Obsidian

Snow. It’s white, it’s cold but most of all, it’s quiet. Sometimes I think I’d probably be better off if I just buried myself in it, maybe then I could shut Them up. Maybe being encased by an icy layer would provide a thick enough barrier to silence Them. And yet, I know it wouldn’t. Because They are always there, and nothing I could surround myself with would ever stop Them. If anything, Their voices would just be louder, stronger, more insistent.

My mother refuses to believe that I’m ill, as my father says. Our town’s abbot is quite adamant that everybody has a conscience; that everybody is able to connect with God if they open their hearts to him. But surely God wouldn’t tell me to do the things They do, and therein lay the grounds for debate. Mother loves me too much to send me to the asylum, so much so that she believes I’m a chosen child of God because what other voice is there to infect me? I just get the feeling God is angry with me.

Maybe I should be locked up after all. They just keep pressing me. They gnaw at my brain, devouring all reason until I’m standing over a dead animal. The worst part is that animals never satiate it. Some days They leave me in bed, like They’re driving nails into my head, splitting it open in every possible direction. I can’t see, I can’t move, and the only thing I hear is the sound of laughter; Them, cackling as they finally drive it home. I won’t wake up for a day or two. But the thing is I don’t think I’m sleeping then either.

I pick up the silver razor and flip it open. Every time I look at it I hear them whispering to me. Funnily enough, I’m already there, running my fingers lightly over the edge with the urge to take it into the village for a day. But instead I bring it to my face and start to shave. I have to brush my hair away a few times so it doesn’t get coated in the shaving cream. It’s getting long now. I know Mother wants it cut. I can see the murderous look in her eyes. I hate seeing my mousey brown hair on the ground, dead. The voices tell me they’re hacking off pieces of me which harms my soul. I know They’re right, the way I cringe.

The walk to work is never really pleasant. They rise up around me, their voices getting so loud to the point of screaming. My heart races and my palms sweat. Everybody I see gets the maniacal look of hunger from me. Like predator stalking prey, the other villagers know I’m not like them, and it’s probably a good thing. For them. Some days it would just be so easy. And of course, there’s the snow…mocking me.

“You’re early this morning, Ivan,” David says to me as I walk into the workshop and hang up my coat. The anger always ceases in this moment and the screaming becomes a low hum. It’s what I like most about work. I’m kept far too busy to focus on anything else. It’s calming, it’s interesting and most of all it keeps Them quiet. Or at least as quiet as They can be.

“Yeah, I had an early night,” I reply. David chuckles silently.

“You just wait till you’ve got four little ones. It’s murder.” David laughs again, but this time it’s good and hearty; a laugh that suits the large man with the rather impressive beard.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I say. It’s true too. I doubt I’ll ever have kids. Something about them just makes me squirm, makes me want to hurl a brick, to tighten my hands around their tiny little necks and squeeze – I shake my head and tune back in to what David’s saying. I only catch the end of it.

“-So your parents will be here at lunch.”

“Pardon?”

“With the girl.”

“Who?”

“Vera.”

“Morozov?" David nods. Vera is the daughter of the village’s baker. The family is notorious for the baker’s indiscretions, though the Morozovs still have six daughters and a son. Everybody knows they starve during winter. Running the bakery doesn’t mean anything. With so many children, they can’t not go hungry. The baker would’ve married his daughters off at six if he could have.

“I’d enjoy my last few hours of freedom if I were you. You’ll be engaged by sundown.”

Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.

Your parents hate you.
Everyone hates you.
They want you out of the way so the others can get to you.
They want you, Ivan.
They want your life, they want your blood.
They’ll take it from you.
The others are hiding from you but they’ll tear you apart if you do this.
You won’t let them will you?
They’re going to tear you to shreds.
They’ll put your head on a pike and leave your body to the wolves.
You’ll rot.
Your soul will burn.
The maggots will have you.
Your heart is theirs.
It’s in their hands, black.
They’re got you, Ivan.

Work is no longer quiet. Great.

*

“This is Vera Morozov, my boy,” Father says to me as Mother pushes the blonde girl forward. She’s very pretty with her big baby blue eyes, a shade darker than my own. But the strong set of her jaw and stony mouth makes me…anxious. She’s the one stealing my life, wrapping it around her finger. She wants me to suffer. I can see the gleam in her eyes. She’ll kill me. She’s crazy, I swear. Her heart is full of poison. She’ll taint me with it.

