SNUFF

by Bonny Capps

  I shake my head slowly as I stare blankly at his intricately carved mahogany desk.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  He clears his throat as he sits back in his chair. “It was your mother’s wish that you go and stay with him.”

  “What?” Mirna breathes out. “Absolutely not. She can stay with me.”

  I hold a hand up as my gaze slowly meets his. “It was her wish?”

  He nods slowly. “It was.”

  “Do I have to go?”

  He shakes his head. “We can work something out. If you wish to stay here—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “If it was her wish, then I will go.”

  “Sofia! It’s Russia!” Mirna exclaims, tightening her grip on my hand.

  I yank my hand from hers and ball my fists in my lap. “She wanted me to go. I appreciate your offer, but I have to do what she wanted.”

  “It’s Russia. You’ve never been there. It could be dangerous. Here, you’ll be with me. You can continue to skate and go to school where you’re familiar.”

  I shake my head as my eyes find hers. I frown when I look into her pleading eyes before my gaze drifts back to my lap.

  “Where? Where in Russia does he live?” I ask.

  “Mezmay … it’s a small village, some twenty-three hours plus from Moscow.” He pauses as he opens the desk drawer and retrieves an envelope.

  “This was included in her will. It’s a letter. For you.”

  My father died when I was very young. The only memories that I have is of him handing me sweets as I sat on the floor beside his armchair while he watched the daily news and I played with dolls.

  He died from a sudden brain aneurysm. Just like my mother, his death was quick and unexpected, leaving more questions than answers to those left behind.

  The letter that my mother had written almost seemed as though she had already planned her untimely death. She knew that I’d become an orphan, or perhaps she thought it was better safe than sorry. Knowing her, she’d probably written the same letter over and over at the dawn of each New Year. She didn’t want me to be alone. Maybe this letter is her way of staying … speaking to me from beyond the grave.

  I read my dead mother’s words each time I boarded a new flight to get to where I am now. I wouldn’t wish the ten plus hour journey on my worst enemy.

  As I sit in the train, I stare out into the vast beauty that is Russia. From the rolling hills to the snowcapped mountains that stand tall in the distance, I know she wanted me to experience my roots.

  I’m in for another twenty-four hours of travel to get from Moscow to Sochi, where my uncle awaits. Then, we have an hour and a half to drive to get to Mezmay. I’d take this train ride over flying anytime. It’s much more comfortable and roomy. Not to mention, I prefer the breathtaking scenery compared to the tiny patches of land below as the plane soared through the clouds.

  I hold my mother’s folded letter in my lap. I’ve read it a thousand times and I’ll probably read it a thousand more. I'll try to find something hidden in between the lines like I already have numerous times. I’ll cry, allowing more tears to smudge the ink that swirls into her beautiful handwriting.

  It’s summer, which I’m thankful for. Russia is infamous for its brutally cold winters. Mirna moved into our townhouse until school was out, then I boarded a plane and left.

  Since landing in Moscow, I’ve learned that younger Russians speak English, while the middle aged to elderly either don’t, or they just don’t want to speak to me. I don’t know a lick of Russian, so the fact that my mother was so set on me coming here is interesting to say the least. She never taught me about the culture or the language.

  Smiling, waving, and small talk aren’t a thing here. I’ve tried and have been ignored several times, unless it’s a boy my age. They tend to smile and talk excessively. I’ve gotten some raised eyebrows from girls and women, and I believe it’s because of my lazy attire involving yoga pants and my blonde hair in a bun. High fashion is definitely a thing here.

  I turned seventeen several months ago. It was the loneliest and most heartbroken that I’ve felt since mom passed away. Our annual tradition of Indian food and ice-cream died when she did.

  I’m happy to be alone in this cab. It’s just me, the choppy sound the train makes as it thunders down the tracks, and my dead mother’s words.

  Placing the letter beside me, I open the window of the cab and lean out.

