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Andrew almost never participated in the liturgy directly. Fearing other people's disdainful glances, afraid that one of the parishioners would speak behind his back and condemn, only occasionally did he allow himself to warm himself in the antechamber, but he never set foot inside the temple itself.
And now, he was sitting by the cold stone wall, looking into the window at the ongoing festivity. To drink the blood of Christ and taste His flesh? Andrew could only hope that at the end of the ceremony there would be a couple of miserable crumbs of prosphora left for him.
Habitual gloomy thoughts kept visiting him, even when he watched such a wonderful procession. It would seem that his soul should be cleansed and the mind should turn to God ... Right. Andrew decided to focus on prayer instead of falling to another episode of deep self-loathing. The ceremony will soon come to an end, which means there is a chance that the offering will succeed. Andrew tried to never miss a chance to repent of his sins.
"Lord Jesus Christ, let there be Your holy gift: the prosphora and Your holy water for the remission of my sins, for the enlightenment of my mind, for the strengthening of the spi-…"
Andrew fell silent. Someone’s steps...? Just his imagination.
"…for the consolidation of my spiritual and bodily strength, for the health of my soul and body, for the subjugation of my passions and infirmities, according to Thy boundless mercy"
Andrew clenched his hands tighter, as if believing that the harder he prayed, the sooner he would be saved.
"...by the prayers of Your Most Pure Mother and all Your saints. Amen."
Having crossed himself after a short pause, Andrew was ready to enter the temple, from where the parishioners had already begun to disperse after the completion of the liturgy. He opened his eyes, about to rise from the ledge, when he suddenly recoiled sharply, covering his head with his hands out of habit.
"Who is this and what does he want?" - flashed through Andrew's head, - "Why is he giving me his prosvirka[1]? Is it poisoned?!"
A small silent pause helped Andrew to see stranger's face through his fingers. Black hair with a white streak, large black eyes and a mouth... darned with threads, but expressing a sincere smile. Andrew felt fear and distrust, even more than usual. The stranger did not move, as if frozen, with his hand reached out. Only a couple of moments passed, but it felt like a tense, dismal eternity.
Andrew hesitated to take the offering. "Wh-what do you want?! Go away, go away! ..uwee-" - after trying to send the stranger away, Andrew cringed even more, as if ready for retaliatory aggression towards him. The man in black took out a handkerchief from his pocket, placed it on the stone ledge where Andrew sat, and left the prosphora on the handkerchief. After that, he left as silently as he came, without uttering a word. Andrew sat without breathing, only relaxing after he was sure the stranger was gone. Who was that? How did he find Andrew? Why did he give away the prosvirka? It's definitely poisoned or is just a mockery.
Nevertheless, Andrew knew that it was impossible to get rid of the holy bread, so he carefully picked up the prosphora along with the handkerchief, examining them. A standard prosphora from a service just ended... perhaps not even poisoned. The handkerchief raised more questions in Andrew’s mind. It was embroidered with patterns of red thread and gold, with the letter V was visible in the corner. It looks rich, it looks ominous. What if it's a message from someone from the criminal organization that Andrew worked for? What to do in this case? What if this person is just a "messenger", whose task is to quietly eliminate such a useless pawn?
Thoughts filled his head again, but unable to bear the overthinking any longer, Andrew said softly, and somewhat resentfully, "Well, that’s what must have happened...!" - and bit off the prosphora...
Nothing has happened.
No pain or agony. Even the stomach did not growl, and the head did not become clouded. How so? Did some person just decide to share the holy offering with him?
Unable to guess and torment himself any longer, Andrew wrapped the rest of the prosphora in a handkerchief and put it in his pocket, deciding to quickly get into his cubbyhole so as not to stumble upon someone else.
_
Many days have passed since that weird meeting with the stranger. Andrew has not seen him since. He made sure that this was not a messenger from the organization, because issues were resolved much faster there, and Andrew would have been long gone.
Maybe it was a ghost? Maybe it was a dream? But the handkerchief was still with him... Tired of reflections and anxieties, Andrew gradually began to forget that meeting, plunging headlong into his usual grave keeper routine.