I force a smile onto my face while Mother beams at the two of us. Father pats my shoulder. He must know there’s something wrong with this girl. He has to. He has to protect me.

“We’re hoping you two will get to know each other very well,” Father says. He smiles sincerely and I feel the ties being severed. The air is suddenly stifling, suffocating me. My breaths come out short and shallow.

Look at her, Ivan. Look at the she-devil…plotting her schemes of torture.
She’s going to devour your soul.
She’ll feed her evil with your death.
She’ll dig her claws into your eyeballs and pull them out so you can watch yourself being killed.
She’s going to take it all.

“No,” I mutter to Them.

“What was that, Ivan?” Mother asks and I shake my head. My eyes focus on the girl and widen. Fear washes over me and I’m backing away towards the door.

“No,” I repeat. “You can’t leave me with that thing!” I scream, pointing to the blonde. Father looks angry and Mother is crying but I don’t care. I’ve grabbed my coat and I’m out in the cold.

Snow is squished beneath my boots. The crisp air rips through me as I run through the village. My eyes are on the mesmerising ground. Cold, white, quiet snow. I almost run into two figures as they’re shaking hands I’m so distracted by it. I stop just in time, and look up to find a pair of peculiar grey eyes cutting through my own. It’s unnerving, but the owner of the eyes turns away before I have to. I catch my breath, not even realising I was holding it. Was I?

I step around the men, and then walk past. I reach the apothecary before curiosity gets the better of me and my eyes greedily survey the man with the grey eyes. I almost fall face fast into the snow when I realise who he is. André Dubois. His mother was a French prostitute, who was mauled to death by a bear a few years back. I think André’s only a few years older than myself but as far as I know, he lives alone in the same isolated cottage up the mountain.

He rarely ventures into the village and personally I don’t blame him. Geographically, it’s a pain. He’s the topic of incessant and vicious gossip whenever he does come here and finally, I get the feeling he just doesn’t like people. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him of course, so I can say that. And no, no matter what They tell me, I’m not told to watch him or anything, but he is interesting. He looks so different to us with his olive skin and confident, not conservative, way of holding himself. We don’t see confidence in this country, (though admittedly I’ve seen very little of it). He’s quite tall at six feet and three inches, taller than me by five inches. His dark hair is short but long enough for pieces to cover his forehead.

I think he can feel my gaze. He’s tensing up. I know this isn’t exactly polite but I can’t seem to help myself. There’s something in the air around him that commands my attention, however little he may want it. The voices are whispering to me about the danger of getting too close but They are just that at the moment – whispers. André ends his discussion with the farmer, with whom he was speaking and walks away. His strides in the snow look effortless, graceful even. He twists his head suddenly and locks eyes with mine. The silver gaze pierces through me like a thousand blades and it’s in that moment that I can see the quiet.

*

Mother and Father are there when I get home. Neither of them looks happy and I feel the walls caving in again. The voices rush in like a sudden gust of wind in a storm. I shudder as I feel Them rip any traces of the quiet from me, replacing my entirety with a much more volatile version of myself.
“Ivan, you deeply humiliated your father and me today,” Mother starts calmly. I only now realise my father’s been drinking, which is never pleasant, as he slams the bottle of vodka down on the table.

“You’re a fuckin’ disgrace,” he yells, slurring his words. “Who will have you now? The whole village will know what you are. My son, the lunatic!”

“-Iosif, calm down.” He backhands my mother, sending her flying to the floor.

“No! We should’ve put him in the asylum before he ruined us! When it started!”

I don’t know what I’m doing till my fists are stained with my father’s blood. I’m watching his head snap from side to side as every one of my punches finds their mark. Mother’s screaming and clawing at me, but the only voice I hear, the only one I want to hear, is the one screeching yes.

I yank my mother off me and pin her to the ground. Goodbye control.

“Leave me alone,” I hiss at her. Her eyes are as wide as saucers and she’s trembling. But I really don’t care, remembering the silver razor in the bathroom. I clamber to my feet and go to fetch it. It’s on the counter already so I pick it up and flip it open. I catch myself in the mirror and then smirk at my reflection as I lift the razor up to the light, watching it shine. I am absolutely elated. This is what nirvana must be like.

I re-enter the main room only to find my mother gone. Father is still bleeding and lying as stiff as a board on the floor. He’s turning white. I storm into their bedroom and check under the bed but she’s not here. It brings a scowl to my face. She can’t have gotten far. I decide to head towards the village.

