Ivan Braginski sheilded his eyes against the midday Louisiana sun as he stepped out of the car that had brought him here. When he'd been whisked away from the airport directly after landing in the airconditioned limo with tinted windows, he had taken for granted exactly how disconcertingly hot and sunny it was here. For a man used to the cold winds of the North and months on end where the only sun that managed to break through the clouds was weak and pale, it was like stepping into Hell itself.
But he was here for just that reason. He was sick and tired of the cold weather and snow in Russia. When he was a child he had dreamed of one thing and one thing only, living in a place that was warm enough to grow sunflowers. And, while the climate in Louisiana grew more than just sunflowers, he finally had what he wanted. He was free of the snow, the cold, the long winter nights with nothing but vodka to warm him.
He was still as alone as he had been in Russia. Moreso, since he hadn't brought any of his servants with him. They'd all been left to care for his mentally ill sister Natalia, who was much too fragile to move to America with him. But he'd been alone for a long time, he could stand it.
There was a time once, when being apart from his younger sister would have been out of the question and would have hurt him deeply. But now it was like leaving a sock: Regretable, but nothing you really agonized over. The thought of his derranged sister as a discarded sock brings on a quiet chuckle as he sweeps violet eyes over the sprawling grounds and elegant plantation house he'd recently purchased and would now be living in.
He strolled lazily up the driveway and onto the porch. The heavy heat was effecting him too. He could understand now why the locals were so laid back. The peaceful quiet of the country side and lazy heat of the afternoons made all your cares seem to melt away. It would be good for him, he concluded. And maybe Natalia would one day be well enough to come here with him and it could be good for her, too.
But when he entered the house it was like being transported to another dimension, or at least another place entirely. The house was at least 20 degrees cooler, and not in an airconditioned way. The air was thick and heavy and, whether it was the half-drawn curtains or the dust on the windows, very little light seemed to pierce the gloom. It was the same stale, dead feeling he had left Russia to escape.
No, he told himself. You came here to get away from the cold. He was perfectly capable of being alone in a large house despite the feel of the atmosphere. He squared his shoulders and strode through the house, more purposefully than before. There was just something about this place that seemed to make the laziness of the summer heat dissipate and set one's nerves on edge. Like something was watching you.
The feeling was all too familiar. And the memories came back, unbidden, with every step he took. Yekaterina, Natalia, and himself before the accident. They had been as happy as they could be as orphans, even before Ivan had become a succesful and rich business man who could provide easily for the three of them. Even when they'd all been working to put him through college it had been all laughter and smiles and love.
He touched the scarf around his neck, a momento of that time. He could still hear his sister laughing as she wrapped it around his neck. "Now you have no excuse not to go to class in the winter, Vanya. This will keep you warm while you walk." She had teased, referencing his mock complaints that it was too cold and that he would freeze to death before ever making it to his classes. He had made a habit of wearing it even in the house, just because it made Katyusha smile. Natalia had been so jealous, saying that delivering flowers was just as cold as walking to class. Ivan and Katyusha had laughed and kissed each of her cheeks, surprising her the next week on her birthday with a purple ribbon to keep her hair back while she ran through the streets on her deliveries. She hadn't complained about the scarf even once after that.
These memories should make him happy, bring a soft smile to his face like they had so many times before. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled sincerely. It was probably well before the accident that had taken away all the smiles and laughter left in that big house he'd purchased so his sisters and he would have enough space to grow and laugh and love. It was ironic, really, how the house that had been meant to make room for their love had only come to serve as a tomb.
It had been three years ago, give or take, that it had happened. Ivan had finally become successful enough to move them out of the tiny two bedroom apartment they'd shared for who knew how many years. It had been an acheivement worth celebrating, so they had all gone out to dinner. Like any time the three siblings were together, the night was full of laughter and jokes and funny stories from when they were children. One time, a waiter was even sent over to respectfully tell them to be a bit more quiet. They had complied, but once the waiter was out of hearing distance, they had giggles silently to themselves.
