Daughter from the Dark

by Sergey

  A voice carried from across the apartment.

  “Don’t cry. I know it hurts. But I am with you. Everything is going to be all right.”

  He opened the bathroom door.

  In the kitchen, Alyona held a needle and thread, the bear nestled in her lap. Alyona concentrated on the stitches like a surgeon, all the while cooing gently, “Just a little while longer. I am doing a good job. You won’t be able to see a thing.”

  Aspirin shuddered. He locked the bathroom door again and sat on the edge of the tub.

  It didn’t matter who she was, a witch or an alien. It didn’t matter what the bear was—a lycanthrope or a cyborg-transformer. Aspirin had to run, and as fast as he possibly could. But how far he could get—that remained to be seen.

  Fifteen minutes later she knocked on the door, and he nearly fell off the tub at the sharp sound.

  “What?” Aspirin asked.

  “I need to wash up,” Alyona said. “Let me in, please.”

  “And if I don’t? Is he going to break down the door?”

  “If you don’t let me in, I will have to wash up in the kitchen sink,” Alyona said after a pause. “I don’t need that much from you. Stop flipping out.”

  “Am I flipping out?”

  Yet he opened the door anyway. Alyona stood in front of him—soaked to the bone, covered with stains, pitiful-looking . . . except for the steely, unforgiving blue eyes. Cradled in her arms, Mishutka stared at Aspirin with plastic eyes. They too seemed unforgiving.

  “Wash away,” Aspirin managed through clenched teeth.

  Alyona did not respond.

  Aspirin found a bottle of Armenian brandy in his bar—a crazy-expensive bottle he had been saving for a special occasion. He opened the bottle and took a big gulp. It did not seem to be enough; he lay down, staining the sheets with the blood that kept oozing from his scratches, and took another sip.

  I could take a handful of sleeping pills, chase them down with brandy, and dive into a warm bed, he thought. But he wasn’t yet ready to sleep.

  “I hope you get washed away, straight into the gutter,” Aspirin said, listening to the sound of running water. “Just you wait, I might burn the whole place down along with your friend. My apartment is insured, and he is not!”

  This thought pleased him, and he laughed, imagining how he would pour gasoline all over his place, flick a lit match and walk away, locking the reinforced door from the outside . . .

  . . . and how this door would burst open—from the inside. No, this would never work. He would have to arrange for a single powerful explosion.

  The dead dog on the street corner came to mind. Just like that—ripped in two.

  He got up and found his passport in the desk drawer. His visa had expired, unfortunately, so London wasn’t an immediate option until he got a new one.

  But maybe he didn’t need to go across the globe. He just needed to destroy the bear outside this apartment. This wretched thing wouldn’t attack him in public. And if it did, Aspirin would have witnesses. And then Aspirin would not end up in a mental institution, even if he told the whole truth.

  The whole truth?

  Cringing, groaning in pain, he sat behind the desk and turned on his laptop.

  Friday

  He had no idea whether Alyona had slept at all that night. At half past three, craving coffee, he found the kitchen empty. This made Aspirin happy since he had absolutely no desire to be in the same room with the two unpleasant creatures.

  He filled up a thermos and carried it over to his room so he wouldn’t have to get up to make more. He poured coffee into his mug, added brandy, took a sip and added more brandy, took another sip and added more brandy, and repeated until the liquid in his mug held practically no trace of coffee. At this point Aspirin would add coffee from the thermos, take sips and add coffee, until the percentage of brandy in his mug would go down to zero and Aspirin would start shivering. His whole body trembled—from too much coffee, or brandy, or stress, or, perhaps, inspiration. By six in the morning the text was finished; it was a long—almost eight thousand words—personal account of a certain Alexey G., chased by an infernal little girl and a murderous teddy bear. Assuming no one would believe his story, the desperate man chose not to disclose his name to the editors, worried that his neighbors would recognize him and think him insane.