As I’m walking, I realise that this is the first time I’ve ever felt at one with Them. We all want the same thing. And we’re going to get it. The voices are very, very happy.

I don’t find her. And it’s only by chance that I catch Vera stepping out of the bakery. She’ll do. It’s for the best really. She’d only destroy me anyway. I tread as softly as I can behind her, helped by the flurry of snow in the semi-darkness. I run my fingers over the razor. My face splits into a grin as I inch closer to her. She can hear me now, I’m sure of it. Just as she turns I lunge at her and push her to the ground. My hands are around her throat. She’s quickly unconscious. I catch my breath for a second before pulling out the razor.

Kill! Kill! Kill! The voices are screaming. I bring the razor down in an arc but my wrist is grabbed before the blade touches her neck. I can only just make out the intruder’s face in the dim light, though those grey eyes are wolf-like in the way they shine, maybe it’s because he lives up the mountain. Who knows?

“You can’t do that here,” he says in his low, accented voice.

“I have to,” I seethe. He shakes his head and easily sends me into the snow with one knock. I watch, the fury burning, as he picks up the motionless girl and carries her into a nearby alley. I hurriedly run after him.

André’s placed her on the ground and is undoing her coat. My heart races with outrage, suspecting his motives are of doing unspeakable things to the girl. But he turns to me instead, his face impassive.

“Come here,” he orders. I steadily make my way over to him. I look down at Vera and then at him for permission. He nods. “Do it now, she’s ready.” I crouch over her body, ready to stab her jugular, but he grabs my arm again. “No, you can’t do it that way.”

“Why not?” I hiss. He sighs and places his hands on my shoulders.

“Because you’ll get blood all over your face.”

“How else am I going to do it?” He takes the razor from my hand, folds it up, and places it on the ground. I hear him shuffling in his coat for a minute before he pulls out a knife. It’s one that you’d use to cut up an animal carcass. He reaches around me and grabs my hand, prying it open and then wrapping my fingers around the hilt of the knife. He keeps his hands on mine as he positions the blade over her torso.

“Like this,” he whispers in my ear and I shiver. He guides my hand into thrusting the blade up between her ribs, into her heart.

It takes me a good few minutes for me to calm down. André’s wiping the blood off his blade. I climb off the body and pick up my razor.

“Do you hear them too?” I ask him. The Frenchman looks at me quizzically.

“Hear who?” I panic silently for a moment but continue anyway.

“The voices.” He stays silent. “You know; the ones that tell you to do these things. Things that aren’t…normal.” André laughs. It’s a nice sound but it’s chilling at the same time. He walks over to me, getting so close our chests are almost touching. He looks down at me with a crooked smile. He has a dimple in one cheek.

“Yes. Something like that.” His eyes run over my face and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. I take a step back and cough. Disappointment flickers across his features.

“I’m Ivan. Ivan Volkov,” I say and hold out my hand for him to shake. He grasps it briefly.

“André Dubois.”

“Nice to meet you.” He laughs again.

“I’d go home and wash the blood off my hands if I were you, mon cher. Sleep tight.” And he off he goes into the darkness.

The voices are celebrating on the way home but I’m so confused that I completely ignore the corpse on the floor before I go to bed.

*

When I wake up, my wrists are tied and my face is aching. I can’t open one of my eyes. It’s freezing. The white clouds glare. The snow is even worse. Wait, snow? Ah, I’ve been taken to the village square, lovely. My mother is the first to realise I’m awake, her porcelain cheeks stained with tears.

“What am I doing here, Mother?” I ask her. She slaps me across the face.

“Spawn of the devil!” she shrieks. They’ve found the bodies and she’s told them. Again, lovely. Now for the choice of execution I believe.

The villagers, hearing her, crowd around and start jeering at me. Then suddenly, one of them keels over, revealing André, armed with a shovel. A sadistic grin is on his face. I wonder if that’s what I looked like last night. He’s quick with the heavy object, knocking out another three men before throwing his knife at my feet. I manage to hurl myself at my mother before she picks it up, smashing into her side. As a reasonably healthy seventeen year old, I’m obviously not the one bearing the brunt of the pain. I manoeuvre the knife into my hands and start sawing at the rope.

I can hear women screaming and a few more of the villagers being incapacitated until they start coming to their senses, giving up.

