Ex Nihilo

Three hours of sleep don’t look good on Mathis – but as it is, he has gone to the only place he thought could give him clues. He’s figured out half of Anya’s notes – the rectangles. That left only three more things: the address and the two Russian lines.

It feels like the world is weighing him down. He feels as if though he’s drowning under his own sea made of lead and blood, and while he’s felt good about killing Anya at first, now it was just becoming sickening. The words repeated in his head like a mantra: Poland, Russian, Aceline, blood, Nightscare. Poland, Russian, Aceline—the haunted him; he dreamed of them, of the faceless killer speaking in Polish, of the blood bags and the unknown, dark hallways. And Anya, too—Anya calling out to him.

Come with me, the wraith said. And, without any objections, he would.

That’s why he needed to figure everything out, to see what Anya was up to. Considering she held blood bags in her closet, she might’ve had enough reasons to be killed after all. Maybe not by him, alright, but by somebody. It all works out in his favour. He just has to make sure he’s not the target here. What if somebody truly wanted her gone? What if they realised he killed her and use this as a perfect opportunity it is?

And that’s why Mathis doesn’t understand the building he’s facing.

It’s the right address – the weary plate at the corner confirms this. But it’s mellow, it really is – the large yard, yes, and the large complex that he supposes somebody lives in, but it’s nothing like Anya. It’s very bright, very organised.

He gets inside anyway, past the decorated main door, and then to the front desk – only then does he register it, sleep-induced haze still above him, and he must look so out of place here. So ragged, standing out like he never normally does. The woman waiting doesn’t seem surprised, though, and only smiles. It’s her job to fucking smile. It annoys Mathis so much.

“I’m here on behalf of Anya Zielinska.” He doesn’t know what else to say. No, really—he’s expected the neighbourhood to be slums, he’s expected this to be the seediest place on known Earth and yet... yet, it’s not. Mathis might stand out, but he can’t imagine Anya standing here either.

“Oh yes, with mister Pavel! Follow me, please.” She moves lightly. In heavier steps and with heavier head, he follows her. He tunes her out, her voice becoming the background noise, and instead he tries to memorise the hallways, soak everything in because this is something he didn’t expected.

He does realise what it is – the nursing home.

Anya frequented a fucking nursing home.

Okay. So, he’s likely—he’s not sure what he’s likely. He’s likely to meet some sort of grandfather, some cousin of hers or something, and that’s going to be... that’s going to be so bad, alright. He’s not sure why, but he’s got some kind of a gut feeling, something telling him that this is going to turn real bad real soon. Mathis just hopes it’s the sleepless night talking.

“Mister Pavel!” The woman stops in front of one door and speaks before she even has them open. When she does, they’re only slightly ajar, but he can see the movement on the other side. “For you!”

“Is it my Asiya?” The voice doesn’t sound as old as Mathis imagined it to be, but the man who’s standing at the doorway, while standing without help of cane or anything of similarity, is old. He’s tall, that’s given, but he’s lean and with skin hanging on his bones. Even like this, even though he’s surely well over ninety, he bears similarity with Anya.

The woman mutter something about leaving, and then does exactly that. Mathis is left awkwardly standing in front of the man. His jacket seems too stuffy suddenly, and his shirt way too itchy. He feels like suffocating.

“I’m Mathis Johnson, sir.” He says in the end, stretches his arm out and offers it to Pavel. To, most likely, a Pavel who is Pavel Zielinski. Who might the uncle, but is most likely the father. It is, after all, his Asiya. “I’m Anya’s fiancé.”

“So she’s told me.” Pavel says, unfazed, and doesn’t share his hand. Rude fuck. Definitely the father. The lack of manners had to stem from somewhere. His speech is very accented, too, although their voices are different and Mathis can’t really tell if there’s real similarity. Pavel hasn’t said much. “When they want to get married, daughters tell their fathers. But you tell me, Asiya’s fiancé, why are you here?”

And he hasn’t thought it through – he didn’t think he would be here at all, this wasn’t something he could make up even if he wanted to. So he just went with the easiest option: with the lie he told to Dan, too. It just serves to keep up with the appearances.

“Your daughter has been gone for few days, sir. I haven’t been able to get in contact with her. I’m afraid I have no idea where she could be.” He makes his best remorse face – he knows the one, and he knows he looks convincing. “I’m afraid something might’ve happened to her.”

The man’s quiet for a while, studying Mathis. His eyes are watery, baby blue. Icy and unrelenting; this is where Anya gets them from.

“Peculiar.” The word sounds strange on the foreign tongue. “Hannah—was that the girl’s name?” Mathis has no idea who Hannah is. “The girl at the reception, Hannah—or Yvonne. I forget. There are two... But funny, peculiar, isn’t it? They can confirm, if you wish... My Asiya has been here yesterday, mister Mathis. So perhaps she is gone from you.”

But no, that can’t be true. It can’t be true but Mathis cannot say it – he killed her with his two hands.