Well, I'm up to nine chapters already written, and I'll say angst, hurt/comfort, suspense...
Anyways, God bless and enjoy!
Days dragged on like years, and nothing changed. The spine surgeon came and went. Apparently, the surgery had gone well, and the man was hopeful. Hopeful was better than nothing... but Vladimir didn't feel that hope... not as he sat beside his comatose brother. All he felt was pain.
It wasn't right. He'd sent people out onto the streets to figure out what happened, and was right now in the process of speaking with Sergei. "Da?" He listened as Sergei said they'd found a black SUV in a chop shop at the edge of Hell's Kitchen, but the plates had been removed, and-clearly-no one was claiming it. Vlad replied, telling him to keep looking, and get everyone on it, then hung up.
He spoke in their language, promising Anatoly that he would find out what happened, and he would make it right-he would avenge. He could make things right, shed blood... but what would it do? He could kill his brother's attacker-he could spill the blood of all those guilty, and Anatoly would still be here, cold and relying on a machine to keep him alive... barely within the place people called "life."
A man slipped into the room. In his hands he held a book, and they gripped it tightly. The expression on Vladimir's (He'd heard a nurse say it) face was one of exhaustion. He looked tired, and there was barely another way to describe it. "Excuse me? May I sit down?"
Vladimir's head jerked toward the voice. His eyes narrowed and he frowned for a moment. He was tempted to tell the man to leave; leave him alone with his brother for however long Anatoly had left. Yet, he couldn't quite manage to get himself to say the word "leave." Instead, he ended up just nodding.
Quietly, the man wearing the suit sat in one of the plastic hospital chairs. "I'm Remi," he introduced himself with a smile. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. "May I ask his name? If not, pretend I didn't say anything, and I'll just," the sentence was left hanging as he waved the book in the air, fingers posed to open it and do just as he said.
"Anatoly..." Remi nodded. "You're Russian. I tried learning Russian, once. I remember some of it. Preevyet, uh, meenya zavoot, Remi."
Vladimir's eyes tracked the man's movements. Some of the tenseness from before washed away as they found an ounce of common ground. So, the man could say "hi, my name is Remi." It wasn't impressive, but at least he'd made an attempt. Vladimir nodded. "Da, Nyezashta." He didn't know if the man spoke QUITE that much Russian, so he repeated in English. "Yes, that's all right." All right, didn't cover it... the man's pronunciation was actually quite bad, but still... he'd tried.
Remi grinned. "Spaseeba." The newcomer rubbed a hand over his beard. "My brother said I was hopeless. New Mexican accent and all, Russian and my accent don't mix."
"Da, he was right," Vladimir stated with, lips pulling slightly at the edges. His gaze returned to Anatoly's face, half hidden behind white gauze pads and bandages. What was visible, was bruised and and cut. It hurt-physically and mentally-just seeing Anatoly like this.
"I'd like to pray with you two," Remi - the apparent pastor said, and waited for Vladimir's reply.
The conversation's sudden change had Vladimir looking at Remi again. "Pray?" he asked. Yes, it wasn't a new concept, Vladimir knew people prayed... the new bit was, people generally didn't offer to pray for the Russian mob.
"Yeah." Remi leaned forward in his chair to reposition himself. "May I do the honor?"
It was Vladimir's turn to look completely puzzled at something. He nodded slowly, peering cautiously at the man.
Remi bowed his head, and took a deep breath, letting the situation settle into his soul. "Dear Father, we don't know what Your will is, but I'm pleading that it is for Anatoly to heal. Please save this man, if this isn't when he's supposed to leave this world. Use this situation. You said in Your Word You're near to the brokenhearted and crushed of spirit - Oh God, fill Vladimir with Your peace. I love you, Lord Jesus - amen."
Vladimir blinked, staring at Anatoly long after the words of the pastor ended. For once, he actually apreciated the gesture. Someone cared enough to bother... but he didn't know what good it would do. "Your God doesn't want us," Vlad stated quietly.
"It isn't our place to say who He wants and who He doesn't. Today He may choose you, and tomorrow it will be a girl dying of cancer."
Vladimir breathed out a sigh. He wasn't going to argue with a preacher-he'd learned a long time ago that he could win all battles, except when he argued with preachers; he never won those. So he just let the room fall into silence again. The pastor's words still rang in the silence...
"Dear Father, we don't know what Your will is, but I'm pleading that it is for Anatoly to heal..."