“Fine! Just take the lunatic! You can have him!” someone shouts and my hands are suddenly freed. André grins at me, holding the knife, then gets rid of the rope around my ankles. His shirt’s been torn open and I can see blood. The cut looks shallow though, and it already looks like it’s clotting.

“We can’t stay here, mon cher,” he says and helps me to my feet. All I can concentrate on is the snow. Cold, white, perfect, and undisturbed.

*

It’s been two days since André took me here. I’ve been out to it for the most part. With everything that happened and then the walk up the mountain, I was at my limit. When I do wake, it’s to movement as André gets out, the bed raising a little. He walks over to the window and opens the curtains. I blink lazily a few times before my eyes fall on his back. His olive skin is marred by a large black swirling pattern, which goes from the middle of his shoulder blades and spreads to cover the rest of his back. It’s unearthly in the way that it shines like black glass, like the piece of obsidian a merchant showed all of the villagers last year.

“What is that?” I ask him. André spins round in surprise.

“Ivan. You’re awake,” he states. I can see the faint pink outline of a scar on his chest, almost healed. I sit up and repeat the question. He pulls a shirt on almost self-consciously. “It’s a tattoo.” The finalising tone tells me I shouldn’t ask him about it again.

“Your eye looks better,” he then says.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom. I’ll show you.” He delicately helps me out of bed but I shrug him off. I’m an idiot. Before I can complain about him treating me like I’m lacking in masculinity, I’m screaming in agony. “Easy! You almost broke your ankle on the way here,” he says and frowns, “well, at least I don’t think it’s broken. Hard to tell though. It’s the size of a loaf of bread.” I glare at him through watering eyes.
Needless to say, it’s a frustrating few weeks.

*

It doesn’t take too long for the voices to return in full force. Of course they never really leave but they haven’t been very loud recently. But this hits me like a ton of bricks and I’m in the middle of chopping carrots, of all things.

Look at the pretty knife, Ivan.
Isn’t it lovely and shiny?
Don’t you just want to drive it into his pretty neck?
Don’t you want to scoop out his eyes so you can keep them forever?
You saw how easily he killed that girl, how weak he’s made you.
He wants you, Ivan.
You’re going to have to get rid of him, before he gets rid of you.
We know you want to.
You want to sink that beautiful blade into his heart.
You want to watch him bleed.
You want to kill him.
Why don’t you do that, Ivan?

I limp over to the kitchen window. I break out into a cold sweat as I see André walking down to the front door with a wheelbarrow filled with firewood. I make my way to the door, knife at the ready, waiting for him to open it so I can stab him a hundred times and then decapitate his pretty head from his shoulders. So I can skin his face and carve out his eyes…

The door slowly opens. Adrenaline pulses through me and the knife slides through the air.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses after swiftly knocking the knife from my grasp. He grabs me by the shoulders and slams me against the wall. “You trying to kill me, Ivan? Huh? Come on. Don’t shake your head at me. Be a man and admit it. I know you want to kill me.”

“Yes…”

“Wonderful. So, why is that?”

“I have to.”

“After what I’ve done for you?” He laughs cruelly. “You’ve got a really funny way of showing gratitude. Maybe I should have left you down there after all, with those animals. I should have just let them burn you till the flesh melted off your body. Let them pummel you with rocks until one of them finally cracked your skull. Let them feed you to the wolves. Or better yet, I could’ve killed you myself.” It’s his eyes rather than the words that does it for me.

“I just want Them to be quiet!” I scream at him.

He stares at me for a moment with an unwavering stony expression before loosening his grip on me. He then makes me put on my coat as well as a fur-lined hat and a pair of boots. I silently follow him as he goes outside. He picks up his shovel on the way, chooses a spot not far from the front door, and starts digging. When he’s satisfied with it he looks at me expectantly. He’s dug something that looks like a shallow grave. It’s clear that I don’t understand what he wants but just rolls his eyes at me, without a word. Then he scoops me up and drops me into the hole.

“Stay there,” he says and leaves. I hear the front door close.

At first, I wait for him to come back, but naturally, he doesn’t. The chimney throws more smoke into the air and after a while I realise he’s leaving me here for a reason. I’m alone. Alone in the snow. The quiet, quiet snow. The voices reduce to a low hum. I lie here for hours, thoughtless. I don’t even realise the dark is coming till André’s face is hovering above me.

