chapter nine / the photograph / jan. 1, 1990
"Hey. Happy New Year."
Eliot is asleep at the foot of Vladimir's bed, wrapped in a blue blanket and propped up against the footboard. The clock on the dresser behind him reads 12:02, the red numbers making a soft halo on his blond hair. Vladimir nudges him a few times with his foot. He mutters and pulls the blanket closer. Vladimir kicks him and he jolts awake.
"What?" he says, pushing Vladimir's foot away from him. "I'm trying to sleep."
"It's 1990," Vladimir says.
"Cool."
"We made it to 1990. Alive."
"You won't see much more of it if you keep talking," Eliot says. "Go to sleep. I'll talk about 1990 tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow."
"Shut. Up. It's too early in the year for you to start being a smartass."
"I'm sorry you're weird and don't get any of my jokes. This is comedic gold."
They fall into silence. At first, Vladimir can't decide if Eliot is mad at him and considers apologizing for waking him up. Then he worries that Eliot is already asleep and by apologizing he'll wake him up again and he'll have to start this whole process over. So he remains quiet and listens to the emptiness of January 1, 1990.
Rain taps on the window. The clock in the hallway ticks the seconds away. A muffled song plays in the distance and he hears voices laughing and singing along. He recognizes Erzsébet's voice rising above the others. A car drives by, its engine making an unhealthy whine. The TV in the living room plays "Deșteaptă-te române". In the middle of the song, the TV is turned off. Sadik comes to Vladimir's door and eases open the door. Vladimir screws his eyes shut and pretends to be asleep until he hears the door close and Sadik's footsteps fade into the night.
Vladimir didn't think 1990 would start like this.
The 90's have always felt faraway and unattainable, not quite a real decade. Some part of him expected the 80's would continue indefinitely. Maybe the rest of the world would move on into the new decade. But Romania would always be stuck in the 80's, forever strangled by Ceausescu. Now Ceausescu is dead and buried, their government is nonexistent, and it is January 1, 1990. Aurel is in the hospital. Sadik is almost accepting him. He's run away, tried to kill himself, and met a ghost. He is going to turn eighteen in December. He is going to graduate next spring. Things are moving far too fast and Vladimir feels like he's stuck on a train that's about to crash.
"Vladimir? You awake?" Eliot whispers.
"I thought you didn't want to talk."
"I need to ask you a question."
There is a long pause.
"El?" Vladimir says. "Are you going to ask me?"
"Yeah. You…You don't think I'm weird, do you?"
"Yeah. I mean, you're the only person I know besides my stepdad who isn't from Romania. You can speak, like, ten languages. You listen to Prince. You enjoy spending time with me. What isn't weird about you?" Vladimir says with a small laugh. "It's a good thing, though. You're you."
"I don't mean it like that," Eliot says. "I mean…well, you get it, right?"
"I don't get it."
"Of course, you…It's okay. Forget I asked."
"Are you alright?" Vladimir sits up in bed, trying to find Eliot's face in the darkness. Eliot pulls his knees up to his chest. "This isn't like you. What happened?"
Eliot shakes his head. "Nothing."
"Did Erzi say something to you?" Vladimir says.
"No. It's fine. I just get self-conscious sometimes. I don't say the right words or do the right things and I get scared that you hate me," Eliot says. "I guess it's because I'm not Romanian and all. I don't fit in here and sometimes…" He takes a deep, stuttering breath. "Do you think I'm gay?"
Vladimir blinks. Once. Twice. He can't do anything else.
"It's fine if you don't want to say anything," Eliot says, his voice filled to the brim with anxiety. His accent (the one he tried so hard to erase) is bleeding through. "It's such a stupid question and I shouldn't have asked –"
"Why?" Vladimir says.
"Why?" Eliot sounds like he's been struck by a baseball bat. "Your uncle thought I was hitting on you at the hospital, and Erzsébet told me that Sadik was worried about you and me, and when you came home you ran away from me and it's making me question a lot about myself and you and I am so sorry," he says as Vladimir lays down again. "I shouldn't have brought it up. I'll go home if you want me to."
"Why do you want my opinion, El?"
"Because you're always right."
"I tried to kill myself."
"You're right most of the time."
"This isn't something you should be asking me," Vladimir says. "This is about you. I'm fine with whatever you decide. But if you're seriously questioning it, don't ask me. I'm not you."
January 1, 1990 continues without another word. Vladimir tries to keep himself awake as he waits for Eliot to respond. His stomach ties itself in a knot. He begins questioning every interaction between the two of them, from the moment they met in sixth grade. By the time Eliot speaks again, he is lost in a rabbit hole of half-remembered conversations.
"I'm not," Eliot says. "Gay," he adds, as if there was a need for clarification.
"Okay," Vladimir says, the knot in his stomach loosening a little.
"I'm serious."
"Okay. And if you decide that you are…I like you a lot, El. I'll always be here for you."