Night.
Raindrops were tapping the tiles of the roofs, creating a frightening, pumping melody. Andrew was used to working in any conditions, so even now, in such bad weather, he was digging the wet earth, plunging his shovel into the cold graveyard soil with force.
He was listening to the sound of the rain, to the rare barking of dogs, to the heavy rolls of thunder. This "music" either calmed him, or was unbearable, turning into a diabolical cacophony. How many sounds water creates... It's like someone's footsteps - they make Andrew turn around and look for silhouettes in the shadows of the tombstones. It's like the roar of cars - it makes Andrew shrink and hope that they did not come to his soul. It's like heavy and mournful playing on the organ - wait ... it really was the sounds of the organ, coming from the church building, carried through the cemetery through the rough noise of the heavy rain. Andrew drew himself up to his full height, trying to listen, trying to distinguish the pure sound of music, which was completely different from the usual church tunes. He squinted and checked the time.
1:25 am.
Witch hour. The time when all hostile spirits come to the surface to do evil.
Is it possible that some kind of evil spirit really got into the church to commit blasphemy and use the holy instrument for their own purposes? "... must be hooligans." - Andrew thought angrily, trying to remain realistic. Taking a shovel with him, he headed towards the church with a heavy step, ready to shoo city punks away. Neither parishioners nor clergy should be in the temple at such an hour.
Andrew approached the church, with the sounds of the organ only getting louder, playing right into his head, right into the heart, leaving no room for anything else.
Stepping into the porch and crossing himself, Andrew entered the hall. Rainwater, mixed with mud, dripped onto the clean carpet that ran from the door to the altar. Andrew looked up at the balcony where the organ stood. Even in the darkness, he could see the figure of the person sitting there, as if the light came from the player himself. Clothes covered with gold, dazzling white gloves and hair...
Suddenly the music stopped. The temple was plunged into deathly silence. The man who played the organ carefully stood up and calmly walked towards the altar, breaking this silence with the sound of gentle heels.
Andrew froze in a daze. He expected to see either young punks or hideously scary devils at worst. But the one whom he observed with his own eyes did not look like a devil, he did not look like a saint either. Who is he?
Meanwhile, the stranger stood in front of the altar, looking directly at Andrew, who was frozen in the very entrance of the hall. The man made a slight gesture with his hand, which caused the candles in the temple to light up one after another.
"This is not a human, at all...," Andrew thought, still unable to move from fear and confusion.
{Did you like my playing?} - the voice that resonated in Andrew's head made him flinch.
{Do not be afraid. You don’t recognize me? Come closer.}
Andrew, as if hypnotized, took a couple of steps forward, but then stopped. "No, no, no, no. It's the devil, he's luring, seducing me. I must leave now!" Andrew said to himself, but made no move towards the exit. On the contrary, he stepped forward again, as if interest was stronger than fear.
He and the stranger at the altar looked at each other silently and almost without blinking. Andrew looked at the rich suit of the man in front of him, at the white hair, at the red eyes, at the pale skin... "Then they were right... calling me a monster. That devil... his hair and eyes...are the same..."
{It can also mean that you are saint. Isn't it?} Same bewitching voice called again in Andrew's head.
With this, the stranger narrowed his eyes with a smile and slightly tilted his head to the side, still not uttering a word aloud.
Andrew was breathing heavily: in complete confusion, he tried to think that this was a dream, that this was nonsense, or that he had already died. Everything but reality. However, instinctively, he grabbed the cross that he always wore on his chest in his hand.
"Get away! Get out of the holy house of God, devil!" Andrew finally spoke up.
The figure at the altar did not move.
Andrew took a couple more steps forward, holding out his hand with the cross in front of him. At that moment, he forgot all his defensive prayers, hoping that the Lord would hear only that mute, helpless praying of his.
{After you accepted my offering, I hoped for a more cordial welcome.}
These words made Andrew dumbfounded. Prosphora... That was the trick. It was a devilish trap... shouldn't have eaten it... The devil pretending to be human. It was a test, and now Andrew's soul will forever burn in hellfire, no matter how much he prays...