  Aspirin reread the article, made some minor edits, and congratulated himself; his own professionalism pleased him no end. He gulped down the rest of the coffee and felt nauseated. He lay down, pulled the blanket over his head, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he woke up, it was already eleven in the morning.

  From the kitchen came the distant sound of clinking dishes.

  Aspirin remembered everything; not even for a second would he allow himself to wonder whether it was just a dream anymore. And if he wanted to, his body wouldn’t let him. His ear hurt more than it did last night. His head seemed heavier than the rest of him, and he felt out of balance. Aspirin reached for the phone and called the editor of Forbidden Truth.

  His name carried a certain weight, and Aspirin was immediately connected to the editor in chief.

  “Bring it over,” the man said.

  “In an hour,” Aspirin said. “I can’t make it earlier.”

  He hung up the phone and tried to get up. It took three tries, but he finally managed. His reflection in the mirror made him sigh heavily.

  He wasn’t hungry, just very thirsty. He craved water, and definitely no more coffee. He also craved a cigarette, but the crumpled pack was empty, and the ashtray stank unbearably.

  He printed out his “confession” and stepped out of his room feeling like an astronaut exploring an unfamiliar planet. Alyona was in the kitchen; he heard her steps, a soft rustle of a newspaper, a fork clinking against a plate. The kitchen smelled of fried eggs.

  Aspirin peeked into the living room. A blanket was neatly folded on the sofa, compact discs were arranged on the floor like stacks of coins in front of a money changer. The stereo system was on, which meant Alyona was wearing headphones.

  Mishutka was nowhere to be seen. She probably kept him with her at all times now, Aspirin thought. She’d be smarter, carrying her bodyguard everywhere and wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

  And that was fine with him.

  He shaved, cringing with pain, got dressed, made sure the disc was in his pocket and the printed document in his case, then reached for the car keys. A sudden realization of what his car now looked like almost made him cry.

  He wondered whether the insurance would cover any of the damages. Any reasonable mechanic, upon a closer look, would wonder how one would achieve such bizarre damage.

  “Where are you going?” Alyona asked.

  The question reached him when he was about to step outside.

  “I am going to work,” he said grimly. “To the editor’s office. Do you think the food you eat just falls down from the sky?”

  She didn’t respond; he shut the door.

  “Not bad,” the editor said. “Not bad at all. Have you ever tried your hand at sci-fi?”

  “I have,” Aspirin said. “When I was a kid. It was about astronauts.”

  “Astronauts aren’t today’s trend,” the editor said.

  “Depends on the astronaut,” Aspirin objected sensibly.

  “What happened to your face?” the editor said, changing the topic. “Did you get slapped around by some chicks again? Those scratches look just like nails!”

  “I ran into a streetlight,” Aspirin said. “Went mushroom picking last night.”

  The editor howled with laughter, clearly believing his version was the correct version.

  Let him.

  Fifteen minutes later Aspirin stepped outside, pleasantly burdened by a stack of bills. Sunglasses protected his eyes, one of which was so swollen it wouldn’t even open, and his ear still ached, and yet Aspirin felt a hell of a lot better. His fable would have a large audience, perhaps pushing a million copies. Let
people read it, let them be amazed, or let them laugh—that was fine with him—but the next time they saw a barefoot man in camouflage pants and with a leather pouch around his neck, let them pause and wonder. The modern world was insane, that much was obvious; in this world truth could turn into delirious nonsense, and delirious nonsense into truth, and everyone sensed it on some level.

  Truth was what everyone believed in, but what truth was was always up for debate. Fact and fiction were blurred, and what mattered was often how loud and how often you could say something. As a journalist—or, at least connected to the journalistic establishment—he was a part of the worldwide mechanism churning the truth out of a vacuum.

  And that meant what he got out to the wider populace could be very loud, indeed.

  A group of boys loitered around his car.

  “Hey, Alexey,” his thirteen-year-old neighbor from the seventh floor said, “what happened here, anyway?”

  “Well, I had this teddy bear, and I locked him in the trunk,” Aspirin said. “But he got mad and climbed out.”

  The boys giggled, exchanging amused glances.

