The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 1. War and Peace

To Alexei Navalny, who didn't run and kept fighting by all means possible, even when there was no such means and whose death was too inevitable.

***

Tetrachromacy is the condition of possessing four independent channels for conveying information, or possessing four types of cone cells in the eye. Organisms with tetrachromacy are called tetrachromats. Human tetrachromats see more colors than average humans.

***

Three men ruined the world as I knew it and my life along with it.

Putin, the fucking President of fucking Russia, for reasons painstakingly obvious to anyone in the year 2023.

My gym teacher, for reasons less obvious to a casual onlooker, so I shall shed light on them. I was a runt tormented by sinuses, acne, tetrachromacy and a slew of other unmanly afflictions. And I was born in a notorious bedroom community near Moscow, the town of Reutovo, where bratva runs the show. Our school was a breeding ground for future gangsters, not a cradle of physicists and lyricists. No aspiring painters either, before I came along. That's why our gym teacher turned my life into hell.

The third man of the unholy trinity was my father. With him, my relationship was more complex than with the other two until the day shit hit the fan.

My parents had five of us. I was their youngest child, with a seven years' gap between me and my elder siblings. Owing to this circumstance, all my siblings had left the nest, so it fell to me on a Monday to help mom with the weekend's haul of wild mushrooms.

Beige fungi, with skinny stems and round caps, grew in bunches almost the same size, like soldiers. Mom and I tore them apart, chopped and cleaned them, to leave them floating in buckets crowding the kitchen's floor. As many mushrooms as could fit into mom's biggest pots, boiled on the gas burners. The brew filled the air with a homey smell of dill, cloves, and autumn.

Mom was stirring the foaming down, mumbling something I couldn't hear over the music in my ears. I nodded along anyway, while sterilizing the jars for canning and lining them on the table. This venerable item of furniture was so large, it took about three-quarters of the room, and had enough space for my sketching pad.

Yes, things were nice and peaceful that Monday, before dad came home.

He had a newspaper stuffed under one arm and an envelope in his hand. His bushy eyebrows stuck together pensively, never a good sign.

Automatically, I pulled my earbuds out, just in time to hear dad ask, "Say what, Aliona, is Grisha eighteen already?" instead of bidding us a good evening and proceeding to the TV. My guts twisted in premonition.

"Just about, Vasia. Just about. He's an October kid," mom cooed in response, oblivious that the proverbial shit had just become airborne and sped towards the fan. Remembering our birthdays wasn't essential, but she sounded genuinely proud that her youngest had nearly made it to eighteen.

I didn't let the warmth that spread through my chest distract me from watching dad out of the corner of my eye.

"There's no mistake then." He slid his envelope around the jars. "You've been drafted, son."

"Drafted?" I asked, staring at the stamp like I was a moron. I didn't even touch the notice. Maybe I hoped it would melt away if I didn't.

The ladle tumbled out of mom's hand to the drab linoleum on the floor. Her wail broke the afternoon bliss. I thought she yelled 'noooo', but blood was pounding in my ears louder than the music did before.

"Drafted?" I croaked. The word felt no more real the second time than it did the first.

"Are you hard of hearing? Need your ears vacuumed?"