For a second, he wanted to cry from resentment at himself and at the whole world, but the voice in his head spoke again:
{Actually, I remembered that I left my handkerchief with you. Could you give it back?}
That's right, a handkerchief. Andrew kept that wrapped piece of prosphora with him. Patting his coat, he looked for it in his pocket and took it out.
Why is the voice in his head compelling him to obey? Why can’t he leave, run away... he can’t even pounce on an intruder with a shovel. Why does this voice sound so...warm...?
Andrew was standing clutching a handkerchief with prosphora in his hands, hesitating to come closer to the altar. Nevertheless, the so-called devil himself started walking towards Andrew, stepping almost weightlessly on the canvas of the church carpet, as if he belonged to this place, as if he was holier than all saints.
Andrew wanted to dissolve, to run away, to hide from the unknown. However, he couldn't move, but he couldn't continue looking either. He looked down at the handkerchief, nervously fiddling with it in his hands, focusing his eyes on the ornate patterns and the letter embroidered in the corner.
{V is the initial of my name. Victor.}
Andrew shuddered as he noticed that the distance between the two of them had shrunk significantly. Victor held out his hand, looking at Andrew with the same enigmatic smile of his stitched mouth.
Exhaling noisily, Andrew held out the handkerchief, placing it in Victor's palm with his trembling hand.
Victor nodded gently, and, closing his eyes, crossed Andrew.
{Go. May your path be bright in gratitude for your virtue. You are a son of God, Andrew, as are all of us.}
Andrew felt goosebumps all over his body, as if the words sounded not only in his head, but also in his heart, embracing it with warmth and kindness, while also digging into it with the thorns of a tight vine. He did not have time to think what kind of feelings pierced his soul at that moment. But it certainly wasn't anything positive.
Andrew finally felt that he had regained control of his body, and, turning sharply, hurried away from the temple, in hopes that it was all just a dream, and everything will now disappear.
Victor remained standing in the middle of the hall, only continuing to smile at Andrew as he left.
_
Andrew was sure he was cursed. Despite the fact that almost three months had passed since the meeting with Victor, during all this time Andrew could not feel calm. Wherever he was, he felt a presence, as if burning red eyes followed his every move. He noticed random silhouettes, he caught a look at a man in black robes in a crowd of parishioners, he saw a figure in a red and gold outfit sitting on the roof of the church - but every time, after a moment, the vision disappeared. Andrew was feeling like he’s going insane, that the demon had bestowed upon him a soul-devouring, mind-devouring possession. It brought nothing but suffering. Almost always, the visions were inaccessible, Andrew could not be sure if it was reality or consciousness was playing a cruel joke with him.
It was early in the morning, Andrew was finishing his work, trying to complete it before the sun rose: the last thing he wanted to do was to work, squinting and hiding from the burning light. And here it is again. With the corner of his eye, Andrew noticed that someone was standing around the corner of the church annex. But as soon as he lifted his head to look, the figure disappeared. "I'm tired of this, stop pestering me, leave me alone!!!" - he thought with anger and despair, being sure that the demon will hear his thoughts.
Grabbing a shovel, he ran around the corner where the man had disappeared... but found no one there. However, right in front of him, on a stone ledge, was a black envelope. So, someone really followed him, since they left a message. Andrew hesitated, unsure if the letter was meant for him.
Doubts were dispelled when he saw his name written on the envelope with gold ink. "You are the son of God, Andrew..." - the words uttered by Victor seemed to echo in his head. Andrew didn't even tell him his name. But there is nothing to be surprised at the devilish tricks - they can do anything and even more. Andrew carefully took the envelope and slipped it into his chest pocket, not daring to read it right away. The sun was almost up, and Andrew decided to head to his cub, where he usually hides until evening.
The letter was still with him. It was laying right on the table, illuminated by daylight from a small window. Andrew nervously clenched his fists, not ready to open the envelope. All of this: the envelope itself, the letters written in gold and the seal caused him anxiety, fear, rejection. "I will open the envelope and fall into hell on this very spot, right now," he thought. Fatigue and oppressive thoughts drove Andrew to sleep, and, unable to fight, he gave up and fell asleep, leaning right on the table, without unveiling the message.
