I can’t imagine losing my own child.
I won’t.
Right before she drifts away, I squeeze her hand, drawing as much comfort out of her proximity as possible.
Because they’re both right. I’m going to need my strength for the nights ahead.
***
Light has long since faded from the window when I roll to my side in the bed. Pavel snores softly, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his slumber. It started minutes ago, and I nearly fell out behind him until I looked up at the ceiling.
And instead of the paint, what I see is my brother’s betrayed expression.
My eyelids weigh heavy. I desperately want to fall out, but I can’t let myself relax. I can’t allow myself to rest.
How can I after what I did today?
Pavel murmurs something incoherent and then rolls toward me, slinging his arm over my waist.
As he nestles into my neck, I close my eyes, trying to focus on the steady thump of his heart against my shoulder.
My eyes roll back. My muscles surrender to sleep, depositing me back into the garden room where the baby shower took place hours ago.
In my dream, people surround me, a crowd of faceless onlookers all groaning like ghosts who haven’t crossed over.
“Kill. Kill. Kill.”
Pavel raises a gun to my brother’s head. His movements are sluggish and tense like he’s trying to swim through a sea of paint on a canvas. Lush colors swarm the scene—smears of vivid yellow, white, peach, and brown. Irises splotched with sea foam green slide toward me.
And like the monster I’ve become, I nod.
Flash. Thunder. Smoke.
Fat beads of red roll down the cloth canvas wall. Rich crimson and violet red drip onto the cream-colored carpet. Or is it eggshell white? Off-gray beige? Whatever the color was, it’s now tainted—subtly shifting as blood pools to the ground around my brother’s head.
My muscles ache as I try to intervene. I know it’s too late. I know I’ve made a mistake. But I can’t help myself. If I can just get to his body and save him…
“Kill. Kill. Kill.” The crowd continues chanting.
Pain shoots through my leg. Anger fuels me, tripled by the fact that I can’t move as fast as I’d like.
Shock pinches my stomach. I look down at the ground to find a figure curled up at my feet. When I bow forward to inspect the face, the crowd around me sways. Their dreadful liturgy crescendos until it is a dull, incessant buzz in my ears.
The figure looks up, eyes filled with fear.
It’s Zoya.
I reach for her, but I can’t get through the oily muck of the air. I try to move my foot, but it moves of its own accord to kick her. Again and again.
She curls over her stomach and whimpers, “Don’t hurt my baby!”
The chant rises. My body refuses to return control to me. I kick her repeatedly and savagely. Tremors run along my leg. Blood splatters from her mouth.
Kill! Kill! Kill!
I can’t stop the fury swelling inside me.
I can’t make it go away.