Search for Vengeance

Gliding across the snow capped Ural Mountains of northern Russia, Vladimir's overcoat flutters behind him leaving whispers of snow swirling toward the overcast sky. The smallest sliver of sunlight highlights his sharp cheekbones and glitters against his newly grown raven waves. Crystals cling to his face and his already pale skin is losing its opacity, but a fire burns inside. The fire of revenge. With every step he takes, the crunch of packed snow echoes in the far away towns, but the stinging wind sweeps away any evidence left of his everlasting trek. He travels for miles without rest and ponders his life as a child.
         Growing up wealthy was not always as simple as popular belief has held. His family was the uppermost ranks of the Russian mafia, the largest Братва controlling territory from Moscow to St. Petersburg; and Vlad was subjected to witness horrors his nightmares that woke him up screaming could not compare to. Renegades, innocents, even small children were executed for petty mistakes. Every waking minute was a bloodbath in his world. He had seen his father shoot six people, execution style, tied together on their knees dreaming of a miracle, for acting against the brotherhood. This is the reason behind his planned escape five years prior, on the eve of his official initiation.          
         The night was cool and airy, but no stars shone over the family villa, and yet Moscow's city lights scattered an ice blue haze across the lush lawn. Vladimir dangled over the iron rod gate that surrounded the balcony jutting from his third story bedroom. He lifted his head to the wind and felt its slender hands brush across his stubble hair. For a boy so young, he obtained the look of handsome maturity from his father and played it up with expensive, stylish clothing tailor made to his chiseled features. As he hung, visible smells of borscht, smoked veal, and fresh bread wafted from the main level below and stuck in his nostrils, sending the message to his brain that supper was ready.
         He had turned fourteen only a month earlier, and tonight, organization members gathered to discuss his full time position in the “family business,” even if he refused to be a part of that life. Vlad's family's lifestyle had caused his distant, lonesome nature and friends proved to be an impossible dream. It was fear that kept them away. If Vlad was crossed in any way, punishment rained down on the perpetrators, and all living in the Homeland were prone to that knowledge. In a sense, Vlad was numb to affection and feelings. His face was a statue, never flinching a smile or frown. Even sadness could not penetrate his cold exterior. All he cared for were his mother, brother, and sister. The road halted thereafter.
         Vlad slowly made his way down the burgundy stairway, careful not to disturb the low mumbling voices seeping from the lounge. Creeping downwards, toe by toe, clutching the sleek railing, he followed the glorious meal's scents into the kitchen where he found his mother, Anastasya.
         Shining midnight locks stretched to the curve of her back, blending with her sharp jade eyes and sheer black Oscar de la Renta gown, rendering her more stunning than usual. She was a tall, thin woman, previously a high fashion model, strutting the runways throughout Europe and gracing the covers of popular Russian magazines. She had even ventured to America one winter, posing for an editorial in the coveted Vogue, which had pictured perfectly her pale olive skin and distinct eastern facial features. Vlad was proud of her achievements. He wished he had been gifted with her strength, as she had withstood a life of torture.
         Vlad's father, Pavel, was a vile man. At the top of the ladder, he could obtain any woman he desired, so of course he took advantage of that favor. He married Anastasya only for her looks, and to carry on his undying name, but he betrayed her whenever he left the house. She was well aware, though, that it was better to be miserable and in this situation, than to make a fuss and be disposed of.
         “Vlad, would you please remove the tea from the stove and pour it into the mugs I left on the table?” she inquired sweetly. She never even looked up from the soup she stirred so carefully.
         “Of course, mother” he answered with a smile. He was glad to do anything she asked since the rest of the family treated her like their own personal maid, picking up their designer clothes, cleaning their bathrooms, and anything else their selfishness requested. Even so, he loved his siblings, and he saw how their father corrupted them into monsters. Yes, he tried to teach them wrong from right, but it was too difficult, too risky under his father's surveillance.
         Turning the stove's dial to zero, Vlad lifted the kettle and slowly carried it to the hand crafted mugs, paying close attention to the flowing Oolong so it would not so much as drip on the gold threaded tablecloth. His eyes roamed the open rooms to the family room, scanned the cold hard faces that sat around his father on the leather wrap couches, and paused at one auburn haired man who, in turn, stared up at Vlad with a gaze that could have frozen him on the spot. This man's grey eyes held ominous pain, fear, and frustration like prophets lingering atop the city's cobblestone curbs who have predicted impending doom. It was hours, no, days before their disturbing focus was broken and they both jumped at the booming ring of the dinner bell.
         Vlad's brother, Dmitri, and sister, Nataliya, suddenly charged down the stairs from their rooms, their dirty blonde hair one step behind them, but stopped dead in their tracks and smoothed their clothes as they remembered their guests. Dmitri was twelve, and Nataliya ten, but they spent more time together than with any other friends. Vlad was the outsider, the one nobody really noticed but his mother.
         Soon, everyone had arrived at the table, Pavel at the head, his mother at the other end, while he was seated between two pale individuals, one being the auburn haired man, the other indistinguishable from man or woman, but at the same time exquisitely stunning.  Their sculpted facial features could have sliced the air into the next dimension.
         Pavel began. “Thank you all for taking the time to come to my home tonight,” his voice lowered, “You all know my son Vlad,” he gestured, “And Vlad, this is Vera, Stanislov, Yakov, Anzhela, Vanechka, Sergei, Maxsim...” he trailed off and significantly swooped his hands toward the two next to Vlad, “And lastly, Lev and Katya. They are positioned directly below me, so you will answer to them before you ever come to me. Understand?”