The light of the evening sun was gently dancing between the black branches of the cemetery willows. Andrew opened his eyes, blinking heavily and stretching like an old dog. The envelope was still in front of him, untouched, - seeing it, Andrew quickly returned to reality and frowned. Without giving himself time to think, he carelessly pried open the seal with his fingernails and took out the letter. The letter looked more like a page torn out of a book, with a little burnt on it. Demonic seals were adorning the page and terrifying Andrew. He felt a tingle in his fingers and abruptly dropped the letter from his hands. It landed softly back on the table, and then Andrew finally decided to read it.
Behind the demonic seals at the top of the page were barely visible lines:
« And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.
So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.»
Andrew frowned. "Lines from the Old Testament... Is he still trying to convince me that both I and he are pure and sinless beings? Quite the contrary..." With these thoughts, Andrew looked at the very content of the letter. It was written somewhat differently than the excerpt from the Testament, as if written with a different hand.
"Dear Andrew,
A lot of time has passed since our last meeting, but I remember this moment as if it were yesterday. I didn’t let you go of my thoughts, but I didn’t dare to approach, therefore I watched you, with warmth and anxiety, like a mother. "
After reading these lines, Andrew made sure that the figure that followed him everywhere was really Victor. Taking a deep breath and frowning more than ever, he continued to read. The next part of the letter was completely harmless, as if written by a relative, who decided to find out about everyday life, weather and well-being. At the very bottom could be seen the signature "Sincerely yours, Victor."
For a second, Andrew felt comfortable, and a slight smile appeared on his face, as if he believed that someone was taking care of him and was interested in his life. However, after a moment, his face turned sullen again. "So, he's been following me, which means he wants something from me. But what? Am I supposed to write back? I can't-... no! I won't write back to such an arrogant demon!" Andrew hit the table, but immediately took his hand away and shrugged his head into his shoulders, afraid that someone would hear and come to the rumble from his cubbyhole.
He didn't really write letters back, but he continued to feel the presence, trying to catch up with the silhouettes, each time receiving only a letter, with no trace of Victor himself anywhere. They continued to play this game, which seemed endless. Each letter began with scriptures and ended with light questions about Andrew's well-being and daily life.
Andrew didn't answer any of the letters, but he didn't throw them away either, placing each one carefully in the cabinet. Despite the fear that still haunted him and the endless weariness, Andrew felt as if someone needed him. As if someone really cares about him, wants to know about him, in such a discreet, friendly way without having to meet in person.
That was enough for Victor: even when Andrew did not see him, he continued to watch, he felt the emotions that Andrew feels when reading, he saw how carefully Andrew puts the message back into the envelope and places it in his room - that was enough for Victor.
Over time, Andrew began to notice that the letters changed their tone. The beginning of the letter invariably remained lines from scriptures. However, the letters themselves were no longer addressed to Andrew, but were reflections on these scriptures, on faith and on the church. Victor asked questions, forcing Andrew to ask those questions along with him.
"Why is a miracle performed by the Lord called a miracle, and a miracle performed by a man is called witchcraft and abomination, if man was created in the likeness of God?"
"Can people, all created by the Lord, and all equal under him, judge their own kind not according to the law of God, but according to their own whims and their own delusions?"
Andrew realized that all the questions in one way or another described his life, and some - the life of Victor, about which he never wrote directly. In some ways he agreed, something made him tremble and deny everything that was written. Why is Victor trying to convince him that all those who surround Andrew, who condemn his existence and call him a monster, are wrong? Can the clergy be wrong? Can the absolute majority be wrong?
Each new letter was harder to read. Heavy thoughts were filling Andrew's head. Doubts about the views imposed by the church destroyed his picture of the world, which he considered absolute truth. Memories of his mother continued to appear in his mind, making him cry and, with pain in his heart, desire at least a piece of that maternal protection and peace that he received in deep childhood.
