Page 39 of Sapphire Tears

I inch closer to the piano and rest my palms flat on the closed lid. I can still feel the vibration of the chord as it dies inside the instrument’s belly.

“But for some reason, we never managed to be close. Not as kids, not as teens. Just couldn’t bridge that gap, I guess. When I was little, I used to slip into Geneva’s bedroom hoping she would make me feel better about whatever disappointment I’d caused our parents that day. She’d just tell me to go back to my room. She wanted peace and quiet, she said. She wanted to be alone.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. I wonder if he’s lost in memories of his past or if he’s just ignoring me altogether. But his eyes are too focused. Too present.

“Adrian used to do the same thing,” he says at last. “Sneak into my room at night when Otets took the belt to his back.”

I blanche instantly. “H-he… did what?”

Kolya nods, as emotionless on the surface as ever. “Our father was a cruel motherfucker, and he didn’t hold back when he was angry. Even if he was dealing with a five-year-old.”

“Five?” I gasp.

Kolya shrugs. “That’s my earliest memory. The crack of the belt.”

A shudder scrapes down my spine. It leaves ghostly pain, as if from another lifetime. “And h-he… made you watch?” I ask tentatively. “Or did he make you… do it yourself? Like in the video?”

He shakes his head. “My father meted out his own punishments more often than not. The video you saw of us as boys, that was different. Otets wanted us to train, and Adrian wasn’t the most natural fighter. He’s always been scared of physical pain.”

“Most people are.”

“That’s just it—Otets wanted us to be more than most people. He wanted to raise warriors. He wanted to raise dons. He never managed to see that Adrian’s skills were in his mind, not his fists. He was smart, calculating. Cunning.”

It makes me wonder if Adrian was forced to be manipulative as a result of his father’s cruelty, or if he had been born with those characteristics.

Which comes first, the chicken or the egg? Which comes first, the abuser or the abuse?

“But before he was any of those things, he was a little boy who didn’t understand what was expected of him. So… he came to me at night. He’d slip into my bed and take my hand.”

My chest tightens. I can see them both, two dark-haired little boys, clutching hands in a pitch black room, listening to the terrifying thunder of their father’s footsteps prowling around the empty house above them.

“Did you want to be alone, too? Like Geneva” I ask, feeling a tug of pity for these little boys I never even knew.

“No,” he says. “I always let him in. He would ask me to tell him stories, so I would make things up. Stupid shit. Meaningless shit.”

There’s an air of self-consciousness about him that I haven’t really seen before. It makes me want to lean in. Cross the space between us and bury my face in his hair. I wonder if anyone has ever held Kolya Uvarov close to their chest and told him everything is going to be okay.

“Like what?” I press.

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes, you do,” I say firmly. “You do remember. Tell me.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because—”

Because I care about you.

“Because I want to know that you’re human. Or at least that you were, once upon a time.”

Kolya sighs, but it comes out like a hiss. “I used to tell him that one day, Otets would be dead and I’d be don, and then we’d go on adventures together. Just the two of us. And there would be no more belts. No more dark bedrooms. No more pain.”

He glances away from me then, but I keep my eyes on his face. He’s aiming that thousand-yard stare into the piano like there are answers written there that only he can see. His jaw twitches ever-so-slightly, the only sign that anything is happening beneath the surface.

If I didn’t know him better, I’d believe the lie. That he felt nothing.

But Idoknow him better. He feels it. He feelsallof it.

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