So close I barely had to move to seal our kiss.
It was passionate, yet at the same time - so simple, so straight-forward. Like two kids who were mimicking the adults from the TV, we pressed our lips against each other.
When she finally leaned back, she looked excited. Scared. Happy. Anxious. She had just kissed her boyfriend's friend… and she seemed to enjoy it. She didn't know how to react, how to proceed. I could feel the storm within her - its magnetic whirlwinds resonating with my own. Just like her, I had crossed the line I never thought I would.
Just like her, I liked it.
I put my palm on her cheek. She sighed from my touch, then nestled her head in my palm like a cat, seeking to be patted.
"Maybe one more" - I told her. I knew she could object to that, to tell me that it was supposed to be just one kiss, that I led her on… It didn't matter. I needed to say that, to voice my desire. Everything else didn't matter. I was living in the moment. I was trying to - no, I was being brave.
"Yeah, okay" - she agreed rather simply, breathing heavily as if she just ran a marathon. She leaned in again, and this time, we looked at each other in the eye before we kissed.
Natasha. Natasha. Natali.
Natasha and Yura… No. Those were childish names. She was a woman, and by the time the dawn came around, I was a man.
Natali and Yuri[15]. What a pair.
CHAPTER 17 – Gone Girl
For the first time since forever, I woke up with a smile.
So strange: the world had to end for me to want it to keep on being there.
Deep inside, I knew I didn't want it to end. Hope had shown its poisonous fangs once more and pierced me with them right under my heart. I wanted it all to continue. Natasha was making me want to fight to see another day because it would be another day together with her.
But it was only that dire situation that had brought us together. In her previous life, she would have no need to be with me - back there, she had had Nikita. Only the circumstances had made her forget about him. The dead don't cheat - and with how things were going, there was no doubt that we'd soon join their ranks.
All we could do was enjoy our small newfound happiness. Squeeze the most out of our situation.
Last night, we kept on going. We kissed again, and again - until we were sober.
And we kept on going after then.
Natasha was already cooking something in the kitchen - I could hear the rumbling of boiling water coming from there.
"Can you make me some coffee?" - I shouted to her.
"Come and make it yourself" - she told me. I could tell by the tone, by the shape of the voice: she was smiling when she said that. Putting on a smile of my own, I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen, thanking Limoncello for sparing me from the morning hangover.
Natasha was sitting at the table, smiling. The kettle was on the stove, rumbling at us with its belly at the tone that warned us: the water was going to be ready in another thirty seconds or so.
"Hey" - Natasha greeted me, smiling but looking away. I didn't expect anything else: what had happened the night before must have been very awkward for her to think about in the morning. I myself was feeling flustered.
"Hey" - I echoed her call, taking a seat at the table. Funny: just the night before I felt like I could talk to her till the end of the world - which, it seemed, was just around the corner. Now, however, no matter what we'd want to talk about, we would have to discuss what had happened between us - or at the very least acknowledge it first.
We sat in silence. After a while, I'd gotten used to the silence. It became comfortable. We weren't feeling like talking about it - so we just silently enjoyed each other's company.
"I have to go check on the old man" - she told me, getting up from the chair and grabbing the third plate into her hands. I quickly glanced at her face: was there resentment, regret? Was she trying to escape from the uncomfortable situation?
No.
She was just genuinely concerned about him. It was in her character. She allowed him to stay at her place because she alone was concerned with his fate and didn't want him to spend the night in the apartment, which was no longer safe.
"Don't take too long" - I told her with a gentle smile. I tried to make it look confident, smirking - but it came off as gentle anyway. And she seemed to like it because she returned it.
"Sure" - she assured me, before walking out of the kitchen.
I stared at the oatmeal she prepared for us. Under my gaze, it was slowly losing temperature, though it was probably going to do the same even if I didn't observe it. Probably. With how things were going, if the laws of physics suddenly stopped working I wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. There were few things left in the world that could surprise me.
I wanted to take it slow, to finish my breakfast together with Natasha. It would feel nice to share such a moment with her: I'd had way too many lonely breakfasts in the past, so even something so small was important to me.
When I inevitably finished it ten minutes later, I felt disappointed with myself. Sure, I was hungry. But why not wait just a little bit?
Then again, my portion wasn't that big. I stretched it as much as possible. If I ate it any slower, I'd stop eating it altogether. I was sure that her own oatmeal was already so cold she'd struggle to pick it with her spoon.
A tiny voice in the back of my head started saying that she just didn't want to go down to be with me because the last night was a mistake. But it didn't dig deep into my mind: in the last 24 hours, I had become too resilient for it to nestle into me. Natasha was just taking her time there, and for different reasons. And since she was gone for half an hour, it was reasonable to go find out why.
I stood up from the table, put on some clothes, and left the apartment, heading upstairs.
I was mentally preparing myself for a sad sight: Natasha, sitting in the middle of her room, crying over her lost boyfriend. I wasn't disillusioned: I knew that those feelings didn't go away - they'd just gotten weaker.
