Two Months and Three Days (Sinister Romance #1)

Chapter 3 (Part I)

"Go look at the beauty of the North," she said to her reflection, but . . . Arina stood still for another minute, and then she slowly raised her hand and reached for the buttons. The sixth-floor button lit up and she heard a quiet bell. The elevator shuddered softly and started slowly going up. A few moments later the doors opened again and Arina stepped out, for the first time in her life doing something impossible, something prohibited.

In her mind, she was already at the police station, in handcuffs and in tears, but when she got out on the forbidden floor, open only to the press, there was no one there.

No one, neither security nor the old ladies usually sitting on the chairs between the halls. They had all gone down to see Maxim Korshun. The noise of the press conference came from somewhere down below, and a deserted maze of walls appeared before the confused girl as if it were meant for her eyes only.

KILL THEM ALL. A huge poster, a photograph almost covering the entire wall. A picture of a message spray-painted either in a subway or on the concrete railroad guards. The surroundings look unclear and vague, and the message is the only thing that you can really see in the picture. Black spray paint. Arina unwittingly covered her mouth with her hand. It was as if she felt whatever the author of that message was feeling. Rage. Powerlessness. Emptiness. Kill them all. Mr. Korshun must have noticed the message, stopped, and began to take pictures. The photograph stirred up so many emotions that they would be more than enough for ten landscapes of the Russian North. Arina shifted her gaze to the next photograph.

A picture of a child pointing a huge gun right at her literally made her jump aside. Where and how could he have taken this picture? Was it staged? If it wasn't, then it was just awful.

A demonstration. The police kicking a girl. Her face is covered; you can only see her bare body and her shamelessly exposed breasts. A man in the uniform is dragging her by her clothes, and her clothes have slipped up and exposed her. The girl is lying on the pavement, motionless.

Soccer fans are burning a car that just happened to be in their way.

Blood-covered fists. Not a joke, not a fake — no. Those hands have just smashed someone's face. What was he, Maxim Korshun, doing there? How could he have taken a picture of just the fists? Just the fists and nothing else, not to mention that it was a close-up?

What kind of person was he?

Arina was biting her lips and looking at a huge shot that almost covered half of the wall. An electric chair. Empty. Frightening. Waiting for a new victim. Hatred is a nightmare from which you can't wake up. Arina suddenly realized that she was standing all alone in the middle of the hall, and that the voices were becoming louder and clearer. She looked around, confused, still shocked by what she had seen and not quite able to think straight. They would be here soon. They would ask her what she was doing here and how she got here. Maybe they would even try to kick her out and he, Max, would grab his camera and start taking her picture. Wasn't that how it worked?

Arina quickly walked around the hall and realized that there was only one place she could hide, a little room painted black, hidden in the corner behind a white wall. There were no photographs in it but there were a few chairs and a big TV on the wall. The TV was on. Arina sat down and listened. The TV had no sound and wasn't distracting her. Arina barely looked at it. She heard footsteps, many footsteps at the same time. The press conference had clearly moved to the sixth floor. Arina wondered whether they had come to look at the very high-quality pictures of a screaming man with a face distorted by pain who was holding glasses of champagne and tiny sandwiches in his hands.

"I don't do military journalism. I am not a documentary photographer either, although sometimes I get to capture historical moments that can be placed in these two groups." His voice sounded close, very close. He was probably standing directly behind the wall.

"What kind of conditions do you need to turn a simple photograph into art?" a female voice asked him. Arina listened more carefully. So, that was what she had just seen. Art. True art must hurt. Who said that? Arina was listening to the conversation, and her eyes, accustomed to the semidarkness of the nook, fixed on the silent video that was playing non-stop on the TV. The jungle.

"You must either be in the right place or you must be in the right state of mind. Both moments are unique and transient. All that's born is destined to die. Some dream of eternal life and absolution while others don't get to make it to the age of eight." His voice sounded confident. Arina's eyes were glued to the screen. A giraffe was running through the sunlight-filled jungle. Where could he have filmed this? Why the camera? Why "hatred" if the giraffe looked so happy, running wild through the green grass?

"Would you call your works socially oriented?" a male voice asked. It seemed as if the video had been made with a non-professional camera or a cell phone, or maybe it was some kind of special effect. Arina suddenly realized that is wasn't an adult giraffe, it was a calf. It was running way too fast, with far too much enthusiasm and the trees nearby looked far too tall.

"Would you call them Christmas cards?" Max asked the journalist. He sounded sarcastic and angry. Arina almost missed the moment when something in the video changed. Some little thing; some small, barely noticeable detail. She didn't even have time to understand what. The calf was still running and the camera was still following it, and strange orange splashes were scattering in the air. What was that?

"What about your father? Is he planning on seeing the exhibit?" someone asked. Suddenly, Arina's heart sank and she stopped listening to the conversation. Her eyes were fixed on the young giraffe. Suddenly she realized what was happening in the video and why this video was proudly displayed here, at this exhibit. The hunt. In complete silence, a poacher's bullet hit the little giraffe, and those orange splashes were its blood. 

"If you have any questions for my father, you should ask him." Arina watched helplessly as the previously happily running giraffe began to slow down and the orange streams became stronger and stronger. A few moments later and the thin, spotty legs ceased to obey the animal. Arina jumped up and almost screamed.

"What work are you most proud of?" Arina heard another female voice somewhere in the back of her mind. The giraffe was down. It was still moving, trying to get up, but it was clear that it was not going to. The wound was fatal.

"I think you have to decide for yourself." Maxim grabbed his hair with his hand, irritated. "Please, let's proceed with the tour."

"Of course." Arina heard footsteps behind the wall. She stood there looking at the motionless giraffe until the TV screen suddenly went off and then came on again. The jungle; the bright sunlight. The giraffe, still alive, would start running again at any moment. Tears streamed down Arina's face.

"Oh, hello there!" a quiet male voice came out of nowhere. Arina turned round and realized, with horror that Maxim Korshun was standing in front of her, blocking the way.