Chapter Text
You wanted something to change. That feeling appeared in your life more often than you liked.
And now, melodramatically listening to slow songs at five in the morning, you felt certain that you would do something.
Whether it would be good or bad — you didn’t know. Obviously, we don’t always get what we want in this life. And that’s even good, sometimes.
You shift your gaze toward the window. Crimson slivers, orange glow — the sun is rising. You rock in your chair, using the table as a foothold to push yourself. The chair rolled; the push was too strong, and you almost fell. The cup wobbled, you heard the liquid slosh. Luckily there was barely anything left. Three empty coffee cups stood on the pale table. You got up, realizing you couldn’t go on like this. You rose, rustled the blanket, threw it over your shoulders, wrapped yourself in the fabric. And walked to the kitchen in a much more energetic manner than your body actually felt.
A burner flared blue, and within minutes the coffee hissed, nearly spilling over. The force of surface tension lasted too little for you to react in time. You flicked the switch and immediately whimpered in pain, turning the sounds into a grass snake’s hiss.
Do grass snakes even hiss? you wondered.
You didn’t know. Half your life you’d been in a damn crisis.
Stop.
You dropped the mug and grabbed your scalded skin with both hands. That didn’t help at all — only made things worse. But in moments like this, your “monkey” brain couldn’t come up with anything better. After performing this pathetic dance known as a meltdown, you headed to the faucet and shoved your hand under the water. Under the clear stream a red patch the size of three fingers appeared. Wiping your hands on your pants, you turned toward the scene of your “crime.”
By the way, it was because of how often such things happened that you called your brain monkey-like. You see: sometimes your mind “freezes” for a few minutes — and suddenly you’re here, and the next second you don’t understand what’s happening. Everything had spilled, and you spent the next minutes wiping up the coffee. And then Lester called, which wasn’t surprising, even at four in the morning. But you had argued over something stupid and barely talked for the past month. You lived in your new routine: working, with occasional sleep breaks, and unsuccessfully trying to finish the notary paperwork faster.
You silence the cursed ringtone and hear Lester’s strained voice.
— So? Already getting angry?
— I don’t know. By nature I’m a peaceful person, — you add after a moment, considering: — Are you going to give me a reason to be angry, Lester?
— No. Deep inside, in your heart, there’s a fire of anger.
— So what, I usually keep up a good front while burning inside?
— You’re angry. On some level, you’re angry. Admit it — and you’ll feel better.
You smile, knowing he can’t see it. Add a short chuckle, surprised at its sincerity.
— So will I finally find out what I’m angry about?
— I don’t know… Because I didn’t call all this time? Because I did call? I was an idiot, you know me.
— You’re drunk.
— That too.
— We’ve been through this.
— Were you asleep? — he drags the words with a questioning tone.
You rub your eyes with your scalded hand, blink, staring at the floor.
— No wait, you weren’t asleep.
— Now I’m supposed to be angry. We’re both so inconsistent.
— Or the opposite. — And we’ve been through that too.
— So what’s new?
— Listen…
— How’s the dead hag? — he interrupts.
— Still dead. Only now a meter underground.
— Seems too little. I’m no coffin expert, of course.
— The ground was frozen, hard to dig. I’d go for cremation, but she wanted a burial.
— And you listened?
— I’m not religious, but… Never mind. It dragged on.
You raise a finger to the end-call button, but freeze at the last moment.
— Fine, you know everything yourself. Or you don’t. See, all the words seem unsaid, but that’s not necessary. They hang in the air. You don’t need to know how a clock works to know what time it is. — The last sentence is said with noticeable irony and joy, despite the seriousness of the topic. It makes the corners of your lips part in a faint smile. You instantly realize he said it on purpose to cheer you up.
— Enough of that crap. I’ve heard it ten times already.
— That was kind of the point.
On that note, you press the end-call button.
