Splinters of peachy, morning light oozed through the wooden-panel curtains of Nikolai's window. Dust danced away from the orange shards and hid in the far corner of his bedroom. He turned his piggy bank over and let them rattle against the porcelain like the thoughts in his mind. An assortment of ruble and kopek sat in an organization only he could understand; the bills folding over each other and mingling in different piles each time he shifted his position. Although his leg began to lose its feeling, he continued to count aloud, clicking down the volume on his radio the third time it caught him off guard. Nikolai was good at math. It was simple; a language made out of numbers and dashes instead of thirty-three specifically-sounding symbols to memorize. He thought about math like he did water. It has a lot of different theories, but the logic of it was rather simple to comprehend. He just concentrated his attention and kept his eyes open to make the figures clear. Math was the only subject that was ever kind to him.
Two years had passed and Nikolai continued to feel like his occupation as an older brother had not been fulfilled. If every moment he was able to spend time with Alexander was time well-spent, then why did the empty feeling in his heart persist? He often asked himself when the peak of happiness began, and if he would know when he was in it at the present time or if he would realize it in the future. 'Maybe', he thought, 'I'll never experience something like that, but as long as mom and Alexander are around, I think I'll be just fine.' They were why he was raising the money in the first place: to be with his two favorite people in the world.
Nikolai packed his coins and bills into a pile like you would beginning a sandcastle. He just hoped the wave of his sheets wouldn't catch it. He hopped off of his bed and shuffled towards his door. Curling his feet into his shoes, he grabbed the brown-and-purple-knitted scarf hanging off of the doorknob and laced it around his neck. It smelled of soil and remnants of lavender as the wool was brought up against his nose. The scarf wasn't made well, and it made his neck look like it was wearing a dress, but Nikolai didn't complain; it was from home. He twisted the doorknob and took his first steps into the freshly fallen snow.
He arrived at the fourplex his mother, father, and younger brother lived in: a red-and-brown-painted, brick-frame house with gingerbread trim and storm shutters. Actually, it had been converted and restored into four small apartments. Both the home and the downtown area where it resided had seen better days; but old dogwood trees lined the street, and St. Paul's Catholic Church on the corner gave the neighborhood a kind of faded gentility of its own.
The snowflakes had already given him newer, purer freckles. Nikolai pressed the back of the hand against his nose and sniffled, taking a couple deep breaths inward. His movements were traditional, as if he had to cast a spell before entering.
The first that hit him was the stench; so thick and cloying that it seemed to immediately permeate his clothes and his claw its way into his skin. Nikolai's stomach lurched even worse than it usually did. He had adapted to the sweet, grainy scent of beer, but this time, wine seemed to be his father's choice. Dry and oaky, like inhaling paint fumes. The rest of the home was fetid in its own, uniquely pungent, body.
Nikolai turned his direction towards his father. Vyacheslav turned over his pelmeni with his fork, inspecting them as if they were imprinted with newspaper headlines. "What's up?" he spoke casually, gumming the dough and fish of the dumpling. "Where's Alexander and mom?" the freckled boy spoke hastily.
"You're here to see Alexander and mom," he repeated. Nikolai nodded.
"Are you sure?" he asked. Nikolai nodded once more.
"Well," the taller male exhaled, placing his fork next to his bowl as he stood up, "alrighty then."
Almost immediately, Nikolai felt his wrist being pulled taut, and witnessed stars glide over his pupil like pelicans skimming over the ocean.
*
"I'm glad it's getting warmer out already," the older brother observed aloud, gulping back a plastic bottle of Kvass, the grainy taste staining his youthful pallet. He dropped the bottle to his side, watching the fizz rise and fall uneventfully, the brownish liquid swishing side to side.
Alexander shook his head, his hair brushing up against Nikolai's shoulder, "I like it better when it's cold out. I only have clothes for cold weather, and I like playing in the snow with you. It's my favorite thing, I think. I like mom's pelmeni, though, too."
