Cherry Vanilla!
Title: Self-Defense
Prompt: Cherry Vanilla 20: Tying off loose ends
Topping: Rainbow Sprinkles
Rating: R (with Sergei comes violence)
Word Count: 2,261
Summary: Sergei gets Tobias some clothes and runs into trouble. Almost like a partner story to “Target Practice.”
Of course, I am the one who is responsible for getting clothes for the little boy, the one who has no name. We have to settle with calling him “krolik” for now, and he doesn’t seem to mind it, either. As a matter of fact, he seems to like it, especially when Syeira calls him that. She seems to dote on him quite a bit, and they haven’t even known each other for a long time. It was just like affection, sisterly and brotherly attraction at first sight, at first hug, at first hello. He hasn’t said much, but that makes sense-he’s mute.
But I must draw my mind away from the inn, from the little boy. He’s fine. He’s being protected by Syeira and by Alexei. Now I have to focus on the real reason as to why I am out here, why I am back here, why I am at this house again. He needs clothes. And why bother wasting money on clothes when there are plenty of hand-me-downs for him in this house? And therein lies the danger: actually going back into the house, grabbing the clothes, stuffing them in the suitcase I have brought with me, and making a bolt for the inn once again. Making it out alive. That’s the real challenge.
I pat my hip, almost as a reassurance, and feel the rigid object in my pocket. The pistol. One can never be too careful… I think back to the time when my father told me that I would only need it for target practice and for self-defense. Perhaps self-defense might be needed in this situation. Perhaps someone is lurking around the house, making sure that everyone has evacuated, making sure that no one has come back, making sure that no one will come back. Or even… looking for me. Avenging the lost partner, the cleanser that I killed mere hours ago.
Had it really only been hours? I asked myself. Had these hands really shed blood? Had these hands held a gun, had this finger pulled a trigger… Had I really killed someone?
Images flash before my eyes, feelings rise up in my stomach, feelings I have been trying to ignore, to get rid of. My dead father. My dead mother. The blood that had been spilt, the anxiety I felt in trying to get to the gun, the fact that I was so frantic. The fright I felt when I realized that there was another person in the house, that there was a cleanser going up the stairs, getting ready to kill Syeira. The determination that rose up in my heart as I climbed the stairs and tried to reach her in time, and then… the sight of her on the floor, screaming in pain, crying, begging for the cleanser to kill her… Would she have asked me to kill her if it were me standing there? Would she have told me to kill her so that I could feel better knowing that the cleansers wouldn’t go after me?
I would have called her an idiot, I realize. How could my killing her give me a clean conscience? How would I be able to live with myself? How would I be able to eat or sleep or even survive, knowing that I had murdered my younger sister simply because she asked me to, simply because she wanted me to evade people who probably would have gotten us both in the first place?
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of these images and feelings, and crouch down to grab the key that is hidden under the doormat. Of course I have mine with me-why wouldn’t I?-but knowing if the key is still under the doormat would reassure me more. At the very least, it would tell me that no one had tried to break in during our absence, or that nobody was there at this very moment.
The key is gone. My heart sinks, and I make a grab for the handle of the pistol, grasping it tightly as I take out my own key and cautiously unlock the door, opening it quietly lest anyone hear me… if anyone is there. And someone probably is. Only a true burglar, felon, murderer, anything of the like… only one with true conviction or true skill would search for the house key under the doormat. All I can do now is pray, pray that no one has heard me come in, pray that no one is listening to my footsteps, pray that no one is waiting for me, ready to strike.
I swallow silently, nervously, clutching the pistol more tightly as I step out of my boots and drop my thick but noisy jacket on the floor. It will be easier that way, I tell myself. At least I won’t be heard so easily in just my socks. At least I won’t be heard so easily with just my sweater and my slacks. And my pistol. But that’s not loud unless I actually pull the trigger. That’s not noisy unless I actually shoot.
The air is suffocating; I can barely breathe. It’s not that there’s smoke or anything of the sort, but there is something in the atmosphere. Something doesn’t feel right… I get the feeling that someone actually is here, someone actually is waiting for me, waiting to avenge his fellow murderer-his “colleague”-by killing me. My finger secures itself on the trigger for a moment before I pull it away; it’s shaking too much. I don’t want to shoot a hole into my pants, much less myself. I might as well save the bullet for someone who actually deserves it, for its actual target. How would I be able to explain that to Syeira?
The only place I can go now is up. Up the stairs, up to my room, possibly into Grisha’s room, provided he hasn’t taken his old clothes with him-and he probably hasn’t; what would be the point in taking clothes that were too small for him? To sew them together and make a blanket? It seems plausible, but not completely reasonable. But still, that isn’t important. What is important is risking my life once again, climbing this set of stairs and making sure not to step on the parts that creak, getting into my bedroom, grabbing the clothes, putting them in the suitcase, and racing back to the inn. All without making a sound, all without piquing the interest of any potential avenger.