How did he allow the demon to have so much power over his mind and condition?
Wanting to distract himself from doubts and depressing thoughts, Andrew began to pray even more often, in the hope that G-d would hear him and lead him to the rightful path. It could hardly help a sinner like him...
_
They bring the bodies.
I bury the bodies.
They pay me money.
I dig up the bodies.
Others take the bodies.
Others pay me money.
At first, Andrew made a living from only selling the bodies of dead people to illegal clinics and doctors who wanted to use them for their own research and experiments.
"How could that be bad? It's just a transaction."
Later, people from a certain criminal organization turned to Andrew, who, for good money, could ensure the complete "utilization" of the bodies, burying them in a mass grave or burning them.
In reality, the bodies delivered by the organization, were redirected by Andrew to his other clients, the doctors. He considered this scheme to be absolutely ingenious, being content with income from both sides. And it really worked perfectly while he was making sure that neither side would ever reveal his plan.
They bring the bodies.
I bury the bodies.
They pay me money.
I dig up the bodies...
A heavy hand landed on Andrew's shoulder, giving him no time to react.
"We paid you for salvage, not for reselling corpses," a gruff low voice came from behind Andrew’s back.
Not having the courage to answer, he simply nodded in response.
"So why the hell is M's body now flaunting on the corpse cutter table at the Clinic, instead of rotting in the ground with his buddies?"
Andrew's whole body was trembling, his legs going numb. Without saying a word, he slouched even more, trying to hide himself and disappear into his own coat.
Terrible day, judgment day. Are they going to shoot him now? To be killed like a lousy dog that accidentally bit the feeding hand?
"...t-it must have been some sort of mistake..." He whined under his breath in response.
The man behind him pulled out a revolver and held it to the back of Andrew's head. Cold sweat covered his pale face, and his lips moved, silently saying the last prayer.
"Ha...ha-ha." The man pushed Andrew in the back of the head with his fist so that grave keeper could not keep his balance and fell to the ground, managing to put his hands in front of him at the last moment. The man laughed even harder, but then abruptly fell silent.
"Be thankful that I was the one sent to ‘reprimand’ you. If you want to continue living, you’ll work for free until you work off the… moral damage. I think this money feels much more comfortable in my pockets. If you continue to engage in such nonsense, the next conversation will be the last." The man spoke as if with a grin, but his voice was cold and hard. After these words, he returned to the car in which he arrived.
Andrew remained on all fours, still and silent, his eyes closed, ready to cry. Everything went horribly. He already regretted being left alive.
No money from the organization.
Rumors between other clients and rejections.
Also, damn letters that torment his soul every time he reads them.
Tears dripped onto the dry ground. Andrew was so ashamed, so disgusted with himself. Everything he starts ends badly. Everything that happens only leads to failure and suffering.
He tried to wipe his face with his dirt-stained hand, only smearing tears down his cheeks. Somehow getting up from the ground, still trembling from stress and crying, he stepped away from the church, not wanting to be here now.
_
The first November snow twisted silently in the air, falling on the ground, hard from frost.
Confession.
Andrew was on his knees in front of Batyushka[2], his head bowed, trying to focus on his thoughts, ready to confess.
"I think you have something to say, Andrei... Don't be silent."
Andrew tried to concentrate, but his hands began to tremble with growing anxiety. Too many events have happened since the last confession to be ready to tell the priest about them. About his internal questions, about doubting his faith, about the dirty sinful deeds that Andrew did for equally dirty sinful money. He wasn't ready. He couldn't utter a word.
Batyushka patiently waited for Andrew to start confessing, but without even raising his head, he felt contempt and irritation emanating from the priest. The feeling was not a mistake.
"I can't stand with you all day, Andrei. Are you sure that you are clean before the Lord, that you have no sin?" - after these words, almost in a whisper, Batyushka added, - "for someone like you even to pray for a century, you won't pray off of your devilish disease."