"This is what I was talking about," Eliot says. "You always know what to say."
Vladimir falls asleep soon after, too tired to overthink things. He doesn't dream of anything. When he wakes up, Eliot is gone from the foot of his bed, the blue blanket folded neatly in his place. The clock reads 12:29. The window is open a sliver, letting a frigid wind drift into the room and flutter the curtains. It's still raining. As he sits upright, he notices a note taped on the window.
The trek to the window is cold and miserable, even with a blanket wrapped around Vladimir's shoulders. He pulls the note from the glass, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Tell Sadik I'm sorry for not using the door. I didn't want to wake him up.
I'm sorry about what I said last night. It was dumb and I shouldn't have involved you. It's not your problem. I scared myself thinking about it and I knew I could trust you. Can we forget it happened?
Eliot, 8:43 A.M.
Vladimir sits down on the edge of his bed, rereading the note over and over. He folds it up into a neat triangle, creasing the paper against his leg. It's such an Eliot thing to sign a note with the time. It's such an Eliot thing to worry about a minor issue until it blooms into something monstrous.
Sadik knocks on the door and Vladimir scrambles to shove the note under the covers. As he comes in, Vladimir starts picking at the bandages on his hands and swinging his feet. It does not look natural.
"Hey," Vladimir says. It sounds far more suspicious than he thought it would.
"I haven't seen you since last year," Sadik says.
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't intending for it to be." Sadik is an expert at recovering from anything Vladimir says. At this point, Vladimir insults him out of curiosity. "Did your friend leave?" he asks, looking around the room. He stops when he sees the open window, his eyebrows knitting together.
"He said he didn't want to wake you up," Vladimir says.
"How considerate. Tell him to use the door or else."
"Or else what?"
"You know," Sadik says. He comes over to Vladimir and presses his cold hand over Vladimir's forehead. "You don't feel hot anymore."
"Because your hands are freezing," Vladimir says, pulling away from him. "Or else what? Are you going to ban Eliot from here?"
Sadik rakes his fingers through Vladimir's hair, examining his almost faded black eye and the bruise on the side of his face. "It was just to intimidate you, Vladimir. I'm not going to do anything. You've got your color back, too. How do you feel?"
"Bad."
"Bad enough to stay home?"
"Stay home?"
Sadik sits down on the edge of the bed next to Vladimir. He considers putting his hand on Vladimir's shoulder before he folds his hands in his lap. Vladimir has been prepared for this moment for weeks now and it still caught him off-guard. "The hospital called earlier. They said Aurel is ready to come home. I'm going to get him at one. I'd like for you to come with me."
"I don't feel good," Vladimir says before realizes what he's said. He sees Sadik's face fall. "I can't go."
"Vladimir. I understand that this will be…a lot. You can't shut down."
"I can't go."
Sadik sighs. He twists his wedding ring, unable to meet Vladimir's eyes. "I know, Vladik. I know this is hard for you. I won't push you. But you can't avoid your brother. He needs you now."
"I'm scared of what I did to him."
"He's still Aurel. He hasn't changed." Sadik puts his arm around Vladimir and pulls him close. He smells of lavender soap. "Things will be different about him. We can't focus on those. Aurel is more than an injury."
"I'm sorry," Vladimir says. He isn't sure what it is he's apologizing for.
"Don't be. We'll get through this. I'll see you later. Maybe you could go out and get something nice for Aurel."
Sadik leaves Vladimir alone with his thoughts and doubts. He says goodbye and reminds Vladimir to take his medicine, then walks out the door. The silence is deafening. Vladimir gets up and steps out into the hallway, making sure Sadik is gone.
He turns to go into his room and sees the t-shirt and jeans folded up on the desk.
An idea begins to form.
He goes over to the desk, picking up the clothes. Feliks probably wants them back. Maybe he's been missing the yellow shirt. What if he needs the jeans? Worse, what if he's noticed that the painkillers wrapped in the shirt are missing? Is he panicking? Does Toris know? Do they think Vladimir is dead?
He'll kill two birds with one stone: pick up something for Aurel and return Feliks' clothes. No rules are being broken. Sadik did say it was alright for Vladimir to go out. He didn't specify that he had to stay in Bucharest. Giurgiu is only an hour away, too. It isn't like he's leaving the country.
"It won't take long," he says to the empty room. As if this changes anything.
After he's changed clothes and brushed his teeth, Vladimir returns to his room to take his jacket from the foot of the bed and shove the t-shirt and jeans into his backpack. He grabs twenty lei from his wallet. When he turns to leave, he's forced to see Aurel's empty bed. He's grown used to having a room to himself. As awful as it sounds, he's even started to like it.
Sadik left Vladimir's medicine out on the kitchen counter. Vladimir dry swallows the antibiotic and throws the mood stabilizer down the sink. It clatters down the drain. Vladimir wishes he could throw his "manic-depression" down the drain, too. He rips a page from the notepad stuck to the fridge and takes a pen in his stitched-up hand.