Nikolai chuckled, rolling up his sleeves. "You can have more than one favorite thing. The world is too big to have just one favorite thing."
"That doesn't make any sense."
Nikolai laughed again. "You'll understand when you're older."
The younger brother sat up and tugged onto the sleeve of Nikolai's shirt, still sitting by his side. "Nikolai, I need to tell you something."
*
The petite male blinked twice, his body allowing itself to stop resisting against his father's will.
Nikolai's mind continued to remain blank. He couldn't recognize where he was, but it was definitely a scene. His eyes widened, as if to stretch open his mind.
The first thing that he could recollect was that he was standing in the living room, and second observation he made was that there was almost as much blood on the walls as there was paint. His chest rose and fell shakily, and all he could do was close his eyes tightly and hope he would wake up soon, but when he reluctantly opened them, there was the face of his father. He kept staring, looking into Nikolai's eyes as if here were looking into an empty house with his face pressed up against the glass. Vyacheslav reminded Nikolai of those girls his age he always sees walking home from school; often instinctively theatrical, purposely eccentric, and always mouthing some highly suggestive words. But this time, his father's calm and collective attitude threw him off.
"Why are you-I mean-what are you-?Where's mom? Where's Alexander?" Nikolai spat, rubbing his twitching fingers against his clammy palms.
Vyacheslav exhaled, then Nikolai felt a palm push against the back of his head. His gaze flew over the couch and fell against the hardwood floor. In sight was a bloated mass of bloodied flesh. The corpse was feminine and fragile. Her body was pinkish, while blood leaked from the welts that littered her torso. His stare crept over the torso and towards her rounded face. Tiny, grayish-pink pieces of goo clung to the individual strands of blonde hair. Just barely in sight was a splatter of freckles blended across pallid skin. It was his mother.
He felt empty inside, as if someone had reached inside him and gutted him like a pumpkin. His breathing hitched, and he was beginning to feel a burn in the center of his throat. "I'll fucking kill you," Nikolai muttered, shutting his eyes tight to remain stoic in front of his silent father. Even though he despised every inch of him, any form of despair would show as a weakness. "I'll fucking kill you!" His voice grew much louder the second time, his hands reaching out for the much taller male's neck. Vyacheslav blocked the attack, then began pulling his son into another room, watching Nikolai flop around like a fish out of water. Yet, soon, he quit resisting again.
*
"What is it? Did dad do something?" Nikolai panicked, pressing sweaty palms against both of his brother's cheeks.
Alexander shook his head, moving the hands around with him, his lips puckered out playfully, "No, not this time."
"Nothing worse than usual?" Nikolai put his hands back by his side, adjusting the pillows on his bed.
He shook his head again. "Nothing worse than usual. Mom took me to the doctor again. He told me that I'm kinda sick, and that I've kinda been sick for a long time."
"Kinda? Wh-What does 'kinda sick' mean?"
"Well, not 'kinda sick'," Alexander rubbed the fabric of the rim of the fabric, "really sick. He says I have, uh, what is it called? I think it starts with a 'T', it's a really long word."
*
Nikolai stood in his younger brother's room, the firm skin under his eyes damp and reddened. The room was about the size of a public restroom. The musty wallpaper behind the lone mattress had been peeling off for a while. Certainly not a room suited for a ten-year-old. Vyacheslav gestured his head towards the closet behind his son, "open it."
The smaller male felt his lip quivering, then saltwater blurred his vision. "N-No," he shook his head and folded his hands together in a praying position, gradually falling to his knees. "Please..."
His father bit the inside of his cheek, shook his head, and firmly pointed towards the closet. "Open it."
Hesitantly, Nikolai stretched his arm to pry open the sliding closet. The stench that he had first witnessed elevated, though, that was the least of his worries. The tips of his fingers grasped the handle, and he quickly yanked it open; it was the same movement you would use to rip off a Band-Aid.
*
"You have...Tuberculosis?" Nikolai's voice and hands shook alike, his palms eventually landed on the younger's shoulders.