The change was gradual, I reminded myself. It was not instantaneous. And I was ready to be there for Natasha to help her deal with it - until the very end, no matter what it would be.
When I reached the fourth floor I could already hear the voices of the tenants above. Just as usual, they'd gathered to complain about something.
I didn't make a connection. My first reaction was an annoyance. I didn't think that their gathering had something to do with me.
Only when I saw that they were standing next to Natasha's door did I realize that their gathering and Natasha's disappearance were not a coincidence.
The door to Natasha's apartment was wide open. Most of the people were standing around it, more interested in scratching their tongues, and only a few of them were throwing careful glances inside.
Everything within me suddenly felt hollow. I rushed inside, rudely pushing people out of my way. They protested, someone tried to grab me to make me explain myself, but I pushed their hand aside and continued to rush inside.
The signs of struggle in the hallway: coats and jackets lying on the ground, her and Nikita's shoes, usually propped so carefully against the wall, were scattered across the room. I rushed to her bedroom.
More people: a few women were tending to the old man that Natasha had sheltered. He was lying on Natasha's bed, right on her bedsheets, and staring blankly into the ceiling. Every few seconds he would let out an exasperated sigh, not able to deal with the pain of a fresh wound on his head. No Natasha.
I rushed to the kitchen, to the guest room, swung open the door to the bathroom, startling a woman who occupied it and forgot to close the door - no Natasha. She wasn't there.
The old man was supposed to know, I realized. Someone or something took her away, but if he had a wound on his head, then he was probably around when that happened, he took part in it. And if he was still alive, then she could be as well.
"Where is she?!" - I demanded to know from him, bursting into
the room. The women shushed me, tried to push me out of the room, but I paid them no attention. I was solely focused on the old man on the bed.
I felt sorry for him: the blunt trauma to the head meant that he probably tried to stop whatever had taken Natasha away. He did not deserve to face my frustration. He deserved to rest. But he was still conscious, and I couldn't miss even a second. I had to act fast.
"Do you hear me? I said get out of here!" - a chubby woman pushed me again, and I had to grab onto the door to stay inside the room: despite being two heads lower than me, she was both heavier and stronger. Decades of hard work had hardened her enough to be a challenge for me. "Running around here like crazy… He needs rest! Get out!"
"Let go of me! He knows where she is! What has happened here, old man!" - I tried to protest desperately, seeing as I was losing the battle: a few more seconds and she would successfully push me out of the room, and then out of the apartment.
"There was no one else when we came. Go get some sleep, you drunkard! I can smell the reek of vodka on you!" - she ignored my pleas and pushed harder.
"I'm sorry, young man" - his voice was weak, but also so unexpected that everyone stopped what they were doing and listened to him, allowing his quiet words to be heard. "I tried stopping him, but I… I was too weak. This is all my fault. This is all our fault."
"Where is she, grandpa?" - I asked him gently. I wanted to scream, to shout, to let him know that we had no time and ask him to get to the point, but I restrained myself. He barely had any strength to talk, and if I snapped at him at such a time, he could just choose to remain silent.
"Taken. Taken away… I'm sorry, young man. We didn't know what we were doing. The whole world was our enemy, and we… We were looking for allies elsewhere. We thought we had no choice. We opened the door for them, but nobody came. We thought they weren't listening, but… They were just biding their time. Waiting for us to lower our guard, to forget about them," - I could see that his cryptic confession was hard for him, and I was even piecing a few things together from it, but it was not the time for it. I had to focus on the more pressing issue.
"Where is she, gramps?" - I repeated my question softly but sternly.
"Where they all are. They've taken her to their nest" - he said in a disregarding, uncaring voice, staring at the ceiling. It was clear that he didn't think that there was a way to get her back from there. I struggled to remain composed.
"How long ago, gramps?" - I asked in a calm voice.
"Maybe twenty minutes ago," - he answered. "I'm sorry, young man, I tried to do something, but-"
I turned around and left the room in a hurry. Perhaps the old man was correct in his assertion and there was no use trying to save her. But I wanted to run somewhere, do something, scream something. I needed to channel all of that anger and hurt within me into something, and it just so happened that I had a perfect opportunity to do just that. It did not matter if I'd succeed or not - it was better to try, to make that desperate attempt, that to live even for a second knowing that I was powerless to save her.
Twenty minutes. That wasn't too long ago. In fact, it should have happened right after she'd entered her apartment. Were they waiting for her? Did they have an eye on her? I didn't even want to think why she caught their attention and what they planned to do with her. If I hurried, I could put a stop to it.
I didn't know what I was going to do, but I knew the destination. That was all that mattered.
Once on the staircase, surrounded by curious people who already started asking me questions, I hesitated for a moment. Do I go call Maxim? Do I ask these people to help me? Or do I go alone, to save time?
"You're from the militia, right?" - some old woman next to me asked me, getting all up in my face. "Some protectors you are" - she scoffed at me.
"Shove it!" - I snapped at her, and surprisingly no retorts followed. More stress was the last thing I needed, but her words and the anger they sparked helped me decide what to do. I pushed another old man aside, ignored his protests, and started climbing to the roof.
