Emperor of Mayhem

89

BEHIND EVERY KING

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14 MONTHS LATER

 
 
Exactly twelve months and fourteen days ago, on a stormy night, I left home with nothing but a duffel bag and determination.
 
The sounds of my black boots quieted out by the roars of thunder, I had walked under the rain which poured with the same violence of an angry dragon that night.
 
I remembered it like it was yesterday. It was exactly two weeks after I wrote my final exams. Mikhail and a few of his men were on a mission across Russia. Riccardo too, had led some divisions of soldiers to investigate one of their missing shipments in the Czech Republic.
 
I, on the other hand, was supposed to stay at home and remain under the protective eyes of the remaining soldiers until Mikhail would return the next day.
 
But simply assuming I would be up in my room all day, none of the soldiers could have guessed I had other plans to run away from home. And due to the heavy downpour that night, the soldiers outside were very few compared to the usual amount. This, of course, worked in my favor as I managed to slip past the few ones at the back and escaped using the fence. My fluid stunt over the fence shocked me. But I guessed it was the adrenaline that came from the fear of being caught.
 
Anyway, either the soldiers were careless, or I was that good at making them believe I was cooped up in my room because before anyone could figure out I had gone away, I was already settling into the little room provided for me at the Army Camp situated in Northern Moscow.
 
About twenty-four hours later, Mikhail came charging into the institution with Riccardo, both men very much ready to take me away or bundle me into the car if I dared to be stubborn.
 
But I didn't risk my life to get into the institution nor did I walk one hour and thirty minutes under the heavy rain to get to the train station, just to be dragged back home.
 
'I'll leave only over my dead body, 'I had said to him that night. And there was nothing he didn't do to try and convince me. But I refused. 

So he left.
 
In the camp, we were allowed access to our phones only twice a week, and for just thirty minutes. So Mikhail and I could talk only when our phones were temporarily released to us.
 
But just hearing my voice alone for such a short time wasn't enough for him, and neither was it for me, so it was excruciating.
 
We were offered a weekend break after every three months, but I refused to use any of my breaks. I also refused visits. I just couldn't risk being distracted by his presence. And I'd had a lot of encounters with those who disapproved of my presence in the camp, that I had so many bruises on my body to show for it, bruises I never wanted Mikhail to see. I couldn't risk him seeing how unhealthy the environment was for me. Because if he did, there was nothing I would have done again to stop him from pulling me out of the institution or setting the building on fire.
 
"Congratulations, Captain Kuzmin." The baritone voice speaking across from me shook me out of my train of thought, redirecting my eyes to Sergei Konstantin, the commander of our platoon.
 
"Thank you," was my almost immediate response as I stared unwaveringly at him, my bravado being in his presence uninhibited even though just a couple of months ago, I couldn't even dare to be an inch closer to him let alone have a conversation with him as though we were pen pals.
 
Sergei Konstantin was a really scary man.
 
He had this jagged, deep, and squiggly line across his pale left eye, and the said line curved down his cheek and ended its journey just below the lobe of his ear. This very brutal scar made him appear ten times scarier.
 
The first time I stepped into this institution and saw him, I remembered not being able to hold his gaze for more than one second. He was a high authority who was three times bigger than I was. There was a permanent scowl on his strong face, a tapered clench in his jaws, and that damn scar on his face plus the blindness of his left eye, had me wanting to run back home.
 
"Nervous or excited to go back home?" he asked, leaning into his chair and lighting a stick of cigarette, dark eyes calculating as they remained on me.
 
I lifted a gloved hand and gently ran it through my scalp as it was a bit itchy. I'd had these current cornrows for longer than a month. And it was unhealthy seeing as it had gathered dandruff.