  My hair tickles my face as I inhale the fresh air, allowing myself to feel something. Because I’ve been so numb. I’ve allowed myself to curl up into my shell. Maybe mom was right.

  Maybe I needed this shock after she was taken away.

  Once I retrieve my luggage, I look up and down the eerily vacant platform of the train station as the train begins tugging along once more. Nobody else got off. It seems that I’m all alone here, and for a moment my heart skips a beat. Then, I see a man approaching me. He’s holding up a sign as he points excitedly to the words that I cannot understand. He’s smiling, and his face is familiar … his brown eyes and crooked smile resemble my mother’s.

  This is my uncle.

  I place my luggage on each side of me before stepping forward. I lift my hand and wave shyly. This entire encounter is so awkward.

  Holding his hands out to his sides, a wide grin spreads across his face. “Sofia?”

  It makes me smile; his heavy Russian accent and how he emphasized the “a” at the end.

  I nod. “Uncle Artur?”

  He rushes over to me, and for a moment I think he will hug me, but then he grabs my luggage and turns hastily.

  I’m left standing before I hurry after him, my legs moving quickly to keep up with his pace.

  He approaches a very small car and opens the hatchback before hurling my suitcases in the back. I bite the inside of my cheek and cringe when I think about my breakables. Then, he gets into the driver's side. I stand awkwardly—stunned by this strange reunion. I snap out of it when he begins honking his horn repeatedly.

  I hurriedly slide into the passenger seat and I’m barely able to close the door when the engine sputters to life and we’re on our way.

  I don’t say a word when we turn onto a winding, dirt road. This village is tiny. Something that you would only see on the Travel Channel on a boring weekday night.

  Goats with curled horns stand on their hind legs to reach the bushes on the other side of the fence. Chickens scurry across the road before we pass and cows graze freely with bells hung from their necks.

  The foliage is lush and the trees stand tall around the village. The fences are painted bright blue and the windows are open to display the simple, yet cluttered interiors of the tiny homes.

  Uncle Artur has his arm rested on the open window and lazily lifts his hand occasionally to acknowledge the other villagers.

  “Ah! Here we are,” he says as he pulls up to a tiny home.

  I look up through the windshield and see the yellow painted wooden structure. It looks cozy. A mare and her foal look at us over the fence as if to greet us.

  I reach for the handle and the door creaks open before I step out and inhale the fresh air. I feel like my lungs are being cleansed with each inhale of crisp, pure air.

  I step toward the house as he grabs my luggage from the back. He steps beside me and sighs.

  “Your mama grew up here,” he mumbles before he begins walking to the front door. That alone sparks my curiosity, and I hurry after him.

  “This was your childhood home?” I ask as the front door swings open.

  He nods. “Ya. This was Mama and Papa’s home.”

  I tilt my head, suddenly realizing that he speaks fairly good English. He didn’t utter a word the entire drive.

  “This is your room,” he says as he stomps down the hall and disappears through a door.

  I walk behind him and watch as he places my bags on the rickety, metal bed.

  He exits and disappears down th
e hall into the kitchen area.

  “Thank you!” I holler as I make my way further into the room.

  My eyes travel from the bed which has a colorful quilt to the antique clock that hangs from the wall then to the desk. The old, wooden floors creak with each step that I take.

  “I’ll have dinner ready in a little while, okay?”

  I startle before turning to face him. “Thanks.”

  “It okay?” he asks, and I look around the room before my eyes travel back to him.

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  He nods before tucking his hands in his pockets. I can tell by the deep wrinkles in his face and his calloused hands that he’s a hard worker. I don’t think there’s much of a choice when you live in a place like this.

  “I go tend to the animals. You settle in,” he says as he turns and leaves me alone.

  He’s certainly flighty and enigmatic. His hurried movements make me nervous.

  Plopping down on the bed, I watch out the window as he shoos the horses away once he enters the pasture. Wrapping my arms around my shoulders, I shiver. It must be about fifty degrees out there—in the middle of summer, might I add.

