Page 115 of Her Darkest Possession
She struggles briefly, and like a beat dog that knows there is no escape, she stops fighting once she accepts that she can't break free.
I nod at the guard and he lets her go. She collapses into a nearby chair, shoulders slumping in defeat.
Then, she looks up at me.
For just a moment, her mask slips completely. I catch a glimpse of the woman who used to tuck me in at night, who fed me one spoonful of soup after another when I was sick with fever as a child. The mother who once held my small hand in hers as we walked along the beaches of Brooklyn in the summertime before Father's betrayals hardened her heart.
But the moment passes quickly, as her face twists with ugly hatred. Her eyes narrow as she spits out her words in Russian.
"You picked a whore over the bratva."
I hear the accusation, but the words hold no power anymore. They're empty and meaningless now, just like her.
I raise my gun and aim it directly at her face, my hand steady.
"Vasya loved you," I whisper. "He adored you. He wanted to do anything and everything to please you. And you let that bitch Lola kill him. All because you couldn't accept that I chose Indigo."
Mother's chin lifts defiantly, even with death staring her in the face.
"Your whore was an outsider," she hisses.
I shake my head slowly, finger tightening on the trigger.
"Lola was an outsider too. She wasn't family."
Mother's lip curls in disgust. "But she was bratva. And that's all that matters in this world."
"VASYA WAS YOUR SON! I AM YOUR SON!" I bellow at Mother, my voice cracking with emotion I didn't know still lived inside me.
The gun in my hand feels heavier with each passing second. Something hot and wet slides down my cheek, and I realize I'm crying.
Mother sits perfectly still, like a statue carved from ice. Her eyes are fixed on me with a mixture of contempt and judgement. Even now, when she can see just how much it hurts me to do this, I know there's only one thought running through her head.
A pakhan doesn't cry.
How did things get to this point? When did her hatred for Father extend to us? I know this didn't happen all at once. Hate like this can only happen bit by bit over the years. It starts with the cold shoulders. The disapproving glances. The way she'd compare us to him whenever we disappointed her.
And even though I'm holding the gun at her face as her pakhan, a deeper part of me—that same boy who used to hold her hand on the beaches of Brooklyn—screams silently: why did you stop loving us?
Why can't I bring myself to say those words even though I know I won't ever get another chance to ask her again?
Mother looks at me, and then she closes her eyes. A single tear rolls out from the corner of her eyes.
"Do it,synochka." she says, her voice steady. "Do what you have to do."
My hand squeezes the trigger, but I still can't pull it all the way. The question burns on my tongue like acid. I have to do it. But I have to know as well.
When did I close my eyes? When did the tears start streaming down my face? I take a trembling breath and finally ask her the words clawing for escape against my throat.
"When did it happen,mamechka? When did you stop loving your sons?"
Mother takes a slow shuddering breath, and another tear rolls down her face, leaving a trail of mascara behind.
"I never stopped loving the three of you," she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I knew that the bratva must come first. That is the only law of our world. Love is the death of duty, Tolya. A pakhan cannot do his duty if his mind is clouded by love."
My grip on the gun tightens. "That's not true," I tell her, my voice steadier than I feel. "You were blinded to this truth because of your hatred of Father. You let it consume you until there was nothing left."
"Maybe," she admits softly. "But I've lived for so long with that hatred that I can't change it now." She opens her eyes fully. "Do it, Tolya. End my life, so that I might go apologize to my Vasya in person. And give my love to Romochka when you see him, will you?"
