Page 95

Let him suffer.

Yet, in spite of my thoughts, I find myself moving to the bedside table, pouring water from the pitcher into a glass. The ice cubes clink against the sides, obscenely cheerful in this room of death. I hold it to his lips, supporting his head with my other hand. His scalp is hot and damp against my palm, his hair thin and brittle.

As he drinks, memory floods back: my father’s hand around my throat, lifting me against the wall until my feet dangled. I was twelve. My crime had been dropping a glass of his vodka. The same hands that now tremble weakly against the sheets once held the power of life and death over me.

So easy to end this now.

Squeeze that throat.

Press a pillow over his face.

Finish what cancer started.

The thought comes and goes. I am not him. I will never be him.

Slabak.

Weakling.

Finish what you started when you exiled him.

I return to Diana’s side, resuming my stance as I take her hand. Her perfume— jasmine and something citrusy— cuts through the sickness in the air.

“I was a monster,” he continues once the coughing subsides. His lips are cracked, flecks of blood at the corners. “To you especially, Aleksei. And to you, Diana, for forcing you to watch. For making you try to protect him when it should have been me protecting you both.”

Diana remains silent, but I feel her trembling beside me. Her grip on my fingers is painful now, but I welcome the discomfort. It anchors me to the present, to the man I’ve become rather than the terrified boy I was.

I think of my own children— of Bobik’s gentle intelligence, his eyes lighting up when I bring him new books. Of baby Polina’s trusting gaze, her tiny fist wrapped around my finger. Of how I would tear apart anyone who caused them pain. Of how becoming a father has reshaped my understanding of what it means to protect, to guide.

I think of Stella, the scent of her hair on my pillow, the way she challenges me, the future I want to build with her. How I plan to earn her love.

Eto pizdets.

This is fucked up.

In this moment, I understand something I’ve been fighting for weeks: holding onto hatred for this dying man poisons only me. It changes nothing about the past but threatens everything about my future. To break the cycle requires more strength than continuing it— a truth I want my children to learnfromme, notaboutme.

Slabak.

Weakling.

He deserves your hatred.

And as I think of all these things, something dawns on me. A realization of what I have to do… something that may be the toughest challenge I’ve ever faced.

“Father,” I say, the word coming easier this time. “I forgive you.”

Diana’s sharp intake of breath beside me cuts through the mechanical beeping. My father’s eyes widen slightly, disbelief evident even through the haze of morphine.

“Not because you deserve it,” I continue, my voice steady despite the acid burning in my throat. “And not because it erases what you did. I forgive you for my own peace. So I can be the father to my children that you never were to us.”

Something shifts in his expression— relief, perhaps, or simple recognition of the truth in my words. He nods once, the slight movement seemingly taking all his remaining strength. The skin of his face hangs loose on the bones, yellow and waxy in the harsh light.

“I can’t.” Diana’s voice is low, her words directed more to me than to our father. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Tears stream silently down her face as she shakes her head. “I saw what he did to you, Lyosha. I heard your screams when I couldn’t stop him. I can’t forgive that. I can’t.”

I release her hand only to wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her against me. Her familiar scent momentarily transports me back to our childhood, when we’d huddle after one of Father’s rages. Even then, she was the one who bore the emotional scars while I carried the physical ones.

“It’s alright,sestra. You don’t have to.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Diana has always been my mirror—reflecting the pain I refuse to acknowledge. “Your truth is your own. I’m not asking you to share mine.”