Andrew felt those how words crawled into his heart like a worm, tearing it apart with its teeth from the inside. He knew that even here he was never loved and accepted, he understood that he would never stop being an outcast. He was again filled with deep resentment, anger. Andrew's eyes were barely holding back the tears. He hated himself even more, he hated both the church and the Batyushka who stood in front of him.
"Have you heard what rumors have been circulating around you lately? You sure you don’t wan-..."
Without waiting for the end of the sentence, Andrew ran out of the church. He could no longer be there, he wanted to leave, he wanted to disappear from this world, realizing that his whole existence was a mistake, that he had no future, and there would never even be hope for light and righteousness, no matter how much he prayed, no matter how much he swears to God. All this is in vain.
{Priests are mere mortal people, themselves full of sin. Golden robes and long beards do not at all mean their closeness to G-d. Andrew, you...}
- Ahhh! - Andrew screamed, clutching his head. He was absolutely not ready to conduct dialogues with Victor, he did not want to hear his voice at all, - It's all because of you! You made me doubt my faith, you made me live in sin with no hope for the future!!! If I can't kill you, get you out of my head, I'd rather die myself to end this all!!!
With these words, Andrew ran towards the forest. Tears filled his eyes, blood pounded in his ears.
"I can't, I can't, I don't want to live like this. This only leads to the end; this is all just a mockery of my existence!"
Andrew ran through the forest, tripping over a log and slipping on the frozen ground. He saw nothing in front of him, he heard no sound but the noise in his head. The thorny branches of the fir trees were hitting him over the face and body, like whips that punished sins. Andrew didn’t notice he reached the edge of the ravine, and, without even having time to realize what was happening, he fell head over heels from the slope. Strike and darkness.
Is this the end? Is this what he really wanted?
_
There was no one in the temple. Andrew was lying beside the altar, the midday sun dancing across the colored mosaics on his back. Peace and quietness enveloped him, as if pulling him into an embrace, warm and so strong, as if they were his mother's hands, which Andrew missed so much, with the same motherly tenderness he wanted to feel again. No, it was not an illusion - someone's arms really hugged him from behind. Andrew opened his eyes wider to see the familiar white gloves and red patterned sleeves on his chest.
This time he didn't feel anything. No anger, no doubts and mental anguish. He couldn't move and almost couldn't think. This moment seemed like an eternity to him. An eternity in which he wanted to stay. Closing his eyes just a bit, Andrew silently looked at the painted vault of the dome, where the angels crowded, telling many biblical stories.
- Do you still think I'm the devil? - he heard a voice, so familiar, but so... different. Different, because it came from Victor himself, and without sounding like a strange hallucination in his head.
Andrew didn’t find the strength to answer and silently, calmly nodded. It all felt like a dream.
- How do you imagine the saints? – once again he heard Victor's voice.
Andrew took a moment to think. In front of his eyes there still were paintings from the vaults of the temple. Andrew wanted to speak up, but something was stronger than him, something kept him silent. He weakly raised a trembling hand, pointing at the paintings and icons. At that moment, even more light illuminated the temple. But this light was not burning, it was not hostile and harmful. It was full of warmth and love; it made Andrew feel at ease.
Victor placed his hand over Andrew's forehead, carefully brushing his hair out of his face. "You know the truth, listen to your heart. After all, they could never see either angels or demons, but only speculate on the scriptures. On the scriptures, which, as you and I know, have a lot of questionable things in them..."
Andrew closed his eyes and frowned slightly, still basking in the gentle embrace. Tears welled up in his eyes as he felt ready to agree with Victor's words. "I..," - he finally tried to raise his voice.
"Shh. I can hear your thoughts and your emotions. Everything comes from your heart, focus on that," Victor interrupted him, lightly stroking Andrew's chest.
"You are looking for salvation... and I can give it to you if you believe in me."
Andrew was silent, the same heaviness began to return to his head. His mind did not want to agree, the internal struggle still continued. He was so close to agreeing and giving all himself to Victor with all his soul, however...