I'm going to get Aurel something. I won't be home later than five.
If you need me, call
Vladimir stops writing. He doesn't have Feliks' or Toris' number. He considers paging through the phone book, but by the time he figures out how to spell Feliks' last name, Sadik and Aurel will be home. He scratches through the last line and writes:
I'll call you if I'm going to be later.
Sorry about this.
The note is illegible. Vladimir doesn't care. He knows Sadik will.
As he walks downstairs, Vladimir realizes he has no clue what to get Aurel. It should be meaningful, enough to make Aurel and Sadik happy. Candy? A new cassette? Colored pencils? Everything Vladimir thinks of he could get from a store here. Besides, most stores are closed today. He'd have to get something from Feliks or Toris, and he doubts they own anything a ten-year-old would enjoy. Surely there must be some place in Giurgiu to get Aurel a gift.
What is there in Giurgiu besides a ghost? he asks himself as he passes Eliot's door.
He stops in his tracks.
"Oh," he whispers. "Jesus Christ."
Eliot comes to the door seconds after Vladimir knocks. "Vladimir?" he says. "Is this about last night?"
"No. I don't care if you're gay or not. I need to borrow your camera. It's urgent."
"Sure." Eliot steps aside, letting Vladimir inside. Vladimir toes off his shoes and waves to Eliot's foster mother in the living room. Eliot shoots Vladimir a concerned glance as he leads him down the hallway. "What are you going to do with it?" he asks as he opens the door to his room and returns with the yellow Polaroid camera.
Can he tell Eliot the truth?
"Photography," Vladimir says. It isn't a lie.
"I'm serious, Vladimir." Eliot pulls the camera close to his body, protecting it from Vladimir's reach with his arm. "This is important to me. I don't want you – and I know you wouldn't do this on purpose – breaking it. Tell me what you're doing."
"You'll laugh," Vladimir says. "Trust me, okay? No harm will come to your camera."
"I'm not letting you have it until you tell me."
"Why do you have to be so difficult?" Vladimir makes a lunge for the camera and Eliot holds it above his head, just out of Vladimir's grasp. Why can't Eliot be a few centimeters shorter?
"You're not making this any easier," Eliot says. "Hey, why are you wearing a jacket? Are you going somewhere?"
"No."
"Are you running away again?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing? Does Sadik know you're here?"
Vladimir comes into Eliot's room, closing the door behind him. Eliot's room seems much larger than Vladimir's, because he has it to himself and keeps it clean, almost to the point of obsessiveness. The wall above his bed is full of photos from his childhood, of foreign countries and summer afternoons and Christmases. He does not have any photos of Romania pinned up. The other walls are covered in posters and a few drawings Eliot has done, mostly landscapes of mountains and birch trees. The Luxembourg flag hangs from the wall next to a shelf full of souvenirs and a bamboo plant in a cracked white pot. Vladimir always feels guilty in Eliot's room. He shouldn't be seeing these pieces of Eliot's life.
"Well?" Eliot says.
Vladimir gathers all of his courage (which isn't much). "I'm going to go take a picture of the ghost in Giurgiu," he says. "It doesn't matter why."
Eliot laughs. His laughter dies out when he sees Vladimir is not smiling. "You were serious about the ghost?" he says.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know, you were way out of it last night. Ghosts aren't real. I'm not giving you my camera so you can go waste film."
"It's not for me," Vladimir says. "Please, Eliot. I promise I'll be super careful with it."
"Who is it for?"
There is a postcard of a lavender field taped to the wall above the desk. Vladimir looks at that instead of Eliot. "It's for Aurel because he loves ghosts and he's coming home and I want to give him something to apologize for being the world's worst older brother and I don't own a camera and you do and it would be really nice if you would let me have it so I can go!" he says this all in one breath, the words slurring together so much he can't tell if Eliot even understands what he's saying. Vladimir doesn't understand what he's saying. His thoughts are a mess of worry and fear and dread. His heart is muddled.
Eliot lowers the camera. He looks mortified and confused. Vladimir can't figure out which is the dominant emotion. "You're running away from Aurel?" he says. "Christ. I thought you were over this."
How does Eliot see through everything Vladimir does? Is he that easy to read?
"I'm not running away," Vladimir says. "I'm taking a picture of the ghost."
"No. You're not getting out of this with some bullshit ghost story," Eliot says. "You can't run away from Aurel, Vladimir. That's a new level of low."
"You can come with me if you want. I'll show you the ghost. He's friendly. I think. We didn't talk much about his morality."
"Shut up about the ghost. I don't care if it's real or not or whatever you believe. You are literally running away from your paralyzed brother and you won't admit it. This is not okay. This is horrible."
"Please. It's important to me and Aurel."
"No."
