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Ilya woke up feeling terrible, it was Easter after all, so the mood fit the occasion.
It was actually his first Easter without his mom.
The house was still silent, the curtains swayed slowly with the winter breeze that still managed to enter through the sealed windows. So his room was mostly dark, grim and weirdly untouched. Since the accident his mother suffered, he didn’t stay much time here either.
His homework was partially done in his table, his stakes were thrown inside the wardrobe and his console already started collecting a small amount of dust on top while his TV lay unplugged, as Ilya hated the buzzing sound of the electricity.
He simply stared at the ceiling, to the decorations surrounding the light bulb, he wondered what would his father force him to do today and better yet, how would he be able to survive it.
Ilya was feeling weird most of the time, as if there was a constant buzzing in his ears and his vision was permanently ever so slightly blurred at all times. He managed to have a small talk and keep up his facade at school, but every time someone raised his voice, he just left, like a spectator of his own life in its own mind.
It came to the conclusion that he probably would be forced to go service, stand long excruciating minutes in that Church, after that his father would talk and talk talk with so so many men and their wives and Ilya would have to smile and make some shitty small talk with their kids as well.
At least he hoped that they didn’t ask what happened to his mother or that they wouldn’t say “I can’t even imagine what that feels like”. It was a futile hope, he knew. But he couldn’t threaten a punch in front of Christ, could he?
Then, he would be shoved into the car, the ride would be filled with Andrey’s voice talking about politics or another shit he didn’t register, and he would be pushed to his grandparent’s house, have lunch and stay mingling there until at least eight.
Well, not him, of course, he couldn’t be around all his family all at once or he would check out completely, and if his father saw him out of it, Christ would be disappointed with his actions.
“Beatings weren’t forbidden forbidden during Easter” he thought, he wondered if he could find a verse to justify it. Probably.
And it wasn’t like he hated all his family, really, he enjoyed his aunts jokes, his grandma’s food and stories but his brain couldn’t handle it all together at the same time.
Still, the light changed little and the curtains kept moving together with the light breeze, he also noticed it was snowing.
His mother would always start the day by boiling water from tea, then the whole house would smell of cinnamon and sugar when he woke up. Ilya tried to remember the smell, close his eyes and pretend the pots were clanking, the news were talking and his mother was still upright and alive.
For a whole second, when the curtains swayed more, he was able to hear something, very slow, as if someone was murmuring and the smell of sweet tea was briefly there with him. His brain seemed clearer, thoughts were less mushy ideas and more sentences and he was so so
Then, his father opened the door.
— Ты Are you not up yet?! еще не встал?! — his tone flat — Боже, приготовься сейчас. God, get ready now.
And slammed the door, making the medals hanged in the close wall tingle. Tingle.
Ilya opened his eyes again to stare at the ceiling, the smell was gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone.
Although he didn’t feel particularly religious, he for sure, though church was the most beautiful and horrid place he’s ever been to.
The carpets were a deep shade of red, while the walls were covered in enough gold to feed a city or buy a Ferrari. The countless images of saints were absolutely everywhere, to the columns to the ceiling, and of course Christ was overlooking it all.
The sight was truly overwhelming sometimes, he knew that.
— Христос в этот день умер за наши грехи Christ in this day died for our sins so that we could reach heaven… , чтобы мы могли попасть на небеса... — the priest proclaimed.
Ilya tried to hide deeper into his coat, shoulders up and hands in his pockets. There were just too many eyes, too many faces. He couldn’t focus on the rest.
The theotokos was there, looking kindly while holding baby Jesus in her arms. He thought about how many times his mother had prayed to the same image in their house and also the many times she simply passed past it.
What would have Christ done if his mother had died?
His eyes were stinging.
Maybe he could find a verse for that too. Probably.
Something about love, family and who knows tea even. Maybe he truly could understand it, why. Why had his mother left him alone in that house? Why didn’t his mother tell him? Or anyone? Why was he there? Why his father just sold, gave or destroyed all her things? Why would she do that to him? Why didn’t she love him enough?
He buried his face inside his scarf, it was sufficient to dry.
He looked once more to the ceiling, to find the face of Christ looking down upon him. Had him infuriated God? Had him been too lazy?
Ilya turned to face the carpet, the questions, he noticed, never had any answers to it. It was an unsolvable thing, as much as he tried to imagine and reimagine, he could never find an answer good enough to any of those questions. Nothing was right enough, not quite right enough.
He felt a warm sensation in his arm, when his eyes traced it, they only found Grigori’s burrowed eyebrows.
— Обратите внимание Pay attention — he whispered.
He was letting on too much, way too much.
After some days following the accident, Ilya’s father was becoming less and less tolerant with all the sorrow. “The funeral’s gone, get over it”. So Ilya had to hide his tears or straight up swallow them, people weren’t coming and saying condolences anymore, so why keep on?
At this point then, he very quickly learned with hot hand mark in his back, that the accident shouldn’t be talked about and neither thought about.
So, as he always did, he breathed in through his nose and swallowed the know in his throat. Blinking some more and sniffing, he perfected his blank expression. His father’s hand left his arm and turned back into his pockets, listening to the priest once more.
It was actually late, almost one in the morning, but Ilya was sitting in his table and in front he had his tear stained bible.
He found out beatings weren’t forbidden after all, his father was correct, discipline was needed.
He also found out there was nothing, absolutely nothing more that could answer his questions. Ilya shuffles between the thin yellow pages, looking and searching through every page to some shadow of an answer. Nothing.
— Черт, черт, почему? Почему? Почему? Shit, shit, why? Why? Why? — he whispered to the book, as if it could talk back.
Ilya pressed his palms into his eyes, wishing the tears would just stop fucking coming again again again again. He beat the top of his head in his fist, he was stupid for thinking this old and cryptic book would solve his problems or give him anything.
With one single motion, he slammed the book close and threw himself on his bed. Curling into himself, the pain in his core, just the pressure of it as if he had just received the news once again again that his mother was gone gone gone, had him wailing like a wounded animal in despair, choking for air but nothing came.
There was no one to save him, so with an impulse, he searched for his bag on the floor and inside it there was a flask, he drank twice and threw the thing back into it’s place.
The wind was howling again through his window, silence ever consuming the seconds of pain like they were endless and meaningless. Ilya crawled into his pillows, clothes still on, hand gripping the cross on his neck and prayed.
—Боже, пожалуйста, пожалуйста, пожалуйста God, please please please, make sure my mother is at least happy, make sure she’s still here, make her stay here with me, please. убедись, что моя мама хотя бы счастлива, убедись, что она все еще здесь, заставь ее остаться здесь со мной, пожалуйста.
And when his tears dried from the inside out, he slept