  “‘Telling the truth is easy and pleasant,’” Aspirin murmured, walking away.

  The apartment was empty—no sign of Alyona or her bear. The headphones and discs were strewn over the sofa. For all that mess, though, the dishes sparkled and the kitchen table was buffed to a shine.

  Maybe she’d left for good? Aspirin wondered. He immediately chastised himself for such hopeful thoughts—yeah, sure she had. She must have been in such a hurry, she even cleaned the kitchen first, idiot.

  He mused at the girl’s confidence. He could always bolt the doors from the inside. Let her complain to the concierge, let her bother the neighbors—he was the master of his own domain after all. He had a right to kick guests out if he wanted to. Except, of course, people would view him as the monster. “But she’s just a sweet little girl,” they’d say.

  Sweet my ass.

  Also, even if they didn’t put up a fuss, how long would he have to hide behind the bolted door? He would have to come out at some point.

  He still wasn’t hungry, but the thirst that had bothered him since that morning persisted. He’d gulped a bottle of mineral water and started making tea when the front door opened.

  Alyona entered. Despite the sunny, warm weather, she wore a coat buttoned up to the top, and a beret pulled over one ear.

  “I went to the music school,” she said as soon as she saw Aspirin. “Here is an application form for you. There are no auditions—for violin they have open enrollment, because it’s not very popular. There is a fee. But it’s not expensive, it won’t bankrupt you.”

  She coughed, covering her mouth. Aspirin noticed how pale she was—even paler than she’d looked when her barefoot friend came for a visit.

  She took off her coat and placed the bear on the footstool by the door.

  “Also, I need to buy a violin. For my height, I need a half. I talked to one of the mothers there. Her daughter is switching to a three-quarters. Her old violin is not very good—it’s just a wooden case with a neck—but it’ll be just fine for practicing. Are you listening to me?”

  “I am listening,” Aspirin said after a pause. “What else do you need?”

  “Nothing. Here is the application form.”

  With the tips of two fingers, Aspirin held the paper she placed in the middle of the kitchen table. “I . . . request to enroll my child . . .”

  He shuddered.

  “Fill it out yourself,” he said dully. “I will sign.”

  She didn’t argue.

  By the time he made it to the club, he felt like a squashed fly and was beginning to question the fate of this evening. He hid behind a pair of sunglasses and plastered a thick layer of makeup all over his face. His shoulder ached, and his neck pulsated painfully, but eventually he felt a surge of adrenaline, recovered his courage, and the world went almost back to normal.

  Music could have that effect on him.

  “Man, you were on fire tonight,” Whiskas said with a great deal of respect. Under his breath, he added, “Any problems? Need any help?”

  Aspirin fixed his glasses:

  “Actually, Victor . . .”

  Whiskas waited.

  Aspirin took a deep breath. “Victor . . . can you get me a cab.”

  If Whiskas was offended, he said nothing. Five minutes later Aspirin lowered himself gingerly onto a leather seat, and half an hour later he was walking into his apartment—cautiously, like a reconnaissance scout entering enemy territory.

  Lights were on in the hall and in the kitchen. Aspirin pulled off his shoes. In the living room, a table lamp was switched on.

  “Do you have anything to break a fever?” Alyona asked, her voice sounding strange, rasping.

  “In the medicine cabinet in the kitchen,” he said, hanging up his jacket.

  “I looked. There is only disinfectant and condoms.”

  “You are welcome to the condoms,” Aspirin almost said, but bit his tongue. Instead, he went to his room.

  Maybe she’ll die, and he’d finally be rid of her.

  A little guilty at the thought—but not too much—he closed the bedroom door behind him and fell onto the bed in his street clothes. The pain and exhaustion came back with a vengeance, multiplied by the punishing set he had put himself through at the club. It would have been prudent to shower and change, but Aspirin stayed in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. More than anything in the world he wanted to disappear. Simply close his eyes—and adieu.