Vladimir hasn't seen Eliot be this firm about anything, ever. His is always the first to give in. He's the biggest doormat. Why is he being so bold now? Why does he have to make Vladimir face the problem he's created head on? Can't he let Vladimir work things out by himself? Why does he always have to be a voice of reason?
Why does Eliot have to be so good?
"I'm sorry," Eliot says. He's holding the camera by the strap. It dangles a few centimeters from the floor. "I can't let you do this to your family."
"I'm sorry, too." Vladimir turns and opens the door, stepping out into the hallway. His heart races. Is he really this committed to avoiding the inevitable? Is risking his friendship with Eliot worth the few hours he doesn't have to spend with Aurel?
"Why are you apologizing?"
In one swift move, Vladimir snatches the camera from Eliot's hand and runs.
He doesn't bother to put on his shoes – he picks them up, throws open the door and keeps running. Behind him he hears Eliot shout at his foster mother that he'll be a minute and a door slam. He jumps down steps five at a time. Vladimir does not look back until he is out on the street, sprinting toward the bus station. Eliot is keeping a steady pace. He's carrying a pair of shoes, too, and a jacket. He'll catch up. He is much faster than Vladimir.
Vladimir runs through the gate to the park and straight into the trees surrounding the path. Branches whip at his face and tangle in his hair and he keeps running, knowing that Eliot will be more delicate with himself. Vladimir does not value his skin. What's a few scrapes and a little blood loss?
The bus station is within sight and there is a stitch in Vladimir's side. He is beginning to realize this falls on his list of the worst things he's done, second only to getting Aurel shot.
The attendant in the ticket booth does not question why Vladimir is gasping for breath, bleeding, covered in dead leaves, and not wearing shoes. She doesn't get paid enough to ask if he's okay. He buys two tickets and is stuffing the change in his pocket when Eliot bursts into the bus station. The attendant hands him the tickets and Vladimir runs off toward the bus, slipping several times on the tile floor. He hits the ground, hard, and hears the clatter of plastic. He can't stop to look. He's too deep in this already.
When he reaches the bus, he shows the driver the two tickets and heads straight to the back. Eliot gets on moments later, cornering Vladimir in the last row of seats.
"What is wrong with you?" he snaps, pulling the camera from Vladimir's hands. There is sweat rolling down his forehead and his face is red. Both are struggling to breathe. "Is some stupid picture of a ghost, which isn't even real, worth it? Is it worth hurting me and your brother?"
"No. I don't know, El. I can't. I'm not ready," Vladimir says, attempting to put his thoughts together in a coherent sentence and coming up with nothing better than pieces. "You don't understand. You can't understand. He's paralyzed. Aurel can't walk and I did that to him."
"I do understand. You're a coward and a piece of shit brother."
"Aurel can't walk because of me. I ruined his entire life."
"And you think a picture of a ghost will help?!"
"People are staring," Vladimir says in a low voice, sliding over so Eliot can sit next to him. Several people turn around, while others keep watching, waiting for the first punch to be thrown. "We can talk this through on the way there, okay?"
Eliot restrains himself from screaming by biting his lip. His hand is clenched so tight around the camera strap that his knuckles are white. "You are insane. I take back everything I said yesterday. You are mental if you think this will fix things. I'm not going along with you –"
The bus lurches forward and Eliot is thrown into the seat. Vladimir catches him and Eliot punches him in the stomach so hard he can't breathe for a few seconds after. Eliot has never hit Vladimir. Not even as a joke.
Eliot stands up, moving to the seat opposite Vladimir. "Here," he says, throwing the shoes in his hand at Vladimir's head. Both miss and hit the window with a loud thunk. "You grabbed my shoes."
"Oh." Vladimir looks down at the black and white Adidas. "I guess I did. Sorry." He gives the shoes to Eliot and Eliot rips them away.
"Where are we going?" Eliot says as he pulls his shoes on.
"Giurgiu."
"Great. I was supposed to call my mom today." Eliot puts on his jacket and zips it all the way up to his neck. He's blinking back tears. "Happy fucking New Year, you psychopath."
"Welcome to the Hotel California,
Such a lovely place, such a lovely face.
Plenty of room at the Hotel –"
"So, uh, how do you two know each other?" Toris asks as he turns down the radio, glancing in the rearview mirror at Eliot.
"He stole my camera," Eliot says, kicking Vladimir's seat.
Toris flinches, yet lets Eliot continue kicking the seat. "He did what?"
Vladimir shrugs. "It was mutual," he says.
"You can't mutually steal. That's an oxymoron," Toris says.
"He's using the wrong word," Eliot says. "See, mutual mean both people are okay with what's happening. Mutual does not mean stealing a camera and forcing someone to go on a cross-country trip to take a picture of a ghost instead of seeing your brother who's been hospitalized for three weeks!"
"This is about the ghost?" Toris says. "And you have brother?"