The next few days pass in a dumpling of identical, incomprehensible nonsense. You wake up, wait for the notary’s reply, skip your meds, fall asleep again. You observe the gray sky, deep snow, dark silhouettes of bare trees, snow-dusted firs. The view stretches for miles — unchanged. You stare thoughtfully while your legs trudge through mud mixed with snow. The streets lead you toward the center, passing a few stray pedestrians. You walk with determination, though your destination lies closer to the outskirts.
Your aunt’s house greets you with silence, the lack of sound unsettling. She’s in the kitchen, cooking, although the table is already overflowing with food. She can never stop, never sit down, always fusses in the kitchen, even if later, when there are no guests, she’ll say: “I hate cooking.” You know she’s lying. Not completely: she truly believes those words. She’ll complain passive-aggressively that no one helps her. When you ask her to stop sweeping every two days, she’ll get angry and say it’s dirty here. She won’t stop and will hold everyone to the standard she holds herself.
They greet you with hugs. All of you sit together at the table, remembering even those who aren’t here today — the dead. They drink, you clutch your glass and obediently accept more wine. Lester hates wine: he can drink something stronger — whiskey, vodka, cognac — but despises the bitterness of red. You don’t understand that. You actually don’t want to eat, but you must take at least a few bites, must show some respect for the hostess’s effort. Or pretend to.
The loud conversations occasionally rise into shouting — not from arguing, and not just from alcohol. Some old people simply talk that way. You occasionally say something, answer questions, get interrupted — not only you, and not out of malice. You catch your niece watching you curiously. She’s on the opposite side of the table, thirteen years old. A funny age: no longer a child, not yet an adult. She wants to talk to you after the meal — you don’t understand why. You don’t understand the warmth in her gaze. The last time you saw her, she was five. Thoughts of children distract you until a direct question pulls you back:
— Do you have your father’s rifle? Did you bring it with you?
— I didn’t take it. It stayed in the house all these years.
You didn’t want to take it when you left town. It was a family heirloom, a good weapon, but on its own nothing special except for its sentimentality. Its weight in your hands felt like too heavy a burden. Back then you stood in the middle of the cabin, clutching it with frozen fingers. It felt like your fingers were stuck to the icy, polished metal. You thought for a long time — you could have sold it, after all. But in the end, you let that thought go, realizing how idiotic it was: it would only get in the way during travel; you hadn’t packed much, and even that took up space and was heavy. What were the chances that in the city you moved to there’d be anything to hunt? And who would you shoot at, genius? People? Paper targets?
So it gathered dust all these years, unused. What a waste. Your father had been a good marksman, a professional in his craft, and I know — you inherited his skills.
— Let me guess, we’re going hunting? — Practically a rhetorical question, yet you ask anyway.
— A herd of deer was spotted in the area. The guys and I are heading out this Friday, — he adds thoughtfully. — Tell me, how old were you when they first took you on a serious trip into the woods?
— I was nine.
Your father passed on to the next world back when you still lived here. The days that follow pass strangely. You promise Nebel, your step sister, to visit her. And immediately regret it. But you remember her tired face, still not completely stripped of its childish softness. She wasn’t chubby or rosy-cheeked, which is completely normal for small kids. On the contrary, her thin body was hidden under an oversized fluffy vest. She looked touchingly forlorn — in the best possible sense. Like a soaked kitten. Her eyes were gray ovals — gray like her sight. A trait she had since childhood. You knew what it was like to be different. Though it wasn’t the same as living her experience — you’d never fully understand her, only try. You also knew how this family treated “otherness,” but here, at least, it was better than under your roof.
The notary messed up the documents, then didn’t show up to work due to family issues, then was busy with other clients. As if this town were so big — as if there were so many people dying. And gradually, you began to understand that Lester had been right. Those words about anger. This town irritated you; the situation enraged you. Listening to yourself, you realized: the feeling had been growing for many months, and now this death, even if natural, became the culmination of everything shitty. The last grain of sand.
You never called Lester back. And again, digging inside yourself, you knew — you knew perfectly well why. You see, touching the topic of my childhood in this town means brushing against something you never want to return to. Unhappy — that’s it. As simple as that. But the feelings — not simple at all.
