodor snorted.

“Pathetic boy!” he spat. “If the rest of your brothers were gone, your uncles would still have sons of their own to replace them! Thought you could be patriarch again? On your own? We don’t play Machiavelli on our own. We are a family, and we play Machiavelli as a family!”

Mikhail sat silent, his head shaking back and forth along the floor, as if he was trying to keep his gaze up with a scurrying rat.

Aleksandr let his eyes wander. He wasn’t sure of how he’d feel about Mikhail’s fate. But then he noticed something; there was not one chair but two. Mikhail was sitting in one; the other was empty.

Fyodor gestured towards the door. Two more guards marched in, dragging Lazar and keeping guns on him to make sure he stayed in the empty chair.

Aleksandr’s heart took a little shock. But if Lazar was to be dealt with, there was likely a reason for it.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Lazar demanded.

“You know full well!” Sergey said contemptuously.

“I informed you about Mikhail!” Lazar cried.

“After Grigori was killed!” Vitaliy shouted.

“I was uncertain!”

“Even if you were, your uncertainty makes you a liability!” Fyodor continued the lecture. “But if you knew that Mikhail was working behind our backs, you must’ve known something else!”

Lazar sat back, defeated. Fyodor did not waste his time to press the matter.

“It was convenient, wasn’t it? When he took you for a few more minutes of meeting time! Mikhail wasn’t the ideal heir to the family and Katrasov knew it, eh? He found the both of you and you sang to him!”

“About what?!”

“About Yekaterina! You told Katrasov that she was engaged to Aleksandr, and so he planned to have you intentionally inform us about Mikhail’s betrayal, to make us think that while Grigori was gone his remaining brothers still had a loyal friend and servant in you! From there, you would stab Aleksandr and Isaak in the back and I would have no worthy sons left! I would be made a fool in the eyes of my competitors and encourage them to encroach upon the family! Is that what it was?!”

Lazar’s head and eyelids sank. That meant a yes.

“Aleksandr!” Fyodor barked, without turning his head.

Stifling a jump in his lungs, Aleksandr walked forward. The older men parted to make way for him, and rested their cold eyes on his face.

Fyodor approached him, a black Makarov pistol in his hand. When Aleksandr hesitated, Fyodor placed the gun in his hand. His hesitation did not cease.

“Why must it be me who kills them?” he asked lowly.

“You must know what it’s like to kill,” Vasily answered swiftly, taciturn as ever.

Aleksandr had seen this coming, but had hoped they would not actually tell him to do it.

He stared at the gun in his hand and sighed. What would Yekaterina say to this? She admired Fyodor, and Grigori, but she loved Lazar as well. Would she believe if she was told that Lazar planned to betray him too? Would she understand if he killed Lazar? Or would she think he murdered him?

It was pointless to argue, he knew deep down. Grigori, the best of his father’s children, was dead; the eldest had betrayed the family; the next-eldest was unwilling to partake in the family business. If he backed out, he would be simply repeating what Mikhail and Arkadiy had demonstrated, and Isaak was still too young to carry out something as terrible as an execution. If the task fell to any of Sergey’s, Vitaliy’s or Vasily’s sons, it would be an extended reflection on Fyodor as a failed member of the family, not only in the eyes of Katrasov and other rivals, but also in Yegor’s. Besides, Yekaterina had chosen him, when she had known Lazar for far longer. She would not love him any longer for this. A weak assertion, but nonetheless…

Aleksandr swallowed without letting his mouth open.

“Step away,” he ordered, echoing Fyodor’s disciplinary note.

The older men promptly parted, followed by the rest. He could feel their approval of him in their relaxing gazes. It almost sickened him. Waiting a second, he then nodded to the guards. They hoisted Mikhail and Lazar to their feet.

Aleksandr took one long glance at each of the two men, abhorring their uneasy faces, and took a deep, silent breath.

The Makarov discharged with two bloodcurdling cracks.