"No and yes, I have a half-brother. He's ten and he's coming home from the hospital today, which a long story we don't have time for. Eliot, your Romanian is getting so much better." Vladimir turns up the radio loud enough so Eliot can't hear him. "He's an exchange student from Luxembourg," Vladimir says to Toris. "He's only been here since September and he's not so good at speaking Romanian, so don't mind anything he says."
"I've lived here since I was twelve!" Eliot reaches between the seats and turns the radio off. "Stop lying, Vladimir. You can't make yourself look good here."
"He has brain damage," Vladimir says. It's a last resort, and not a good one.
"You're the one who is legally insane. If anyone has brain damage here, it's the person who's going to take a picture of a ghost and it sure as hell isn't me."
"Okay," Toris says with an awkward, forced smile, holding his hands out to keep the two of them apart. "I'm sensing a lot of hostility here. Could just be me. Do you two want to work this out before I start driving?"
Vladimir looks out the window at the gas station parking lot. There are lots of poles and chunks of asphalt for Eliot to smash Vladimir's skull on. After being punched by him, Vladimir does not doubt that Eliot could kill him. He is certain that given the chance, Eliot will kill him or hurt him in such a way Vladimir will wish he was dead.
"I think we're fine," he says. "Right, El?"
Eliot falls back in his seat, giving Vladimir's seat another strong kick that almost launches him through the windshield. "I'm good," he says. "Let's get this over with. Go take your picture of your stupid ghost that is so important you felt the need to ruin everything over it. I'm sure my mom can wait. She's only got a whole lifetime in prison."
"Are you sure you don't want to work this out?" Toris says.
"Let's go," Vladimir says. He's starting to feel horrible for roping Toris into this and wishes he would've stopped when he was ahead. If he knew when he was ahead.
Toris looks from Vladimir to Eliot. He shifts the car into reverse, hesitating for a moment before driving off. When they are on the highway, he turns on the radio and lets the Eagles fill the angry void between Vladimir and Eliot. Several times he starts to speak and stops himself. Vladimir hides his embarrassment by keeping his eyes low and ignoring Eliot kicking his seat.
"You wanted to go to the church, right?" Toris says.
"Yeah."
Toris drives past Feliks' house. A chill runs down Vladimir's spine. He pulls on his jacket and tells himself ghosts can't hurt him. They can only possess him. Which Vladimir didn't know ghosts could do. He thought that was exclusive to demons. Is Kosta a demon? Is this some elaborate hell Vladimir's fallen into?
The car turns down the gravel road. Vladimir looks out into the grey afternoon as the church steeple appears from the field of dead sunflowers. Eliot stops kicking his seat and moves to be in between the seats, staring out the window with narrowed eyes. When Toris comes to a stop in the lot in front of the church, Vladimir unbuckles his seatbelt but does not move.
This is such a bad idea. What am I doing?
"This is the place?" Toris asks.
Vladimir nods.
"Are you going to take the picture or not?" Eliot says. "You wanted to do this so bad."
"I'm having second thoughts," Vladimir says. He forgot how imposing the church was up close. Even during the day, it looks like it came straight from a horror movie. And there may or may not be a ghost inside. He looks in each window, praying he won't see a face or a hand.
"No, you're not doing this to me." Eliot gets out of the car, pulls Vladimir's door open, and drags him up to the church. "Here." He sets the camera in Vladimir's hands. "Take the picture. You're not going to bring me all the way out here to chicken out."
"I'm sorry," Vladimir says, looping the camera strap around his neck. "I didn't think the call was today."
"You don't think, period. You don't think of anyone but yourself. This isn't some big game, Vladimir. This is real. Aurel is coming home and my mother was supposed to call me and I'm here with you, taking a picture of a ghost because you think you saw one when you were clearly not right in the head. I am so mad at you I can't even put it into words. One sorry isn't going to fix this." Eliot turns on his heels and returns to the safety of the car.
Vladimir stands on the steps, running his thumb over the smooth plastic of the camera. He asks himself what he's doing. He does not have the answer.
"I can do this," Vladimir says to himself as he pushes open the front door. It slides open with ease.
Wasn't it locked last time?
Vladimir takes a step inside. It looks the same as when he left it, if not slightly cleaner. He wanders around the foyer for a while, rustling through water damaged books and pulling at the peeling paint. When he moves a small icon of Saint Peter, a sleepy spider crawls out from behind and he gasps, dropping the icon on the floor. Glass shatters and skitters across the floor. The spider creeps into one of the cracks in the wall and Vladimir moves on, afraid of what else lurks in the shadows.
"Hello?" Vladimir calls out. "Konstantin? I came back."
He is met with a dusty, muffled silence. He does not feel a presence or a spirit or anything other than if he stayed in this vaguely moldy church too long, he'd get sick. There are no voices in his head, no beings possessing him. A dreadful realization sweeps through him: Eliot is right. There never was a ghost.
