Chapter Fourteen

But hell itself was not all those problems. I didn’t live in hell; hell lived in me. Hatred. I hated so much when I thought about my past life or my ex-husband. Heaven forbid that someone should pronounce the name Aleksei in my vicinity. Each time I felt that tons of bricks were falling onto me. Yes, yes, red and heavy, with sharp angles—bricks. I physically felt the pain when they each “fell” on my head, my shoulders, and my back. I would not be surprised if there could be anything but bruises left on my skin. Automatically I cowered and covered my head and face with my hands. It was hard to breathe. Mostly it ended up with my losing consciousness. My hatred grew and flourished with each passing day. Who allowed him to destroy my life? All I’ve achieved in my life destroyed. So much hard work and so many sleepless nights! How many times I stinted myself to please the one I loved!

Soon I began to develop a plan of revenge in my head.

I could neither eat nor sleep, nor live. Hatred settled in my heart, my soul, occupied my entire mind. It seethed and multiplied. It was impossible to think of anything else but how to make Aleksei and Marina go through the hell I was in. But no, that would not be enough! It was necessary to make them suffer more, so that they eventually died.

The Marina-mouse lived on the ground floor. I could probably throw a grenade or a bomb in their window at night. Or use the same inflammable mixture which had almost killed me. I was even thinking of getting into their apartment at night, tying them up and then slowly torturing the two of them. Make them beg me for their lives.

My God, I prayed, I am not capable of such things.

But I could also hire a hit man, said my hatred.

I had no idea where I was going to get a grenade or a bomb, how I would I tie them up, not to mention actually perform tortures. Where would I even get money for the hit man? But I couldn’t think of anything else. I knew, with certainty, I would never be able to do anything like that, but I kept thinking it and thinking it.

Young brides called, I did their beautiful hairstyles and applied stunning make-up, but because of this all-consuming hatred I couldn’t remember any of the young faces. I stopped sleeping, lost my appetite. I became skinny, nervous, and angry.

There were still no buyers for the house. Aleksei regularly called and demanded his money for it. Each time he nagged me it fed my hatred. Furthermore, I missed my son terribly. And I felt sorry for him. I imagined it would feel so good to turn my ex over to the police, and make him pay for everything by sending him to jail. The house issues would be solved automatically. And my vengeance would be accomplished, but how would my son live with the knowledge that his father was in prison thanks to his mother? For trying to murder his mother. It would kill him and make him suffer from hatred toward those who gave him life.

Believe me, I knew what that was like. Neither my father nor my mother wanted me. I never saw my father. Then my mother left, and then somehow forgot all about me and wiped me out of her life. All my life I was trying to prove to the whole world that I was a good person. Why didn’t they want me? Why didn’t they like me? My complexes multiplied, as the shells on the bottom of an old boat, creating the well-known inferiority complex.

How could I even dare to think to take vengeance on the father of my son? I myself chose this man to be his father. Maria Vasilievna was absolutely right, “I am afraid you will not want him to be punished.”

I tried prayer. Oh God, what should I do? How should I live with this? What is the way out?

So another year passed.

But one day, it was a wonderful summer’s day. It was the middle of the week. The next Saturday there was supposed to be a wedding of a lovely girl, Zhenia. We agreed that today, this beautiful summer’s day, at seven p.m., to meet at her house to look at the dress and accessories, and to discuss hairstyle and make-up for the ceremony.

Zhenia was living in one of the most unique residences in our city. The fourteen-story building, built by Yugoslavians using some new architectural techniques, was in the heart of the city. I was there on time, but Zhenia wasn’t home yet.

I went up to the fourteenth floor balcony to look out over the city in all of its green summer glory, and suddenly realized, “Here it is—the solution! Jump and that’s it. Finished! No more problems. No debts. No house to sell in order to give money to the man I hated. And there would be no need for revenge because my suicide would be the best revenge. Could anyone live after realizing that someone had killed herself because of you?

What a relief it would be. No more humiliation, no need to try to convince your potential employer that you were not too old for the job, but, on the contrary, more experienced and better educated than someone in their twenties, as well as intelligent, and only forty-two. No need to light a terrifying fire on the stove to cook the soup, no need to think and fight the urge to kill someone. Nothing. How quiet and calm it would be. And everyone around would feel pity for me, bring flowers to my grave and say what a nice person I was. Had been.

The desire to end this nightmare of a life was so strong that I looked for a place to land, without bushes or trees, soft grass or sand. Heaven forbid, I didn’t want to stay alive and crippled forever. At that moment, I was not even thinking about any physical pain. My emotional pain was so strong that my brain blocked out every reason that could stop me. I found a place, the perfect place to jump.

And right then, Zhenia came home. Of course, we discussed all the wedding preparations. And of course, I didn’t remember anything we talked about. My brain was on autopilot. Only one thought was in my head: to end up the conversation ASAP, and get rid of this hell inside. Soon, I told myself, I will hurry to my death.

Suddenly a thought struck me: Oh, my Lord! Vova! What about my son? I clearly saw the picture: I’m lying in a coffin, quite happy and relaxed, and my son is standing next to it, covering his eyes, for a man cannot cry. His mother taught so. And he is hiding his face for the shame, that his mother was so weak and had betrayed him, forcing him now to stand and bear this shame before all the world.

At such times, it is hard to expect from yourself even a tiny little bit of logic. My head was a mess and confused. I felt hot. So hot, as if a fire was burning me from the inside.

After we finished talking, I ran home. It’s not an exaggeration. I ran as fast as I could. And each time that I stopped for breath, I almost turned back to do what I was thinking about, could not stop myself from thinking about. When I finally made it home, I poured myself a glass of vodka. Full. Then plunked myself to the foot of the couch and emptied another glass of vodka at one gulp. I felt no taste, no alcoholic content. After that I passed out.

In the morning my usual heartache and desire to end it all was mixed with a terrible headache and booze breath. But I didn’t pay attention to anything and again ran. I ran to the same hospital where I was once treated for vegetative-vascular dystonia and migraine, the result of this very dystonia.

I was lucky again. The doctor on duty was understanding, and I didn’t have to explain very much to him. After only a few words, he realized instantly why I had appeared in his hospital. He admitted me at once.