You lived in a permanent cognitive dissonance: the old house stirred vague childhood memories, almost forgotten. Sometimes it seemed like you were inventing them. Like your mind was betraying you. That’s probably what an abusive parent would say: “That never happened. I don’t remember. You’re making me a monster.” And although you never had such conversations, the probability of something like that felt almost tangible, reachable — stretch out your hand, and there it is: the reality in which life turned out differently, and you’d have had to confront your parents.
Discussing inflicted trauma as an adult, when emotional and physical advantage is on your side — yeah, as if. Even now it felt too fragile. Maybe then you’d feel satisfaction: like a long-tangled rope knot tightening around your neck and constantly dragging you into the past, to this town, would finally come undone. Maybe then the taut string would snap completely. That’s what they call “closure” — a phrase very fitting here.
In truth, you don’t even know how they would have reacted. What would she have done? Started yelling? Denied it? Calmly said you deserved it, that it had to be that way? You truly didn’t know. But you knew the patterns of abusers: first step — gaslight, make themselves the victim, never admit fault. You never experienced this firsthand, nor do you remember any friends sharing such stories. Maybe you once read an online article or saw a survivor’s interview on TV.
When you first received news of her death, thoughts buzzed around your head like a swarm, shifting until only white static remained. It felt like something was humming in your ear. You once thought you’d feel happy to hear it. That was naive, and even then, you understood this somewhere deep down. In the moment the coffin slowly descended into the grave, when you watched the men deftly throw earth — their movements perfected by dozens of burials — you felt only a cold emptiness inside.
Lester would’ve said: “Dramatic as fuck. You should be on stage with your whole palette of feelings and your sensitive, delicate soul.” Truth is, Lester was a bit of a martyr and a hypocrite — and worst of all, he knew it perfectly well.
All this led you to another sleepless night. No, it didn’t mean you didn’t sleep — on the contrary, sometimes too much: your body had its own rhythm. You forgot to take your meds and drifted in a fog. Plucked the strings of an old guitar and looked at the moon — which, by the way, appeared here rarely. “Eternal darkness and eternal frost,” as they said in childhood.
You set out at dawn. Or rather, when the sun was already up: in the dark you’d only step on moose droppings. In truth, it was an old, not very funny joke — about how hard it is to find such things in the snow, and how this land in warmer months resembles the same moose products. But you laughed anyway.
Hunting is a long process that requires maximum patience. Of course, unless you simply set traps and go about your day. But pursuit hunting — that’s something else. They put you in the lead: you choose the direction, make the key decisions. The men and some boy — a protégé of your uncle’s friend — wait attentively. You pretend you’re not bothered by their piercing gazes watching your every move. They’re waiting for you to make a mistake. You’re not sure these are the people you want to impress or earn recognition from. So why? Probably for old time’s sake. Simply because it’s something to do.
You look through the binoculars and see the target: three deer stand in a grove, two more visible further away. You hesitate only at the start — then your movements become mechanical, practiced, not forgotten. You’d trained at the shooting range sometimes. This time you don’t feel the hardness of metal or wood — your hands are gloved, but the weapon feels foreign. You bite your lip, aim. The gunshot hangs in the air for what feels like longer than possible. And you feel no thrill.
When you all approach the bleeding body, the meaty creature with its luxurious antlers, you isolate the eyes from the image — glassy. It seems like any moment you’ll step closer, and the deer will twitch with frantic life and run. But you’re satisfied with the simple fact: you did it. Proved to yourself and the others that you can. After all these days, professional pride spreads slowly like a haze in your head. You’re genuinely good at something. Why couldn’t it have been something else?
Your stomach twists unpleasantly — you imagine blood rushing through vessels, the acid bubbling in your stomach. You haven’t eaten, and are essentially digesting yourself. But soon there will be fresh meat. You turn away in disgust from the organs, the swollen intestine. These are boys’ games. Such a magnificent creature died, presenting itself to your muzzle. In truth, no one is to blame.
You keep convincing yourself in it.