There was only Vladimir.
He got scared and passed out (he's passed out from fear once before, when he cut his hand with a kitchen knife down to the bone). He dreamed up Kosta (although, every person in your dreams is supposed to be someone you've seen before, even just passing by on the street. Vladimir would remember a face like Kosta's). Or he hallucinated. He isn't sure what the side effects of opioids are, but he doesn't doubt they could cause hallucinations (he could have hallucinated from his newfound manic-depression, but he doubts its authenticity). He was such a mess that he let himself believe in ghosts. It was a pitiful attempt at tricking himself into -
The lights flicker on overhead. The two candles next to the altar light up, their flames reaching toward the ceiling for an instant. Every beam in the church creaks.
"Konstantin?" he says. His voice echoes. The temperature drops several degrees. "Konstantin, please don't hurt me. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I was scared and –"
The camera is pulled forward, toward the altar, with such a force that Vladimir has no choice but to follow it or be dragged down. When he reaches the steps up to the altar, the camera lowers. Vladimir screws his eyes shut.
This is how I die. Shit, Eliot and Toris will come after me and he's going to kill them too and then everyone is going to be mad at me. I should've stayed home, I should've stayed home, I should've stayed home.
"I'm not going to kill you. I don't think I can."
Vladimir opens his eyes. Kosta is standing before him in military uniform. He's transparent. His wounds ooze a black substance that gleams like it is full of stars. Somehow, he looks tired. His eyes are vacant, more so than before. He seems like he's sick and for a moment Vladimir wants to ask if he is okay before he remembers he is standing before a supernatural being.
"Hey. Sorry about the dramatics. I thought I'd have a little fun with you," Kosta says with a stupid grin. He waves his hand and the candles flicker out. "You're looking a lot better, Vladik. Is it okay if I call you that? Vladimir is so clunky to say."
"You're…You're real? And not mad at me?" Vladimir remains frozen in place. His common sense is telling him to bring the camera up, snap a picture, and run. His curiosity is mesmerized. Ghosts should not be real, and yet there is one right here, talking to him. He'd just convinced himself to think he'd made up Kosta and now Kosta is here, proving him wrong.
"I thought we went over this. We can start over, if you'd like." Kosta disappears and appears next to him. He puts his see-through hand above Vladimir's arm and through some unseen force, sits him down on the steps. "Hi. I'm Konstantin. Please call me Kosta. I've been dead for a while now, I 'haunt'" – here he uses air quotes – "Saint Bretannio. I hate the term 'haunt', because I'm not angry or malicious, I'm just here. And I saved your life. Now you go."
Vladimir can't say anything. There is no way this is in his head.
Then again, he didn't take the mood stabilizer this morning.
Kosta, tired of waiting for Vladimir to compose himself, leans over and shakes Vladimir's hand. "Hello, Vladimir. Nice to meet you again. Why do you have the camera? Do you want a picture of me?"
"You're real," Vladimir says. "You're real. This isn't a hallucination?"
"Sure hope not. This is one shitty hallucination." The black liquid dripping from Kosta's wounds begins falling from his nose. He wipes at it with his sleeve and it smears. "I'm so sorry I'm bleeding like this, this happens every new year. My soul is trying to move on without my spirit and it's quite the complicated process for humans to understand, so let's keep it at that. It's not very attractive."
"You're real. Like, you're here. In front of me. Not in my head."
"Can we move past me being real?"
Vladimir scrambles to his feet, backing away from Kosta. "Wait. No. I'm not talking to you. I'm not insane. Don't you dare speak," he says before Kosta can open his mouth. "You stay here, and I am going outside. Do not follow me."
"I thought you weren't talking to me."
"That's beside the point - goddamn it, will you shut up! I don't want to talk to you!" Vladimir takes a cautious step forward, holding his hand out as if that is going to stop a ghost/demon from ripping his soul out.
Kosta doesn't move, letting Vladimir walk backwards down the aisle. "You're forgetting your photo," he says.
Vladimir raises the camera up, not even bothering to look through the viewfinder. He doesn't care how shitty this photo turns out. Kosta smiles and adjusts his uniform, cleaning the blood from his face with his sleeve. As Vladimir presses the button, the front door of the church is pushed open. The flash lights up Kosta for a moment and then he is gone. Vladimir pulls the photo loose from the camera and shoves it in his pocket seconds before Toris comes inside. His denim jacket is dotted with rain and he's shivering.
"Vladimir? You good?" Toris says.
"Yeah," Vladimir says with an uncomfortable laugh. "Just looking for ghosts."
"Did you take the photo?"
"No."
Toris chews on his bottom lip, looking around the empty church. "Wow. It's way creepier in here than I thought."
"Yeah," Vladimir says.
"Could you hurry up and get this photo?" Toris says. "It's starting to rain real bad and Eliot is getting kind of scared, I think."
