Mothers and Men
Ilya never hated his mother, matter of fact.
He harboured such great unrequited love for the woman who scioned him, the woman who loved him and fought off so vehemently as to protect him.
The strongest woman he'd ever seen.
The only one whom he hated was himself.
He felt utterly betrayed when he realised the measures she crossed as to fend for him.
However, he learnt years and years after, when his wisedom was honed enought that it was out of neccessity, that he was supposed to fend for her not the other way round, that He failed to protect her.
He lives with that weight that archs his back, that burden of pure crippleness, that actual shame.
He locks himself off life and pleasure, cuts his heart off feeling, a self inflicted punishment, a retribution for his failure.
He works for the KGB to redeem not his poor father, but to redeem himself from his previous helplessness. His Shame.
The stronger he becomes, the better he will protect her.
He is determined though, not to ever chart the territory of attachment to any other woman.
He needs not another weight to heap and lump over his already kyphoid back.
He needs not to feel weak again. He needs not to feel helpless again. He needs not to feel betrayed out of neccessity ever again.
So he vows to himself through the red, beneath the scent of cars' oil and gasoline, over roaring engines... Only to himself though. Not like he has the power to keep his vow anyway.