         Vlad nodded. He was more frightened of Lev and Katya than he was of his father, who frequently sent him into secret panic attacks. If he ever slipped up, his father would find out immediately and Vlad would be severely punished, worse than any prisoner of war. Maybe, he thought, if he could gain everyone's trust, it would become easier for him to escape in the long run. But Vlad was impatient. He couldn't wait for the long run to roll around, he did not want to feel the pain of not sleeping at night due to tasks he's been forced into, and he by far did not want to turn into his father. He must leave tonight, no matter what.
         Stuck in his left pants pocket was a plane ticket. Destination: Sweden. No one would expect Sweden, and if they eventually pinpointed his location, there were plenty of uninhabited, unidentifiable regions for Vlad to run.
         Food began to disappear quickly and around the table, several conversations were being held. He listened intently: politics, Salvador Dali, European road systems, but one was puzzling him. Lev and Katya were bent over the table, whispering in a language Vlad could not decipher. Estonian, perhaps. They sounded overly determined. Lev shot a quick jealous glance at Vlad, and Katya quickly signaled at him with a sweep of her bony fingers.
         The table rattled abruptly, crystal glasses of water rippled, as those on either side of Vlad rose without grace and Katya's tea was knocked over, spilling on and burning Vlad's right arm. His skin bubbled, boiled, and oddly sparkled the color of melted amber. He stared at the festering wound on his arm as the glimmer dissolved and it instead began to leak a sap scented resin, but he swallowed his screams, unable to hold back the water festering in the corners of his almond shaped eyes. He felt frigid metal on each temple and noticed all eyes on him, wide and petrified.
         Vlad's father slammed his fists to the wood, stood and reached for his pistol, but instead flew backwards into the wall behind. Blood streamed down his face and splattered around the gathering onto shocked faces.
         Lev had spun and shot Pavel square between the eyes before he could even attempt to save his oldest son.
Their leader, the one who controlled their tiniest moves, whom they had worshiped, had perished. The knot was undone, the ropes were frayed and limp, and all hell broke loose. Guns of all sorts, knives and countless weapons were revealed and Vlad was terrified. He shook and shivered all over and he felt as if all the food just eaten was going to return.
         Gunfire erupted throughout the ground floor of his home; bullets raced past his ears, causing an identical buzzing as he heard from the television, and he was surprised he was clean. Vlad squeezed his eyes shut as the shrieks of his sister and blood curdling screams of his mother pierced his innocent eardrums. He wished to save them, to take them away from this life of constant violence, but the more he struggled, the more the digging grips on his arms tightened. He plunged into darkness. It mocked him. It mimicked what would become of his life after this fiasco ended.
         Blood and sweat seeped from his pores, submerging his entire body, but among the chaos of artillery he heard a faint gasp from Katya. He slowly opened his eyes, nearly ripping them because of the layers of caked blood, and caught a glimpse of his hand, rather, the absence of his hand, but no pain or bleeding occurred. Vlad swung his eyes to his other arm and wailed. He was fading. First his arms and legs, next his body, lastly his head, and he disappeared.
         The traitors were stunned, as was Vlad. They could not constrain him and were weak in their disbelief, so Vlad slipped from their reach. He backed up against the couch and slid to the floor, staring up in trepidation while they searched around ultimately confused.
         “We cannot leave anyone alive!” Katya barked. “Especially not that little brat; he is next in line to overtake Pavel's seat.”
         “I know that Katya! We must gain power,” whispered Lev, annoyed, “But where in the world did he disappear to?”
         “Like I would know you stupid animal, just keep looking. He must be here somewhere.” They began to shoot the couch randomly, hoping Vlad was near. Bits of stuffing sailed through the air and riddled the floor in a heavy snow storm. Vlad covered his face, knowing in a few seconds he would be dreaming of the perfect casket. Plush maroon with golden lace, he hoped.
         Bullets peppered the priceless furniture, and the clink of the shells echoed against the stone floor, while one single bullet bolted towards his arm in slow motion just like the movies he so admired from the Americas. He flinched, preparing himself for agony, but it never arrived. The bullet in question halted just one inch from Vlad's bicep, ricocheted off thin air, and buried itself deep inside Lev's neck. It nicked his right carotid artery and thick crimson spurted from the wounds as he stumbled, and finally collapsed to the nearest footstool and bled out on the $10,000 carpet.
         Vlad studied Katya in pure animosity as she fled the mansion baffled from the bizzare series of events. She did not understand what had happened except that her partner had mysteriously ended up with a stray bullet in his neck and was now deceased. Their plan had gone horribly awry, but Pavel was dead and his son was missing which meant she could now take her place in power.
         Vlad was still until each speck of dust had settled. He crawled to Nataliya and Dmitri, lay down beside their blood bathed corpses and sobbed until his tears ducts shut down. Memories of earlier childhood engulfed his mind. One night, the three had snuck out together to watch the fireworks display over St. Basil's Cathedral. Sitting atop a cobblestone wall, it had been the best night of his life.
Dragging himself back to reality, Vlad exhaled for the first time since the assassination began. He wanted to kill himself right then and there, but another want superseded.
         His head was heavy as he lifted himself to his feet, clutching the chairs, and stumbling to the abandoned closet where he had stored his already packed belongings. So much for escaping. Vlad heaved his luggage to the foyer, shifted and took one final look at the massacre in his dining room where moments ago he had been stuffing his face and enjoying the exuberant laughs of his younger siblings. Saying his silent goodbyes to the family, he sluggishly strode out the front door, never to return.
         Now nineteen years old, traveling night and day around the world, Vlad searches for Katya. His fading abilities have become fully developed, more controllable, and revenge shines bright in his cobalt eyes. He never sleeps, but come each sunrise he recites the words he will spit in her face when their worlds collide once again.          “Привет Катя. Ты убил мою семъю. Теперъ ваша очередъ умеретъ.”

(Hello Katya. You murdered my family. Now it is your turn to die.)