"Give me, like, a minute."
Toris nods, unable to look away from the decaying beauty of the church. His eyes wander from image to image, lingering for a long time on the cross at the front of the church. "What did you do to him, Vladimir?"
"Who?" Vladimir turns to look at the cross. "Jesus?"
"No. Eliot."
Vladimir falters. He can't tell Toris. He's only known Toris for a few days and he can't make someone else hate him. "I'm so selfish," he says. "I hurt him. Bad. In the worst way I could."
"Yeah. I gathered that."
"I didn't mean to."
"That doesn't change anything," Toris says. "I'll be waiting out in the car. Hurry up."
The door closes without any sound. Vladimir lets the camera hang loose from his neck. He digs his fingers into his arm.
It's over.
"Hey, let's see how I look." Kosta appears next to Vladimir, taking the photo from his back pocket. Vladimir takes a huge step backwards, watching Kosta shake the photo and squint at it. "So there's others here." Kosta jerks his head toward the door. Vladimir swears his pupils dilate. "There's two, right?"
"Don't do anything to them," Vladimir says. Kosta vanishes into the air and the photo flutters to the ground. Vladimir picks it up and shoves it in his pocket. "They don't want any part of this," he says, spinning around as he tries to find the ghost. "They don't believe in ghosts –"
Kosta appears by the window, his nose almost touching the glass. He waves at them. "They seem nice. What are their names?"
"Leave them alone," Vladimir says. "Or I'll –"
"Do what?" Kosta asks as he rolls his eyes. He steps away from the window, smears more of the blood across his face, and licks his fingers. "You're human, Vladimir Cosmescu. I am not. You can't do anything to me."
"I'll get a priest. A real one! And he'll exorcise you or whatever it is that priests do."
"First, I'm living in a church. If the power of Christ was going to hurt me, I would be long dead by now. Second, please don't. The last thing I want in this place is Christians. Third, I don't want to hurt your friends or you, so calm down. One of them can't even see me."
"How do you know?"
Kosta walks back to Vladimir, his footsteps making no sounds. He does everything at a leisurely pace, as if he has all the time in the world to spare. In a way, he does. "The one in the back flinched. The one who came in earlier didn't notice me, even when I was standing right behind you."
"Eliot can see you?" Vladimir says.
"Eliot? Is that French?"
"Luxembourgish."
"Luxembourgish," Kosta repeats, letting the word roll off his tongue. "So, what brings you and Eliot and that other one here? It can't possibly be boring old me." He picks up the camera, looking it over. "Don't tell me you just wanted a photo. I've been dying - no pun intended - to talk to you." As he lets go of the camera, his hand slips through Vladimir's. His image flickers and he wipes at the black blood rolling down his face. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to…Oh. Oh, no." He reaches into Vladimir's chest and pulls his hand out like he's been bit.
"What are you doing?"
"You've got an open heart," Kosta says. "You're easy to read. I don't mean to, I can't...Oh, God."
"What does that mean?"
Kosta looks down at him. "I saw what you're doing. You're running from your brother."
"I'm not. Aurel would love a photo of you. I want to make him happy."
"Don't lie to me," Kosta says. "This is not right. You need to go home, now. Take your photo and leave."
"I just figured out you're real and not something my mind made up and you're going to make me leave? Don't you want to talk to a human?"
Kosta walks off, toward the back of the church. The same force that pulled Vladimir along earlier is now shoving him toward the door. "Get out. You've made a terrible mistake coming here."
Vladimir digs his heels into the floor, pushing back as hard as he can. The front door begins to swing open and light spills into the room. The force grows stronger and Vladimir is tripping over his feet, somehow not falling, unable to even try to push back. He is steps from the door.
And it stops. The force vanishes.
He falls flat onto his face.
"Kosta?" Vladimir calls as he rolls onto his back. The ghost is no longer standing there. Vladimir's ears are ringing and he can't hear anything or feel his fingertips. His legs shake as he pulls himself to his feet. The ringing clears away and he begins to hear a distant coughing.
The coughing stops and starts again. It's painful sounding, like a final breath. He hears something wet hit the floor.
Vladimir goes to the back of the church, wandering through the maze of hallways. As he steps into the room where he woke up, Vladimir sees Kosta on his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. The liquid is thick like tar. It runs down his arms and through his fingers. It drips from the end of his nose. It stains his uniform. Stars and moons and galaxies swirl in the blood, strands of gold and silver tangle with each other. Tears fall from Kosta's eyes and make pools of light in the blood. His hands tremble as he attempts to stand.
"Don't get up, you're hurt," Vladimir says, rushing over to him. Kosta sinks down again, holding his head. "Are you hurt? Should I do something?"
"This is fine," Kosta says. "It's normal. It's just very painful. No worse than dying, though. Souls don't like to be separate from spirits."
"Are you dying?"