“Ready, mon cher?” he asks me soothingly. I nod and he helps me out of the hole. “How do you feel?”

“…Good.”

“Did you think about what you’ve done?”

“In a way.”

“Please, elaborate,” he says and leads me into the house.

“I think I’ve turned my back on God,” I say and André snorts. I frown at this.

“Sorry, it’s just I don’t understand how you think you’ve turned your back on him when he did it first.”

“Excuse me?”

“God hates you.”

“God doesn’t hate anyone.”

“Oh yes he does. He gave you the voices didn’t he? He certainly gave me mine. God hates us, Ivan. If God loved us, we wouldn’t have Them.”

“How can you know that?” I whisper.

“Because he made me watch my mother being raped and then hacked to pieces by a few men in your village. He let me get stabbed in the back and then left me to die. He was about to let the same happen to you.”

“But you helped me.”

“No one else was going to help you.”

“Maybe He sent you-”

“I’m not God’s messenger.”

“Fine! Why did you do it then, if you weren’t God’s way of saving me?”

We glare at each other for a moment before André grabs me by the shoulders again. I expecting him to shake me or hit me or something but he instead leans down and presses his lips to mine. His eyes are clenched shut while I remain frozen, shocked to my core. He pulls away and spits, “What God would send me, right?” He then storms off to his bedroom and I hear the door slam. I’m left to sleep on the couch tonight.

*

They’re telling me to kill him. It’s not even dawn yet.

“Why?” I ask Them. I don’t usually talk to Them but this feels different somehow, like I have to.

Because he’s an abomination.
He’s tainted you.
He’s corrupting you.
Evil is on his back. You’ve seen it.
You have to, Ivan…
“He’s helped me.”
And look what he’s done to you now.
He touched you, like you’re a woman.
It was wrong…
I put my head in my hands and sigh.
Ivan, you know you want to kill him.
“No, I really don’t.”
But he kissed you…
“I know he did! I was there.”
And you liked it.
See? He’s ruining you.
He’s stealing your soul.

“Fuck off,” I growl and limp as fast as I can to the bedroom.

I open the door slowly, gather my nerves and then make my way into the room. André groans a little when I get on the bed but his eyes don’t open until I’m straddling him.

“Ivan?” he asks, confused and half-asleep. I reach down and forcefully capture his lips. It’s not my best. It’s sloppy and awkward but it seems to do the trick. André quickly flips us over so he’s the one in control. My hands run up and down his bare back as he slips his tongue into my mouth. One of his hands goes to my hip, tracing over the bone. The other tugs at my hair. It’s mildly painful but it just makes it all so much better. I’m a little surprised at how much I like this.

The voices are screaming no, but every fibre of me is screaming yes.

When André’s scorching mouth finds its place on my neck, I can’t even hear Them anymore. My breath hitches in my throat and all I want is the young Frenchman who’s slipping his hands into my pants. They’re off before I can even moan his name, which comes out embarrassingly low and husky. He almost laughs at me but I hook my legs around his waist and grind into him before he even gets the chance.

“Ivan…ah,” he squeaks and I chuckle. He pushes me off him and my back hits the bed with a thud. I didn’t even realise he’d picked me up. I’m panting and he’s smirking. My hand inches towards myself but André pins my wrists above my head.

“Non, mon cher. Laisse-moi te montrer.” He kisses my lips, down my chest and then takes me in his mouth.

André can do amazing things with his tongue. But it’s not till he’s done with that that I realise how multi-talented he really is.

*

I can’t move the next morning. Well, not without feeling like I’m sitting on a knife. André’s pressed up against my back, arms wrapped around me protectively. His face is nuzzling into my neck, his dark hair plastered to my shoulder. I feel incredibly unclean but I think it’s only because I can smell myself and know that I’m covered in a layer of old sweat mixed with something else I’d rather not mention.

“How many?” André murmurs and I jolt, hissing in pain while he kisses along my jaw apologetically.

“How many what?” I ask.

“Voices.”

“Now or usually?”

“Usually.”

“Eight.” He chuckles.

“I have more.” I’m surprised at this.

“You do?”

“You’re not the only one who’s had a snow day.” I carefully turn around to face him and put a hand on his hip. André presses his nose to mine and strokes my cheek. “And how many voices do you have now?”

“Two.”

“What will it take for them to be quiet then?” he asks me and I think about it for a moment.

“You,” I say and kiss him softly. “See? Quiet like the snow.”