The night had progressed and the three had still not run out of things to talk about. They rarely did, they were so close. They had mutually agreed to move it back home, the first time they would be there together and the first time his sisters would see it at all. They grabbed a taxi and gave the driver the address. But just as they were about to climb in, Katyusha remembered that she'd forgotten her purse inside. "I'll just be a second, I promise."
But just seconds before she'd gone back to get her purse, a man with a gun had slipped into the restaurant while their back were turned. She had walked straight into the shooting, catching a stray bullet straight to the heart. She had been dead before the police had even arrived.
The rest of the night had been spent answering questions, identifying the body, and making arrangements for the burial. By the time he an Natalia had gotten back to their new home, they were too tired and shell shocked to really appreciate the significance. Without Katyusha there it wasn't really the same, anyway.
They had buried the body quickly, both too out of it to truly mourn. And in a way, they still were. Natalia still acted as if nothing were wrong and Katyusha had never really been there. The doctors told him that she had shut the entire thing out to keep from shutting down herself. And Ivan...Ivan drank. Not enough to effect his work and never in a million years enough to abuse his sister. But it took the edge off the pain of knowing one sister was gone and the other was slowly slipping away into her own world.
It hadn't been obvious, when it had first started. In the days after Katyusha's death he had expected her to act differently, clinging to him for support. But as they days passed into weeks and even into months nothing had changed and it was all beginning to get a little bit stranger than mere grief.
At first it had been her forgetfulness about anything related to Katyusha. He would remind her that they were going to put flowers on teh grave and she would look at him as if she had no clue what he was talking about. He passed it off, telling himself she was just scattered. But ithad only gotten worse. More and more details about their dead sister slipped her mind and she became more and more attached to him.
One day it all became clear. Like a gunshot he realised that his sister wasn't just scattered, she was sick.
He had been standing at the fireplace in their home, where they had been living for almost a year at the time. He was looking at a picture on the mantlepiece of the three of them together, back when they were happy.
He was interrupted in his thoughts by his younger sister closing the door as she entered the room. He turned around to face her, giving her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. She returned it with a perfect mirror smile of his own.
"Who is the woman in the picture, brother? You look at her with such sadness." She had asked, tilting her head to the side as if she really did not recognize the sister who had bandages countless wounds and kissed away more tears than could fill the sea.
"Natalia, that is our older sister Yekaterina, surely you remember her? She has only been gone a year!" He had stared at her, fear slowly creeping into the back of his mind that she was serious and could not remember Katyusha.
"She left? How sad." She did sound mournful, but only in a detached, sympathetic way. "You know I will never leave you, brother." And she had embraced him. But something about the way she held onto him kept him from hugging back. There was something wrong. Before he could open his mouth to tell her that yes, he knew she would never leave, the reason behind the feeling of wrongness became all too apparent.
"We should be married, brother. Then we would never be parted." There was a hysterical note that rang through the statement, despite how calm it was. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her away gently.
"Natalia, youa re my sister and I do not love you in that way. And you do not love me in that way! It is wrong!" He told her, looking into her eyes for any spark of understanding. There was none.
"I love you, brother. I will always love you and will never leave you." Why did those words strike such fear into his heart? Especially from a sister he had once loved so dearly.
He shook the thoughts from his head. Natalia was back home in Russia where she belonged. She was being cared for by a staff of servants who was quite used to her behavior and knew how to deal with her, along with the best doctors who were experts in cases like hers. They would help her and one day they might even be able to laugh together as they once did.
Somehow during these trips into the past he had made his way up the stairs to the empty master bedroom. It was elegantly furnished with a fourposter bed with red velvet curtains and white walls. If any light had been able to invade the room it would have been light and airy. As it were, the air hung as stale and opressing as anywhere else in the house.
Ivan sighed and sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. Drawing a bottle of vodka out of the inside pocket of a coat he doubted he would need much longer, he started his nightly ritual of drinking until he passed out. He could only hope that tonight would be one of those rare nights that when he dreamed, he dreamed of a field of sunflowers under a bright blue sky.