"Not yet. This only started happening a few years ago. I think I've been forgotten, and my soul is ready to move on. I'm not. I'm afraid of dying again. I don't have a clue what comes after this. It's not so bad being a ghost." He stares into the depths of his blood. "This is awfully disgusting. I'm sorry. It would be so much prettier if it wasn't coming from my mouth," he says. "Oh! You haven't seen a soul yet, have you?"
Vladimir points to the cosmic blood. "That's a soul?"
"In more of a liquid state. They tend to have a shape, like no shape and every shape you've seen before. I guess it's kind of disappointing, too. I've lost so much of my soul over the years, and mine was never any good to begin with. Lots of souls are more beautiful than mine. Yours is gorgeous."
"You've seen it?" Vladimir says. Kosta nods and coughs again. Vladimir can see his spine and ribs poking through the holes in his jacket.
"You need to go, Vladimir. I can handle this. Your brother needs you. This was a really shitty thing for you to do to him."
"I know," Vladimir says. He's too lost thinking about his soul to worry about Aurel's feelings.
"Hey. I get that you're afraid. Change is a scary thing." Kosta reaches over and takes Vladimir's hand. Traces of his soul touch Vladimir's skin. It's lukewarm and milkier than it looks. A single star touches his skin and it feels like a pinprick. "I promise you, your brother is more scared than you are. You need to be brave for him."
"Can't you let me be afraid?" Vladimir says. "Everyone is trying to convince me to be strong and be brave for him. You're not even real and you're saying it."
"It's always okay to be afraid. Sometimes you need to set your fear aside. When you do, you'll find everything is fine."
"Easy for you to say. You're dead."
Kosta kind of laughs. "I suppose."
They sit together on the floor for an eternity, surrounded by the remains of Kosta's soul. It begins to seep into the floorboards and fade to a deep blue. Kosta places both hands around Vladimir's, his fingers dipping in and out of Vladimir. Vladimir wants to believe him. He wants to think everything will be fine. And a part of him does. Some part of him knows that Aurel will come home and it will be strange for a while, like the weeks after their mother died. Then things will be okay. The change will become normal and he will forget it happened.
The other, more sensible part of him recognizes that he's holding hands with a ghost.
"I have to go," Vladimir says.
"I know." Kosta pulls Vladimir into a strange, not-quite touching hug. "Thank you for coming back. It means the world to me. Promise me you'll come see me again."
"Sure."
"And promise me you'll take care of your brother."
"I'll try."
"You want to know something, Vladik?"
"Hm?"
"Your soul is pink. Like the sky right after the sun sets," Kosta says. "You've got a good soul. Keep it that way."
Kosta is gone before Vladimir can say anything. His soul disappears, too. Vladimir pulls himself to his feet, his chest filled with a warm feeling he hasn't felt before. As he walks into the church, he finds himself clutching his hand over his heart. What shape is his soul? Why is it pink? Is Kosta lying? Does he want to take Vladimir's soul? Is he trying to con Vladimir into a friendship or worse, does he want to possess Vladimir and be kind of human again?
Whatever the reason, it's working.
The rain is beating down on the earth. Vladimir hides the camera in his jacket, running over to the car. He throws open the door and climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. Toris and Eliot stare at him. Vladimir realizes he's smiling and his face turns red.
Toris is the only one bold enough to break the tension. "So, uh, see any ghosts?"
"Maybe." Vladimir takes the photo from his back pocket, holding it up to the light. Kosta is standing in the middle of the photo with a bright smile. There are no traces of his soul on his face or leaking from his wounds. He looks like he could be alive.
"I don't see anything," Toris says. He takes the photo from Vladimir's fingers and scrutinizes it, holding it up close to his face and then out at arm's length. "Wait. Maybe a hand? No, that's a shadow. I mean, this could be a body," he says, tracing around Kosta's chest. "You see anything?" he asks as he hands it to Eliot.
"No." Eliot shoves the photo into Vladimir's lap. "I don't see anything."
"Don't tell me you see a ghost, Vladimir," Toris says.
Vladimir smiles again. Kosta's grin is infectious. "I don't know. Maybe a hand."
a/n:
Hey! It's summer, I've got my hat on backwards, and it's time to party. I think I'll be attempting (attempting is the key word here) to post a chapter once a week now that I have unlimited time to write. I should be done with this story by September. Yikes. Let's hope for the best, yeah?
So, this is officially this story's dive into the deep end. I'm making up things left and right, setting my own boundaries for ghosts, and pretending I know what I'm doing.
There aren't any notes this time around. My only "note" is that I do not like the Eagles at all, but damn, Hotel California is an absolute banger of a song.
Thank you for reading! Please review if you're enjoying the story or want to make fun of my for my small understanding of the ghostly world. I'm always open to criticism.
edit 5/28: This chapter sucked when I posted it on 5/26. I rewrote some portions of it. It still sucks. C'est la vie.