The barricade that Maxim and his friends had spent so much time setting up was broken. Whatever had passed through there had more than enough strength to be stopped by a few nails and dismantled chairs.
Once outside, I rushed toward the furthest door. It must've been raining since early morning since the puddles on the roof had already gotten quite big, but I didn't bother to avoid them and stay quiet. Since I'd decided to go alone, I had already thrown the caution to the wind - there was no use acting carefully now.
I had just found Natasha. Just found a close person outside of my family. A woman who wasn't my mother. Even if the world was crumbling around me, I wanted Natasha to be with me during those final moments. Most of all, I wanted her to feel safe and secure, and I was cursing fate for letting such a thing happen during the first few hours of our relationship.
I rammed the door, wanting to get open as soon as possible, but I felt sudden resistance from it. It barely opened, just wide enough to let me peek inside to see that something was propping it from the other side.
Somehow, the people inside had managed to barricade it from their side. It seemed they took a page from our book.
"Open up!" - I shouted through the crack. "Open up or I swear we're going to burn you all! Give her back!"
"What's the commotion?" - I heard someone asking me from the other side. The metal ladder was still shaking under the stranger's feet, indicating that he was rising from the fifth floor to greet me. "It's very rude to be so loud in the morning. Don't you have any manners where you've come from?"
A curious face with a sly smile showed up in the crack of the door. Perhaps I had seen him before, but it didn't matter at that moment. I was only seeing red.
"Give her back!" - I shouted at him desperately. "Give Natasha back, you filthy, good-for-nothing, worthless..." - the fury toward that carefree face that was smiling at my angst, the face of the one who knew what he'd done and thought he could get away with it, was scrambling my thoughts. I couldn't even pick the right words. I could only emote in the most primitive way.
"Do it, you bastard, or I'll crack your head open as I promised!"
"Oh, it's you again?" - the face lit up with recognition. "Yes, you were here just a few days ago? Came back for more?"
"I almost killed you bastards back then, and I'll do it now for sure if you don't give her back!" - I shouted at him and kicked the door. It didn't budge - not enough to open, at least, but just enough to hit him in the nose he'd been pressing against it to take a better look at me through the crack.
"Oh, you bastard!" - he hissed, grabbing his face. "You want the girl? Don't you worry, once he's done with her, and we take our turns with her, we'll deliver her back in small packages!"
After he's done with her? After he's done doing what? I felt like my brain was going to explode from the adrenaline rushing into it. Burst like a leaky pipe.
But before his words fully sunk in, before I could process them and act accordingly, I saw an arm holding a gun appear through the crack. The man wasn't looking where he was aiming - no doubt he was still clutching his wounded nose. Had he done it, I would've been dead after the first shot - the gun's barrel examined most of my body before blindly trailing to the left and firing in the direction of the forest.
Not waiting for the second shot to find me, I turned around and ran, covering the distance toward the door of my stairwell in record time. Funny: was that why they used the guns to start the race? More shots followed, but they all missed their mark - the closest one hitting the wall and dislodging a piece of concrete from it near my head as I was opening the door.
Even though I was running away, I didn't give up. I knew where I was going and what I was going to do. I had received the confirmation that Natasha was still alive. I just needed more people to storm the place.
"Maxim!" - I was battering on his door some thirty seconds later. "Open up, Maxim! They've got Natasha! Maxim!"
"Where's the fire, what's going on, Yura?" - Maxim opened the door, squinting from the light. He could see that I was worked up and was doing his best to focus on what I was saying, but that was clearly a challenge for him: he reeked of alcohol, and seemed to be suffering from a severe hangover.
"They've kidnapped Natasha, Maxim!" - I shouted at him. "Come on, I need your gun! Gather men!"
Why was he so slow at such a time? How could he be drinking so much when at any moment something like that could happen?
"Who are you talking about?" - Maxim shook his head and rubbed his temple. "Who are 'they'? What the hell, Yuri, how early is it?"
"The thugs from the fourth stairwell! They kidnapped Natasha and are doing god knows what to her at the moment!" - I explained as patiently as I could. If he was going to ask me one more question I'd just rush back to save her on my own.
But it seemed that my words finally reached him: the realization of what I'd been telling him broke through the shell of hangover and settled in his mind. His eyes went wide from shock and then squinted from fury he couldn't hold back. Finally, I saw the expression that I wanted to see: he was livid.
"Men!" - he hollered into the depths of the apartment. "Wake up, quick! Those assholes kidnapped a girl! Come on!"
They didn't make us wait for them: one by one, they were walking out of the kitchen and into the living room, where they, judging by how they looked, must've been drinking until the sunrise. All of them hungover, all of them sleepy and drunk. And all of them - angry.
I doubted that all of them could comprehend what Maxim was asking of them, but maybe it was for the best. Their drunken stupor, their liquid courage has transformed them from everyday men into warriors. They were probably waiting for a chance to let loose - and me and Maxim were courteously offering it to them. They heard something about saving a girl, and in their state, that was all the motivation they needed.
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