  He heard Alyona cough in the other room. Through the walls, through closed doors, Aspirin heard something gurgle and sort of rip inside her chest. He raised his head: was she doing it on purpose—to attract his attention?

  A coughing fit. A pause. Another fit. That cough sounded terrifying—could she possibly have tuberculosis? It was one thing for her to die, but he had no desire to contract whatever disease she’d brought with her.

  Hissing in pain, he got up and peeked into the living room. The desk lamp was on; Alyona half sat, half lay on the sofa, hunched up, wrapped in a thin blanket, coughing and shivering.

  “How are you sick? You shouldn’t ever be sick, right? You’re a being from another plane of existence.”

  He was only partially joking, but she didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. Her face looked jaundiced, brightened only by two red spots on her cheeks. Her nose looked sharper. What if she does actually die? Aspirin thought. Will I be pleased?

  He glanced at Mishutka sitting right there by Alyona’s arm. The plush toy looked perfectly indifferent.

  Aspirin went back to his bedroom and lay down staring at the ceiling. Behind the wall Alyona continued coughing, but the sound was dull, stifled—she was coughing into her pillow. Or perhaps into Mishutka.

  The clock was ticking. A dog barked outside, and someone’s alarm system switched on and off. Aspirin thought of his mutilated car—he’d dropped it off at the mechanic’s earlier, but had no energy to discuss the damage.

  Alyona kept coughing.

  Swearing, he got up once more, went into the kitchen, and emptied his medicine cabinet. Despite a heap of nasty habits, Aspirin happened to be a surprisingly healthy individual, and his medicine cabinet held nothing but the condoms that Alyona had mentioned, a tin of breath mints, a pack of BandAids, and an unopened bottle of sleeping pills.

  Just in case, Aspirin put away the sleeping pills. He wasn’t sure why. It was nothing but intuition.

  The clock showed a few minutes past two. Aspirin had no idea where the closest twenty-four-hour drugstore was located. He remembered that it was Sveta the concierge’s shift; she lived next door, and would certainly have the right medicine at home.

  The entire building was asleep, and the noise of the elevator seemed very loud; it made Aspirin jump. What if he got stuck—would he have to stay inside the elevator until morning?

  He took the stairs.

  Sveta was not ther
e. A note on the little window announced, “Back in a moment.” Aspirin looked around. It would make a great headline: “Dr. Aspirin Looking for Pharmaceuticals.” Although, no, the word was too long, and the rhythm was all wrong, it should be “Dr. Aspirin in search of a cure.”

  The front door banged open. In reality, it opened and closed very softly, but in the silence of a sleeping house, every sound made an impression. Aspirin looked: a woman walked in, an umbrella under her arm—his neighbor. They had exchanged greetings for the last few years, but he didn’t know her name and didn’t even remember whether she lived on the third floor or on the fourth.

  At the sight of Aspirin, the woman tensed almost imperceptibly, then relaxed in recognition.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” Aspirin mumbled, seeing himself through her eyes: a crumpled, banged-up, not-quite-adequate thing. “Do you happen to know where a twenty-four-hour pharmacy is around here?”

  “On the corner by the subway station,” the woman said. “But it’s closed tonight.”

  “So much for it being open twenty-four hours,” he muttered.

  She laughed politely. After a pause, she asked, “Why?”

  “I need something for a fever. For a high fever. Something to break it with.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “Would ibuprofen work?”

  “Yes, of course. Is it safe for children?”

  Something in the woman’s eyes changed.

  “How old?”

  “About eleven,” Aspirin said and immediately regretted his answer. “I mean, eleven.”

  “Yes, it is safe. What’s your apartment number? I will drop it off.”

  “Fifty-four.” Aspirin felt a great deal of relief.

  Five minutes later she rang the doorbell.

  “Excuse me, Aspi . . . Aspirin?”

  “Alexey,” he said.

  “Sorry. Here is the ibuprofen. I also have this cold medicine—you need to mix it with a glass of warm water.”

  Alyona had a coughing fit in the living room.

  “Impressive,” the neighbor said. “Have you called the doctor yet?”