PRELUDE - May 15, 1972
Although I was only eight years old, I knew what was going on behind the door of my father’s office...
In the darkness of the hallway, I lay on the ground and waited for the door to open but the man my father brought in was tireless. It went on for hours. He screamed and screamed until his voice broke and the only thing he could do was to moan in pain. The door shook as my father, Semion Mogilevich, went about his business.
Who knows what I’m going to see this time behind the door. Perhaps a dismembered body bathing in the puddle of blood. That was an old man’s fate if I remember well, he was called Martin, who stole from my father a few million dollars.
Or maybe the body would hang from a chandelier while it was decorated with holes made by knives and bullets. Maybe this time the man will get out alive, but he will be crippled. Maybe his ear, eye, or nose would be missing or my father would be merciful and he will only cut the man’s fingers. But as it started, I doubt this man will see the dawn of the day.
I’ve been waiting for so long, so I wanted to close my eyes a little and fall asleep. It’s not like the man is going to escape. A dead man is dead meat.
Awakened by the sound of the door creaking, curiosity made me even more awake because I wanted to see my father’s artwork this time. When people left the office, I staggered to the father’s office. When I opened the door, I was truly welcomed by beautiful and perfect artwork. The man was lying in a puddle of blood with his bare ass in the air. Around him, there were divine white roses that were soaked with blood.
My father was a man of a few words and I knew he had tendencies toward the same sex, and my mother was just the donor of the egg. Although they were best friends, my parents never loved each other. They had me in order to inherit the family business and after my birth, they went their own paths. My father would torture the prisoners by raping them, and my mother went to her lover, Leonid Derkach, father’s right hand.
I was lost in my own world as I watched my father’s work as if it was the most beautiful painting on exhibition.
“Isn’t it astonishing?” I turned around when I heard my father’s voice. He looked so proud as he watched white roses.
I caught his hand. “The most beautiful work you’ve ever done.” He looked at me with a smile and we were together, long into the night, watching the blood taint what was clean, innocent... Me.