He spoke without moving toward us, spitting his words. He kept talking about blood types and genetic connection, and I thought I could see the words bouncing off the walls of the corridor like rubber balls. I didn’t see the man anymore. He was just a little shadow in the distance. I followed the movement of the balls, watching to see if they would reach me.
We left the station.
Gregory drove. I don’t remember the journey, only the arrival. As we pulled into the driveway, we were jolted for a second. Gregory had missed the corner and climbed the embankment.
He got out of the car, his lips white, and kicked the tire before reaching a hand out for the hood to get his balance. He staggered into the house and crumpled into the armchair in the living room.
The boys stood in the front hall, speechless and slack, lost in our home. I saw them as babies again, finding their place for the first time in this space. They’d never settled into this house. They had never even stepped over the threshold.
I saw them only from a distance as they simultaneously turned toward each other, gazing in silence for a long moment. It was the muffled thud of the first punch that made me react. Vanya and Daniil clutched each other by the shoulders and were brutally fighting each other. Daniil’s nose was already broken, and Vanya’s lip was bloodied. Their entwined bodies contorted with the violence of the blows. Gregory approached to try and separate them, but his efforts didn’t even shake them. He got an elbow to the chin, which threw him back, staggering.
The tiles of the entranceway were slick with bloody spittle, in which the boys slid until a shot to the temple made Daniil lose consciousness. Vanya breathlessly continued beating the still body before crawling away.
They weren’t brothers anymore.
Gregory approached them cautiously. Daniil came to his senses and tried to stand. Gregory pulled up his rumpled pant leg and sat down with them. He was breathing heavily. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and leaned toward the boys as if to take them into his arms. Moving together, Daniil and Vanya lifted themselves onto all fours and looked at Gregory. Their eyes were little more than narrow slits. They then opened their mouths in inhuman grins and threw themselves on him. Daniil scratched him in the face and Vanya grabbed the arm he’d extended them and twisted it behind his back. Gregory got free, screaming, his arms flailing.
Petrified in the middle of the living room, I couldn’t move.
As he escaped, Gregory climbed up a few steps on the staircase. He continued climbing, watching the boys, who sat beneath him, now unmoving. His cheek was striped with deep scratches.
A loud commotion came from upstairs. I ran upstairs toward it, shouting Gregory’s name, but I couldn’t stop him. He’d lost his mind. He was ransacking their room.
He grabbed one of the beds and turned it on its side to get it through the door, bowling me over in the doorway. Brandishing it, he flew effortlessly down the stairs, opened the door to the porch, and threw out the bed, which shattered into pieces. I dropped to my knees at the top of the stairs, following his movements with my head, both hands covering my mouth, my face dripping with tears.
Pushing the boys aside with his foot, Gregory stomped back up the stairs. He went to grab one of their desks, then suddenly stopped cold, looking at the space left by the bed. I dragged myself over to him.
The bed had hidden a clutter that was now visible. Releasing the desk, Gregory began breathlessly digging into the mess. When I approached him, he pushed me away with his hand. I backed up, but I stayed.
He pulled Vanya’s swimming bag toward him and unzipped it. Hesitantly, he spread out the contents. The items were dirty. When Gregory laid them out, dry, sandy earth fell from everything. There was a long rope, a pick, meat hooks, a hunting knife, a big set of pruning shears, and bundles of money.
And fur. A lot of fur.
With a flick of his wrist, Gregory dumped out the bag, shaking it, and started sobbing. I couldn’t see his face, but his back convulsed. I leaned in closer. He held up his hands, black with earth, in front of his face. Between his spread fingers hung tufts of blond hair.
His breathing shifted to a rasping wail. Then, in a gesture of madness, he started rubbing his face with his dirty hands and turned suddenly toward me. Hair stuck to his scratched face, which was wet with tears; his skin was caked with dirt and dark red lumps stuck to his cheeks. He collapsed on the ground shaking his head, psychotic. I ran out, screaming.
The man standing in front of us had seen this before. So had we. Today, after months of processing, it was coming to an end. I sat very straight on my chair, aware of the rhythm of my breath, slow and deep. Next to me, Gregory coughed. He cleared his throat several times, trying to catch his breath.
The social worker peered blankly at our heavy file. To his left, the string from a teabag dangled from a paper cup. Mechanically, he dunked the bag in a useless gesture, punctuating his speech by taking little sips of the beverage, no doubt cold by now.
The meeting stretched on. I did most of the talking. I had already told our story a number of times, to a number of other counsellors. Over the course of the interviews, the story had become more succinct, and now only the highlights remained, the ones that’d led to our decision. The more times I told it, the more sense it made. The sequence of events was clear. There could be no other conclusion.
On the melamine desk was a row