"That's...not true. It's not like that," - Andrew finally said. "Everything you say is a lie. Everything they say is a lie. "
"I'm tired... I hate this all, I hate you... You're just a vile devil who made me turn off the rightful path. I'm so weak I'm disgusted with myself. Is this what you wanted?!" Tears started falling from Andrew's eyes, "Leave me alone, please, I can't take it anymore! I don't know why you keep bullying me, why you keep following me! Take what you want and disappear, get out of my life..."
Andrew, unable to contain himself, began to sob aloud, his cries and sobs echoing fearfully through the temple. It looked like everything around had gone dark.
"It's not the time yet..." Victor whispered, stroking Andrew's cheek and letting him frantically clutch at his robes. "Your holy blood..."
Andrew did not hear the end of the phrase, he suddenly felt that he was suffocating, and his eyes almost stopped seeing what was happening - everything seemed to be covered with black liquid, and the only thing that he still felt was the same gentle, but vicious embrace of the demon, which now seemed to be the only salvation...
The birdsong was too loud for a November morning. Andrew opened his eyes, still unable to recover from the strange dream. He automatically touched his head - the place of the hit hurts a lot, but it had already been taken care of and covered with bandages.
"I did not expect to return to this disgusting reality," - thought Andrew, and then his glance fell on the nightstand next to the bed. There was a familiar black envelope. Andrew felt that he didn't have the strength to read anything right now. He was mentally devastated, exhausted. All he felt now was the desire to disappear, harder than ever.
Victor always felt it when Andrew opened the envelope, but this time he didn't feel any signs. He expected that this particular letter would remain sealed for a long time, because Andrew's soul is broken, and he needs time to recover and realize what is important now. Victor was ready to patiently wait, as long as needed.
_
December crept up unnoticed. The weeks felt like one long day to Andrew, full of cold, loneliness and suffering. His soul was broken, and he completely lost any reason to exist. He woke up in the dark, worked in the dark, and went to sleep in the dark. The polar night[3] saves him from the sun, at the same time turning life into an endless veil of darkness. The wound on Andrew’s head, which he received from falling into the ravine, reminded him of itself, excruciating aching pain or causing Andrew to suffer from dizziness.
Nevertheless, he continued to work, completely withdrawing into himself. He did not want to communicate with anyone, did not want to look at anyone. He began to pray much less often, because he forbade himself to do so. As if he considered himself unworthy of even a chance for forgiveness. Andrew felt alone in this world, even Victor seems to have stopped following him, stopped leaving letters. Was he offended that Andrew hadn't opened the last letter yet? Or is he waiting for something... In any case, Andrew fell into complete despair, because he stopped feeling support even from the "wrong" side. Completely alone. He almost stopped eating. The nuns brought him dinner, but often Andrew didn't even touch it. He seemed to hope that his body would rot alive, that he would crumble into ashes and disappear along with his miserable little soul. But this did not happen, and he continued to plunge into darkness and hopelessness day after day.
It became more and more difficult to dig the earth, with the advent of winter it froze several meters down. The ice crust only added to the hassle each morning. However, Andrew didn't really care. He felt like a machine doing one job.
Today he felt more dizzy than usual - perhaps this was due to a change in the weather. No one would give Andrew any favors, so despite his discomfort, he continued to work, occasionally slipping on the stone ledges and paths.
And-hop, and-hop, and-... The fresh, deep grave was ready, and Andrew only had to get out and evaluate his work, as an artist evaluates a painting upon completion. Usually, it was not difficult for him to get out, but suddenly, Andrew again felt an attack of dizziness, and, unable to hold on to the slippery soil, collapsed on his back, hitting the back of his head on the handle of his own shovel. The hit was not strong, but at that exact moment Andrew felt so miserable, so humiliated ... He was laying at the bottom of a cold grave, looking into the dark blue sky of a winter dawn. He saw ravens flying over him, and heard dogs howling in the distance. All his life made fun of him.
"I... don't want to get up. I'm ready to die here. This is my destiny. I don't want anything else," Andrew thought to himself, folding his arms over his chest. Tears flowed from his eyes. From despair, from resentment, from hatred, from disgust... He seemed to experience all the destructive feelings at the same time.
Light steps were heard, the sound of heels on the icy path. Andrew was afraid that some of the nuns would find him in this state, but decided that if he did not move, he would not be noticed. A figure appeared against the dark sky, standing right above the grave. Andrew instantly recognized the silhouette.
"You-u.." Andrew rasped, his face grimacing in pain, as if he was looking at the most terrible and disgusting creature in his life. The creature he now blamed for all his troubles.
Victor silently looked at him: his face, on the contrary, did not express anything - there was no usual slight smile, but there was no condemnation either. He silently looked at Andrew lying in the grave and crying.
Instead of helping Andrew out, he descended into his grave, stepping carefully down through the air.
{"Take what you want and disappear..." - so you said in the dream. You aren’t going back on your words, are you?}
"I... I don't care anymore... I'm worthless... and I don't understand what it is about me that bothers you. You came into my life to destroy it, now what?" Andrew said through sobbing.
{I've come to save you} - Victor's voice answered. With these words, he went down to Andrew, carefully taking his cheeks in his hands.
Andrew had never seen Victor's face so close, even through the veil of tears, he could see his eyes, his features. And this face did not cause any repulsion, it was even more pleasant and bright than the faces of those saints Andrew saw on the icons.
Victor finally smiled, but the smile seemed to pierce Andrew to the very heart. Very painful. Very scary and desperate. He continued to sob, feeling the demon untying the handkerchief around his neck, undoing the buttons of his shirt.
This is what you have achieved, Andrew. This is something you couldn't resist.
Andrew continued to lie motionless, like a child, trying to close his mouth, trying to calm his sobs and spasms. His head was still spinning.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in the lower part of his neck, which made him cry out briefly. It was a bite. A bite of sharp, devilish teeth that pierced his fragile white skin like blades, tearing through his veins.
The lines from the holy scripture flashed through Andrew's head:
"...For it is the life of all flesh; the blood of it is for the life <...> Ye shall eat the blood of no manner of flesh: for the life of all flesh is the blood thereof: whosoever eateth it shall be cut off."
Andrew closed his eyes.
"You want to take my soul... So be it. It's already... good for nothing," he thought, turning his words to Victor.
{Your soul is as pure as your blood. Your holy blood is salvation...} Victor answered him, embracing Andrew and gently but greedily lapping the scarlet liquid flowing from the wound.
Andrew is completely silent. After a long pause, he whispered:
"For my flesh…is meat indeed, and my blood…is drink indeed. He that eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood… dwelleth in me, and I… in him?" - the lines from the Gospel acquired a completely different, completely distorted meaning. But Andrew suddenly felt what he had longed for so long. Despite the pain, despite the sin that he now allowed to be done to him, he believed that this was the only salvation, he finally believed Victor. He felt truly needed, truly calm and blissful.
Victor felt Andrew's heavy hands on his back, holding the vampire closer. Even here, lying in a black grave, covered in the dirt of earth and snow, Andrew was beautiful, and his blood was the hottest, purest and... the holiest, filling Victor's body with life, giving him the energy, he had craved for so long.
Victor could feel faith filling Andrew's heart. Not the faith that was imposed on him in the church, but the faith that Victor himself gave him.
It was a salvation for both of them.
_
Andrew did not remember how it all ended, how he got out of the grave, how he got to his cub... He woke up in the evening, feeling a strong weakness in his body. Approaching the dirty mirror, he saw a wound on his neck covered with dried blood - so sloppy, so noticeable, like a stigma indicating the committed sin.
However, he did not feel anger, he did not feel fear and anxiety. Fatigue and peace... Had he finally accepted his existence? Can he really continue to live believing in his own truth?
Andrew glanced at the nightstand next to the bed. The unopened letter was still there.
Without thinking twice, he calmly took it in his hands and tore off the seal.
At the top of the page, the sacred lines were again written. Those are the lines that were on Andrew's mind when he allowed Victor to drink his blood.
"...my blood…is drink indeed." Andrew involuntarily repeated aloud.
He looked down. There was only one sentence on the paper:
"Are you ready to let me into your heart?
Yours truly, the Embrace."