  I turn to my luggage and slowly unzip the smaller suitcase. I carefully pick up the picture of my mother and me, thankful that the glass frame wasn’t broken when he hurled my luggage into the trunk earlier.

  Smiling, I trace my fingers over my mother’s smiling face. We’re both smiling from ear to ear. My skates hang over my shoulder and the vacant ice rink is in the background. I sigh as a solitary tear creeps down my cheek before I quickly wipe it away.

  Placing the picture on the nightstand, I press my fingers to my lips before placing them over my mother’s picture.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  Two Weeks Later

  There’s a boy. I don’t know his name, but I first saw him when I was lying in the purple wildflowers that grow on the outskirts of the village.

  I was staring up at the scattered clouds when I heard something rustling beside me. I sat up quickly and peered over the tall flowers to see brown eyes staring back at me. He leapt up and ran. I followed hastily, eager to befriend someone my age. Most of the villagers are my uncle’s age, and none of them speak English.

  I was on the boy's heels, but he disappeared into the lush wilderness, leaving me alone at a breathtaking waterfall. I clumsily sat down on a rock and watched in awe as the water tumbled down to the river below. I closed my eyes and listened intently to the majestic sounds that nature offered. I allowed myself peace. I allowed myself to breathe.

  The second time that I saw the boy was when he was pushing a wheelbarrow several houses down from my uncle’s. He caught me and I leapt behind a tree. Peeking around, I saw a smile spread across his face.

  I smiled, too, when I leaned against the tree and looked up toward the heavens.

  Five Months Later

  The horses watch me as I glide across the frozen pond. Snow falls gracefully from the sky as I lift my leg and spin effortlessly. My white jacket and gloves keep me warm as my hair whispers across my face. It’s the most freeing feeling in the world.

  The music streams through my headphones that are kept in place by my furry earmuffs. My face is freezing, and I’m sure that the tip of my nose is bright red, but I don’t care. I needed this abandon. I haven’t skated since mom died, but the sudden urge that I felt an hour ago told me everything that I needed to know.

  She said it in the letter, and I swear that it was her whispering in my ear when I looked at the skates that she bought me as they hung from the wall.

  Never give up, my love ….

  I’ve been eyeing this pond for some time, and I was thankful when it finally froze over. It’s behind the boy’s house.

  Closing my eyes, I open my arms and welcome the melody. The ice is my destiny, and the moon is my friend. The music though … the music is my inspiration.

  When the song comes to an end, I gracefully lift my arms above me and smile.

  However, the rendezvous between me and the ice soon comes to an end when I hear clapping in the distance.

  My eyes dart open and I see the boy.

  “You,” I murmur as I glide toward him. He doesn’t run away this time.

  Running a hand over his head, he smiles.

  “I didn’t know you were an ice princess,” he says playfully.

  I laugh. “An ice princess?”

  He nods. “My name is Boris.”

  “I’m Sofia,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand.

  He gives me a crooked smile before he removes his glove with his left hand. Then, he nods to mine.

  I look down at my gloved hand before my eyes travel back to his.

  “What?”

  He laughs. “Nothing says foreigner like wearing a glove when shaking hands in Russia.”

  I cock my head. “I’m not following.”

  Rolling his eyes, he grabs my hand and shakes it. “You’re American?”

  I yank my hand from his, allowing it to fall to my side. “My parents were Russian.”

  He nods. “Were?”

  Looking down at the ice, I sigh. “Yeah. Were.”

  “Boris!” A voice hollers from the back door of his home.

  I look over his shoulder and frown at the intimidating man that approaches us. He doesn’t look like the others in the village. He looks scary. He looks dangerous.

  “I’ve got to go,” Boris says, quickly turning. But the man grabs his shoulder and turns him back around.

  “Where are you going little brother? You can’t introduce your brother to this beautiful girl? I’m only here for a couple of days. What gives?”

