The Darkness Within

Chapter Forty

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Chapter Forty

Sergei

Past, Age 15

"Sergei! Come inside, Malysh. Your father will be home soon—we both need to get cleaned up and prepared."

My mother's voice—light, lilting, like the melody of a songbird—floats across the open field of grass, littered with various wildflowers, to the single mighty oak where I sit on a high branch, observing the world below like a king.

I see her figure crossing through the grass—she wears a diaphanous green dress suited to the spring weather, her auburn hair pulled into a braid that cascades down one shoulder. Even from my high perch, I can see the outline of fading bruises along the bare skin of her arms, and as always, the sight doesn't fail to enrage me.

My father taking out his anger on me is one thing; I can handle his punishments. But my mother... years of abuse have left her fragile, both in body and spirit. Two decades of having a body that's been broken repeatedly, only ever mended so it could take more cruelty, shows in the ginger way she walks. In the hesitance of her smiles, rarity of her laughs, and the fact that she only seems happy when it's just us—my monster of a father away on business, unable to command misery with his sheer presence alone. Sometimes, I'm afraid she's only a hairbreadth away from shattering into a million unrecognizable pieces. And if she shatters, the one person who gives a damn about me in this world will be gone, leaving me all alone.

Often, I fantasize about the day I'll finally be strong enough and properly positioned to take out my father. To free both me and her from the Tyrant's chains, once and for all. More than once I've dreamt about the various ways I could do it—the satisfaction I would get from ending his pathetic existence...

"Sergei," she sing-songs again, now approaching the base of the trunk. "Come down. You know how your father gets when things aren't just so."

"Coming, mama," I respond, before carefully beginning the tedious, 30-foot climb down. It might be a tiring one, if I hadn't been doing it since before I could walk. As is, I know exactly which branches to step on and hold onto—I could make this climb blindfolded.

Once I'm on solid ground, my mother gifts me the smile that only comes out with me—true, uninhibited, genuine happiness that comes from time well spent with people you truly love. And love is something that our household sorely lacks.

"You've been making that climb since you were a little boy," she says fondly, stepping forward to pick a leaf out of my hair. "What is it you love so much about this tree?"

Staring into her gentle, sad eyes—the same as my own in shape and color, yet so... melancholy, I answer honestly, "I feel free. And powerful. Like the world beneath is a distant reality, one that I'd have no problem controlling."

She links her arm through mine, starting us on the walk back to the cursed house that I have every intent of burning down as soon as my father's out of the picture.

"This has always been your favorite spot on this property," she admits, looking nostalgic. "You know, Sergei, you were a very fussy baby. Crying nearly sixteen hours a day, every day. It drove your father insane—you know how he likes his peace. The first time I brought you out here, you were six weeks old. And, just like that, you stopped crying. I suppose something about that oak has always comforted you."

I listen to her recount with interest and anger warring inside of me. I wouldn't put it past my father to have smothered me had mom not figured out what calms me—he's only ever cared about my usefulness, and a squalling baby has few uses.