It's snowing.
I'm freezing.
He's dead.
Dead.
DEAD.
.
I'm hiking through the parking lot of the airport. They've just shoveled the snow away. It's already a couple inches deep.
It's cold.
When I enter the airport, I'm hit with a hot wave of stale, dry air.
It's loud.
The many voices echo against the tall, sloping walls and high ceiling. I approach the main desk.
"I need one flight to Moscow as soon as possible."
"Name?"
"Tino Vainamoinen."
I have to spell my name for the girl behind the counter. She looks frazzled.
I don't care.
I go through security, check my singular, small suitcase and carry on backpack, thanking God above that the wrapping on the box to the gun in my suitcase is effective.
My heart is racing.
I sit in the ugly, uncomfortable chairs in my terminal. I shift, hoping to make the pain in my shoulder go away. It doesn't.
I have four hours until the flight.
I wait.
.
I'm watching from above as I walk home from the market. I know what's coming, but I can't look away. I watch as I search for the key to the house. It has been kicked off to the side of the doormat. I know I don't realize that something is amiss. Why don't I?
I find the key, but am shocked to find the door already unlocked. Berwald shouldn't have been home. I watch myself open the door slowly, cautiously. Why don't I run? I should be running.
I see myself rush inside when I spot the pool of blood coming from the den. I watch as I collapse to my knees, cradling Berwald's head to my chest. There's blood smearing on my shirt. I don't notice.
He's dead.
Dead.
DEAD.
.
I snap out of my daze, shuddering. It's time to board the plane.
The seats are crammed together. I'm sitting next to a small woman with short hair. On the other side of her is a man with shaggy hair of about the same length. They're either siblings or in a very intimate relationship.
She snuggles against his shoulder. He blushes slightly and looks down.
I feel sick.
I look out the window. We're taking off.
My ears pop. I don't care.
I rest my head against the window. It feels cool on my warm skin.
Sleep.
.
My shirt is soaked in blood. I'm repeating his name, as if it will bring him back. Why don't I notice?
"Tragic, da?" I watch my own reaction from above, as if I'm watching a movie; a bodily jerk and a head snap toward the back of the room.
Sitting in a chair, Berwald's chair, is that man.
Ivan.
He has a small, bland smile on his face. A relaxed posture. A gun in his right hand.
I let out silent tears as I say, "How could you?"
The smile widens but doesn't meet his eyes. He stands up. I'd forgotten how big my old comrade was.
"I'll be in Moscow. The address is on the table. You'll come, da?"
.
I'm gasping quietly as I wake up. The woman next to me, who's probably younger than I, smiles gently and asks, "Are you alright?"
She seems like a kind soul.
"It's nothing. I just had a nightmare, is all."
She nods. "That's good. Everything's fine when you wake up."
She's wrong.
It's worse when I wake up.
Because it's not a nightmare.
It's reality.
.
I arrive in Moscow seven hours later. I'm tired, extremely so.
But I cannot sleep.
I'm out of the airport, in a taxi. In Russian, I ask him to take me to the address on the paper.
I'm probably going to die tonight.
Ivan had never been one for leniency. He would hound his assignments like death itself was on his heels.
So why didn't he just kill me then?
My head hurts. This is all too much. Too sureal.
Like the nightmare it's become.
I knew that after I broke away from the Rossiyskaya Mafiya, I would be targeted for death. Too much knowledge.
They had sent him to kill me.
Instead, he killed my only love.
He's dead.
Dead.
DEAD.
.
We arrive at the warehouse. It's dark inside.
Tipping the driver, I get out of the taxi, taking my small duffle bag with me.
I've been here before. When I brought a target back for interrogation.
I never stayed for that.
I was a dog, a hound, a sniper, only sent on assassination and capture missions. I joined the Mafiya to escape.
I left because Berwald showed me what it means to live.
.
I walk around to the back of the building. He's expecting me to use this entrance.
At this point, it doesn't matter.
With shaking hands, I unwrap the hand gun from my bag and load it. I let the sack fall to the ground.
The gun is already loaded.
I open the door, listening to the silent sweep of the rubber against the linoliem. There's a light on, down the hallway.
He's waiting.
I do not take measures to quiet my steps. I know that Ivan knows I'm here.
I'm ready.
.
"Ah, I knew you'd come, Tino." He's not surprised.
Neither am I.
I take a breath. "Ivan."
He smiles at me. It's childish, cold, and cruel. But it reaches his eyes.
I'm nervous.
"I suppose you want answers, da?"
"Before I kill you, yes."
He ignores my promise. "Rossiyskaya Mafiya is a dangerous place to be. I was only following orders."
The corner of my lip raises in a snarl. "You were sent to kill me. You weren't following orders."
A serene smile unnerves me. "Oh, but I was. The exact message was: 'Dispose of the inhabitant of -'. You see now, da?"
My head is reeling.
He manipulated the rules to kill Berwald.
"Bastard," I hiss. "It should be me dead, not him!"
His face falls blank.
" I couldn't kill you."
The weight of his true meaning hits me right in the chest, knocking the wind out of me.
I raise the gun.
"Can you do it?"
I flinch away, biting my lip. He stands, and slowly moves toward me, as if not to frighten an animal.
"Pull the trigger. It's not so hard, da?"
A step.
Two.
Three.
He's right in front of me now. He drops to his knees so his face is level with mine.
His lips are centimeters away from mine.
"Can you kill a man who loves you?"
He closes the gap.
I freeze.
Time has stopped.
Ivan stands and silently moves to the door.
"Can you hate a man who loves you?"
He's gone.
I drop the gun.
It makes a painfully loud clatter in the silent warehouse.
I fall, banging my knees on the floor.
I am numb.
Tears are pooling beneath my head, sliding across my face.
I will never feel as much pain as I do now.
I will never be able to kill him.
I will never be able to forgive myself.
End
.
Author's Note:
Well, I'm not sure how well that went. Sorry for the wait, Jen!
I apologize if it was a bit confusing. I'm experimenting with different writing styles right now.
Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated!