Archive of Our Own

FROM "ITHACA"
BY GRIGORI DASHEVSKY
TRANSLATED BY VALZHYNA MORT

leaves his footprints on the roofs as he
walks home from the future not his own,
swallowing his voice- in its rays,
fat blood flows down
the golden armor, wet with
red entrails. large heads
have rolled down their shoulders.
speech has grown silent in deep mouths.

"Leave us be while I deal with this."

I do not feel the cool metal of the doorknob under my fingers as the latch catches in the doorframe. The wood, an old dark oak, is rotted at the edges and thin. It leaves nothing in the way of soundproofing, nor does anything in the house—a tall spire eaten away with bugs and ivy. If you focus, sometime just before dawn, when the air is still wet, you can smell the mold off the stones the house is built from.

I hear their voices; Rainbow has a way of commanding presence, abrasive and shrill. I linger in the shadow of the entryway, lanterns casting dimmed gold light that catches on my aching hand. I hesitate before I reach for the soothing click of the lock.

Unaltered by the distance, I hear him—"I deeply apologize for what I’m going to have to do next, Sabre." His voice rings in my head like carillon bells, stays long after he is done speaking. Sometimes my mind will wonder if it is a plausible product of the proximity, constant curing of, the putrefying force that is the twisted—buzzing neurons of mine turned into something else for him, still milling around in my skull like fireflies or ants.

I hear Sabre scream. "No, please, don't," he pleads, "no, no," and for a moment its embarrassing how much he sounds like me. The door is open, now. The crackle of energy comes down on him and ignites skin. I do not recall having moved to stand in front of him—the pain of the strike lowers to a hurting warmth.

Although I tell him he is a fool, both of us are well aware that there is no language as effective as violence. I stagger, shaken by the blow—Rainbow shouts, but I do not understand him. He pushes me towards the house. I stumble into the midnight grass.

Slowly, I sit up. There's another bright strike of light, the same crackle of thunder. A figure bolts ahead and is illuminated by the flash, glossy dark metal armor lit brightly. Its one of the dark guard, I'd know them anywhere; but the reaction is one less of terror and more of confusion.

I back away, beneath the underbalcony. The shouting grows discordant and distant—I cannot see their faces between the thin fog of night and the height of the bridge. Footfall follows, clacking of boots against flagstones joined in song with the rumbling of thunder.

When I come to, Sabre is gone.

I cannot tell why I failed, here. In front of me was an opportunity, the perfect chance to escape—Rainbow had left, I found, to give chase after Sabre and the faceless guard. Yet something broken off from my will, and I found myself standing in the unkept grass, perfectly still.

He grabs me by the arm. Indignation seeps into Rainbow, hidden under his skin as contemptuous strength. His grip is firm and he heaves from the chase, eyes wide and milky-white, reddish in the corners. He is only slightly taller than me, but when he drags me to my feet it feels like miles.

"—Ah, what a night," In his voice is a hint of laughter. "Miss him already, do you, M?"
I only nod in response, though I'm not sure if its true.
Rainbow snickers. "Don't worry. We'll get him back soon enough." In his tone hides a faint cunning, a sparse promise of threat, One I've become tuned to place.

The door of the house is still open. I dig my heels into the dirt, tear up the foliage. Rainbow begins to pull, and when he feels resistance, like a rope pulled taut, his head turns slowly. He smiles, wide with crowded teeth.
"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be, M."
"You're only delaying the inevitable."

I relax, though I never make the impulse consciously. His grip lowers, takes my hand. My boots glide over the pathing stones, dotted with silky andesite. He's warm against my cold palms, and he makes special care to make sure I watch as he leads me inside and locks the creaking front door. He lets go of my hand as it it clicks once, then twice as he pulls a key from a pocket somewhere.

He turns to me. The lanterns hang over him and illuminate his hair in bright iridescent tones, his face is in shadow, and I join him when the lights flicker.
"You could've just stayed inside," Rainbow's voice drops. "This could've been so easily avoided. I don't want to do this, you know."

He pushes me back. My teeth clack together as my skull strikes the floor planks and kicks up dust. I squirm, dig my fingernails into the oak and try to claw away.

He's on top of me. Then he's wrapping his hands around my throat.
Rainbow digs his hands in, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Something in his eyes is manic.

Around the throat, there are two main places to crush— the arteries, and the windpipe. Squeezing the arteries limits blood flow to the brain, but the victim can still breathe, just no blood reaches the brain. Vision will begin to deteriorate, but it won't hurt. However, constricting the windpipe sends the whole body into agony as its systems shut down one by one.

 He is pushing down on both.

I wedge my hands under his but I cannot break the hold he has on me. I kick at the only vulnerable region I can reach, the stomach, and force the steel toe of my leather boots into his intestines. He is undeterred. My movements grow slower. I gasp for air but nothing comes through. My eyes water and he smiles fondly. I try to claw at the skin of his hands and I can't muster the strength to do so. He leans over me like an arched monolith. The world blurs and his bright eyes cut through. I see static in the shadows of his face, then nothing at all.

he left me in a dark room stretched out over a long table for what must have been hours.

he came back because he cannot leave a dead body alone.

The room is dark. The sky is moonless.
When I come back to consciousness I am welcomed only by the vague ache of strangulation, bruises I could not see but were keenly aware of. I cannot move my hands to run my chilled fingers along the line of the wounds. My legs are bound but still I can feel myself twitch uselessly with the instinct to sit up.

The door creaks open, slowly as if expecting peaceful rest. Where my eyes had been wandering aimlessly across the straining edges of my vision, struggling to lift my head from the faux-gurney, they latch onto the faintest pinpricks of light, streaming through the upper half of the door.

He is standing in the corner.

Terror had wiped my mind clean for an instant. I, all at once, was perfectly lucid and entirely thoughtless—I did not make a sound. I didn't black out, not even close to it. I was still.
I thought to cry out but the impulse was all but entirely blocked by a black, featureless wall of paralyzing fear.

Rainbow enters the room. He shuts the door behind him. I hear the door lock.

I am submerged in the dark of the room once again, but I know he is there. With the rustle of fabric I see him spark a lighter, red specks giving way to flame. He turns and ignites a singular candle now lit brightly beside him, cradled in a silver holder and melting yellow-white fatty wax. It casts the right side of his face in gold, as he turns back to me; it gleams off his teeth, pulled into a thin, grotesque smile. The light does not extend far, and his eyes are obscured by the shadows of his sockets.

It occurs to me Professor was once in this very scenario, except back then I was young and naïve and the process was cleaner, brighter. I wonder if he felt the same as I do now.

He makes his way over with a languid stride— accented with the low, grating sound of dragging his boots against the wood. He came back with medical kit in a black canvas bag and an armful of gauze.

"My apologies," He starts, in an almost serene voice, "about the wait."

I do not answer.

He seems to take this as permission. "Don't struggle. You'll only make this take longer."

Underneath the yellow candlelight he rummages through the bag. From it he pulls a white box, and opens it beside me. The box's latch is metallic and loud, and when it shuts again it does so with a clack.

He is holding a pair of surgical scissors. They are small, no larger than a matchbox, with long handles and tiny blades. They glint steely silver in the light.

They stare at me. The seconds stretch on.

Suddenly, with reckless abandon, I struggle, try to fight, try to get a foothold on the table and twist myself free.

Rainbow backs away, the blades in hand. He lets me writhe. Its a useless endeavor. He stands there, just in reach of the light. I slow as exhaustion grabs my limbs.

With his left hand he grabs my head, digging his nails into my scalp, and slams it into the surface. I freeze. Stringy, bright red curls fall out from between his fingers. My vision flickers.

"Hold still." His voice doesn't raise, doesn't get any louder.

He slides his hand unnaturally and wrenches my jaw open between his forefinger and thumb. His pallid, thin fingers blushed cyan taste like iron and salt. A quiet heave escapes my throat. The candle gutters, flicking. He pulls up his sleeves, moves the gauze closer. He gives no time to let the movements linger.

Rainbow takes the scissors in his right hand. The inside of a person is nothing like the clean, monochrome notes I'd grown up on. Everything is one shade of red, cut through with dark veins and bits of flaxen fat and teeth. The hair on his arms turn to thin glowing wires in the light. The metal is cold against my flesh.

It takes a moment. I feel the cut begin to sever the left vocal cord, and I feel the other cord press against the metal, one half of an opening and closing valve. Its a strange sensation.

But then the liquid warmth of blood gives away to pain. It's an entirely wrong place to feel pain at all, one the brain cannot place. The agony is there but the injury remains nebulous and vague.

"Shit," Rainbow curses under his breath, pulls the scissors from my gullet. They are slick with blood and spit. My jaw hangs open and the blood spills from my lips. He takes some of the gauze and presses it into my mouth. I make a horrible gargling sound.

He pulls the fabric, now a bright crimson, from my jaw. He tightens his grip on my head. The cut is jagged, and messy, and I feel the cord come away. The scissors move to pick up the useless thin strip of flesh, and leave my mouth.

I cough, and he muffles it with pressing fresh fabric into my face with the hand that previously held me still. He sets the scissors down. The organ drops onto the table with a wet squish. Rainbow takes my hand into his— he does not let me catch my breath fully before he continues.

He picks up the scissors again, wipes them dry. He once again pierces into the muscle, and I scream— The sound is grotesque and indescribable, but it's so hoarse and desperate that it strains the walls. The air reeks of sweat and meat. I can tell from the focused look in his eyes he finds me difficult to work with.

He pulls the scissors from my jaw. All I can taste is blood. He takes the time to untie my hands, move the sullied gauze from me.

I can feel what's left of the second cord loose among my teeth, sliding around my gums. I press my hand over my mouth and spit the thin crescent shaped piece of meat into it, tailed by a thin line of reddened saliva. I sit up, holding it in my palm and a shallow pool of blood. Rainbow chuckles and places the other loose cord alongside it. They are indistinguishable from thin cuts of slick pork. I feel myself grow queasy, and I lean forward, clenching my fist. Blood oozes from my fingers. Rainbow presses a hand over my mouth.

"Don't vomit," He says this with a lightness. "You'll get an infection."

I know this. I open my mouth to say something but all that comes out is a low, single note, a garbled groan. I take in a shuddered gasp.

Rainbow tilts his head. "What's the matter, M? Didn't think it would work?"

I can feel my mouth filling with blood, even now. I stare at him with wide eyes. He nods as if he understands— a cruel thought, it occurs to me, as of course he understands what it's like; as if he didn't, he wouldn't have gone through with it.

He pays no mind to my staring as he begins to pack up the supplies, holding the scissors and gauze separate to deal with them alone. He sets down the canvas bag to untie my feet. Mindlessly, I turn and let my legs swing off the table. Everything from my lips to my chest is stained shades of crimson. He wipes down parts of the working area.

"Get some rest if you can, okay?" There's a sweetness in the way he says it. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

And then Rainbow unlocks the door, and then he is gone. he leaves the candle burning beside me. My hands are covered in a thin layer of dark crimson, sticky as it dries. Tears sting my eyes, but I cannot bring myself to cry. There is a singular window looming to my right, and the black sky begins to turn red with the first signs of dawn. I hear the creaking of footsteps outside the door.

Never once, when I watched this very thing happen to the professor, did I consider that on some distant day it would happen to me, as well. You never imagine yourself under the knife.