  I blush as I nervously look toward my uncle’s house. I see Uncle Artur standing in the doorway with both hands on the doorframe.

  “This is Sofia. Sofia, this is my brother Vadim.”

  My eyes snap to the man and I take a moment to examine him before removing my glove to shake his hand. He has a shaved head and there is a deep scar running through his eyebrow. His hooded eyes are so dark that they almost look black.

  I swallow the lump in my throat as I reach out and place my hand in his. “Nice to meet you.”

  The warmth of his hand engulfs mine and he squeezes tightly … showing me his power … showing me that he is a man that is not to be crossed. When I try and take my hand from his, he doesn’t allow it. Instead, he runs a thumb over the top of my hand, causing my heart to beat erratically beneath my ribs.

  “Sofia!” My uncle bellows from the doorway, and that makes Vadim release me. I quickly back away, almost losing my footing on the ice. Vadim laughs darkly as he places a hand on Boris’ shoulder, and I take note of the tattoos that spread across his knuckles. Boris flinches when Vadim noticeably squeezes his shoulder.

  “I hope that I see you soon, krasivaya,” he says, before he turns and drags Boris behind him to their house.

  I stand frozen in place before my uncle hollers my name once more.

  Several days have passed since that awkward encounter between Boris, Vadim, and I. My uncle didn’t seem happy about me speaking to them one bit. I don’t know why.

  I spend my days helping my uncle on the farm. I had no wish to go to school here, so I was sure to bring my senior curriculum with me to study. I never felt like I belonged in school anyway. I like my solitary existence. At least for now. It’s just me, nature, and my odd uncle who I know nothing about. He isn’t affectionate, nor is he very talkative.

  He goes about his days crafting and doing other random things around the farm.

  At first, winter here was beautiful. But now, it only reminds me how alone I am.

  Boris won’t even look at me anymore, but Vadim … I see his black eyes constantly watching me. He frightens me. I don’t think he’s a nice person, and I’ve never been the judgmental type. I give everyone an equal opportunity, regardless of what they look like. My mother taught me that. She wouldn’t hesitate to help anyone, regardless
of where they came from.

  She used to say, “Looks don’t matter, Sofia. It’s what’s in the heart and the mind. Looks, they just tell a fraction of the story. A man who fought a war may wear rags, and a businessman with a suit and tie may have stolen to get where he is now.”

  Vadim, he looks at me like I’m a steak on a platter. Looks alone, I’d say he is dangerous. But it’s his demeanor that frightens me the most.

  Rolling up the rug in my room, I put it up to the wall before I plug my head phones in and turn my MP3 player onto mellow music.

  I practice my steps as I sway from side to side, following the same steps of the set that I performed at Nationals. My winning set. Though, I didn’t win anything that fateful night. Instead, I lost everything.

  I’m mid spin when I hear a loud bang. I rip my earbuds from my ears and stand still.

  I stay like that, listening to the silence.

  Walking to the door, I open it slowly and peek down the hallway. Everything seems in its place as I tiptoe down the hallway.

  “Uncle Artur?” I whisper.

  My eyes grow wide when I see a crimson puddle growing wider the further I get down the hall.

  I gasp when I see his face. His eyes are wide and lifeless as the blood trickles from what looks to be a bullet wound between his eyes.

  “Oh my God!” I scream.

  I attempt to turn and run, but an arm wraps around my shoulders before I feel a painful prick in my neck.

  My eyelids become heavy and my lips move slowly, but I’m not sure if I’m making a sound. My uncle’s lifeless body becomes blurry as my body goes slack in the unknown arms.

  I struggle, but it seems useless. The only thing that I can feel are the warm tears as they slither down my cheeks, and the only thing that I can hear is the slow rhythm of my heart as my world goes black.

  I feel like I’m floating in a sea of nothingness. My eyes open occasionally, and all that I can see are blurs and colors, nothing more. I can hear voices, but they’re lost in the confusion.