I pounce. I run toward the staircase on my toes, leaping onto the second stair because I know that the first one creaks like the Devil. From there, I climb the stairs two at a time, the adrenaline building up in my stomach. I don’t like the feeling, I don’t like it one bit. There’s something in this excitement that makes it different from anticipating going down to Moscow. There’s something in this excitement that makes me feel like I’m anticipating death. My own death, maybe the death of other people, maybe even the death of Alexei and Syeira. And then where would the poor krolik be? I can’t let this happen. I can’t let them, any of them, be left behind in the world. Who will take care of them? Who will watch over them and keep the government from finding out that they’re minors without a legal guardian? Who will keep the government from separating them for eternity, maybe even longer?
It’s almost like counting to three, knowing there’s a monster after you… suddenly you’re so scared that you skip one and two, yell out “THREE!” and make a bolt for your destination. That’s what I have to do. But luckily the door to my bedroom is slightly ajar, the gap wide enough that I can slip in without making any noise, I think to myself. And so I slide into my room, eyes shut in anticipation, leaving the suitcase in the hallway. Best not to have too big of a burden, especially if someone is in there. I take a deep breath, opening my eyes.
And stagger backward from the sudden impact of the barrel of a pistol against my chest.
A cleanser. Another one. He’s not as burly as the other man, probably not as courageous. He’s just barely trembling with the gun in his hands. He’s tall, lanky, with features almost like a rat. “You’re back,” he says, and I note that he even sounds like a rat. “We thought you would me.”
Quick as a whip, I pull out my own pistol, pointing it at him, a tuft of my hair flying into my eyes. I blow it away as best as I can. I can’t be distracted now. I can’t take the time to reach up and push it out of the way. If I do that, if I even take one second to do something so trivial as that, I’ll get shot, I know I’ll get shot. So I stand there, my feet firmly planted into the ground, my eyes hardened and narrowed, my grip on the gun tighter than ever before. My fingertip is on the trigger, aching to pull it; my ears are aching to hear the sound of the gunshot, my eyes aching to see the bullet, my heart, my entire spirit aching to save Syeira and Alexei and krolik. Even to save myself.
“Don’t. Shoot,” I say warningly, in a low voice. “I’ll be out of your way before you know it.” I can’t yield to him, I can’t take a step back, I tell myself. If I take a step back, if I do so much as move a muscle, he could shoot. We can’t do anything except stare each other down. Dare each other. Challenge each other. We want to shoot. He especially wants to, I can tell, but he can’t. He sees the barrel of the gun. I’m getting into his brain, I’m starting to get into his mind, simply by looking at him with this fire in my eyes. I’m convincing him not to shoot, I’m warning him, I’m silently telling him that if he shoots, I will too, I’m showing him that I’m strong, I’m showing him that I’m firm, maybe even firmer than he is, I’m starting to make him lose his confidence. But at the same time, I’m starting to lose my own confidence, though I don’t show it. I’m getting more and more scared by the second, I’m trying to shut him out, but he’s giving me a similar stare. He’s not getting into my head, he’s not telling me anything, but oh God the look in his eyes is almost as threatening as mine and oh God he’s probably going to shoot and-
He’s gone. He staggers for a moment, taking a step toward me before falling onto his face, and the force from the floor drives my bullet deeper into his chest. He’s almost dead, and all I can do now is watch the smoke ebb from the barrel of my gun and his blood ooze out of him slowly, painfully. But suddenly, his arms twitch, he uses his palms to get up off of the ground. He’s making a frantic grab for the gun he’s dropped. A last effort, a last chance, a last attempt to get me dead, to do the job he was set out to do. But what if no one finds him? What if they find out too late that he’s dead, that I’m still alive, that I’m probably already on my way somewhere else? I can’t focus on that now, though. I can’t focus on anything else except for the fact that he’s raising his pistol again, his shaking pistol, and sweet Jesus Christ in Heaven he’s going to shoot me and I’m going to be gone again-
He’s down again. Down forever, but he hasn’t stopped descending. Who knows when he will, or even if he will? His body’s on the floor, the second bullet having lodged itself into his skull, but who knows where his soul is? Who knows where it’s going? Only God…
I grip my own pistol tightly, seeing smoke out of the corner of my eye. I raise the barrel to my lips and lightly blow it away, lightly blow away everything that I have done, then grab the blanket off of my bed and cover his body with it. It will be less distracting, less disturbing if I grab my clothes without actually having to see his lifeless body. All I’ll be able to see is the blood that my blanket soaks up. An unfortunate fate for my fabric, but what must be done must be done. Carefully, I set my pistol on the bed, opening the closet drawer that has all of the clothes that my mother was planning to give away to children who were less fortunate than I was. She was planning to do the same thing with my own brother. But I have found a less fortunate child. I have found a use for these clothes.
Frantically, I grab as many of my old clothes as I can, stuffing them in my bag, and grab both guns, dropping them in my pockets. Delicately, I take the foreign pistol between my thumb and forefinger, drop it onto the ground as I leave, and run, the suitcase secure in my arms. I’ve tied off loose ends, in a sense. I’ve finished the formerly unfinished job.