"Yeah! That's what it is!" Alexander grinned, as if he was glad to be diagnosed with such a deadly disease. "You're so smart, Nikolai. You know so much more than me. I want to be like you when I get older." The older brother felt welts of water from behind his eyes, and was only able to shake his head. "But the doctor says that I have to wear a mask now so I don't get you or mom or dad sick, and he said that you can't get too close to me." Nikolai's heart fell to his stomach. Such an unfair illness had placed his brother in a quarantine bubble for the remainder of his-presumably-short life. He leaned down and pecked the middle of Alexander's forehead. "No, I don't think I wanna do that."
"But, you have to," he quietly protested, "I don't want you to have what I have."
Nikolai sniffled, then finally allowed tears to expel. He recognized that Alexander thought of him as the strongest person in the world, and that in the same moment, the thought had eroded with every tear shed. "I'm not going to stay away from you, not in a million, billion, trillion years."
*
The fragile mass immediately fell adjacent to Nikolai's feet. The sound was tantamount to dropping a load of books onto a wooden floor; quick, loud, and without an echo.
Like a shot, Nikolai lunged at his father with the remaining strength that he had. He brought the larger male straight against the wooden bedpost. He knew that if he applied too much force, that his father would be gone too easily. He also knew that the angle and force--or rather, the restraint of force--was crucial. As long as he followed his own rules, the hold on his neck would soon be like squeezing a block of tofu--suffering included. Vyalcheslav's face began turning a greenish-purple, yet his lips still twisted into a cheeky grin. Then, Nikolai felt a heavy exertion against his jawline, and fell to the floor with a loud thud. He brought his hand up to his nose, which was aching with heat. Unable to breath, he removed his hand and attacked his father once more. Nikolai drew a sharp breath, palms sticking to the sides of the other's neck, and his fingers coiled around the extra skin on the back of his neck. Just as quickly, he felt his father take his final breath.
The strength began to drain out of Nikolai's body, which had momentarily stiffened, like air going out of a basketball. Keeping his hands on his father's neck, then let him slump forward onto the bed. His face lay sideways, pillowed on the uncovered mattress. His eyes were hooded; they showed no fear nor pain.
Nikolai stomped over the body and headed towards the kitchen. He navigated himself towards the wooden holder and drew out each knife as if it were a sword. He inspected each one, and was soon torn between two: the cleaver and the serrated-edge. His eyes lined the edges carefully. Looking at his distraught--yet determined--reflection, he finally chose the serrated-edge knife and made his way back into the bedroom, and squatted over the lifeless figure.
Taking the jagged base of the knife, he began sawing away at the male's broad shoulders. It wasn't any different than slicing meat, just with a more grotesque scene. He watched as the veins convulsed to the tune of a heartbeat and the ruby-red plasma seep into his hands and clothing. Once the left arm was finished, he repeated the steps on his right arm, left leg, and left arm; leaving only a torso with a head attached. Nikolai took a deep breath, and punctured the middle of his father's neck. He worked the knife away on either side to the point where the only thing keeping his head attached was a thin flab of skin.
The short male rose and dropped the knife onto the mattress. The flesh under his cheeks heated and a lip poked out slightly. He shut his eyelids tightly and placed his hands over his face. Even in darkness, he could see the blood drying under his fingernails. Grasping the apples of his cheeks, Nikolai began sobbing as hard as he ever would, his cries growing louder and more pitiful by the moment. His body trembled with fear of the future.
He slinked himself into the bathroom in a zombie-like state, shading his eyes as he passed his brother and mother. The male twisted the faucet handle and scrubbed his face with cold water. Occasionally, he would look at himself in the mirror as he did so, and always saw a different person. Each time he washed off a stain, the roughness of his past became more apparent. His brows continued to furrow, and yet his still continued to cry. The overstimulation of the situation caused him to break down; and even if it was only in front of himself, he still felt embarrassed.
Nikolai felt hopeless, and left the house like he always did: weaker.