My voice trails off into the darkness, dies.
I glide through the doorway with a rustle of fabric, leaving the room and the body behind.
But yet taking so much from it.
Though I am shrouded in heavy twilight, my sight seems clears, my hearing increasingly sharp in the silence. I might even venture a guess that now I'd be filled with ecstasy at the first taste of---
I am not him. I am not my father, no matter how he wished for it to be. He bestowed me his image, granted me his name, passed on his blood. That is why I curse him so. And, too, why I love him so.
I will always be his son, Kostya Konstantinovich, and he will always be my father, despite our differences, our similarities.
A hand alights on my shoulder, but I do not fright. My heart does not race.
"Brother," I whisper.
"He died long ago, Kostya," comes the voice behind me.
"I know," I reply, softly. "But it is a comfort to say."
The figure steps beside me, a vision of everything I am not. His hair falls long and black against his pale skin, mine lies cropped at the scalp, brown, common. He is eccentric, a stand-out. I melt into crowds, loose myself, blend in.
Or at least I try.
His firm voice breaks the deathly silence. "You know what this means, Kostya."
I nod to show my understanding, unable to give my fears voice, should they ultimately come true.
"You're the last left: the only man to carry your name, the only man to continue what was started long ago."
I nod again, eyes closed, breath controlled; calm.
I notice only after I open my eyes that we have come outside, the chill of the wind a soothing caress to my warm body. The wind carries scents to me, carries thoughts and sounds from things that shouldn't, and don't, make them.
I am broken from my meditations, my dive into the senses.
"Do you not hear a word I say?"
Anger burns in his eyes, green flames of hatred, envy, passion, and anger all at once. I glance at his hands, fingers curling into fists of frustration, then look back into those eyes, twin stones of jade.
"I hear, Dima." My words come slowly, softly, with premeditated thought behind them. "I simply do not wish to listen."
Dmitriy sighs, his emotions escaping his body in a cloud of condensation.
"As you wish, Kostya," he says finally, reluctantly. "But we still have lots to do this night."
I know what he means to say, and I hate how he speaks, a predator circling its prey.
"Must we, brother?"
He releases another sigh, though no emotions seem left to escape.
He must think me a child.
"The moon is absent; there is none to witness the deed."
I have to agree, I always do.
"Come, Kostya," he says, a wicked grin weaving from cheek to cheek. "My treat, tonight."
Eyes wide, I barely manage to make a reply.
"You d-don't mean...?"
The grin is replaced by twined stitches of confusion and disbelief.
"Have you never hired yourself a whore?"
My glare conveys my words, unspoken.
Laughing, Dmitriy adds, "Well, there's always need of a first time, right, Brother?"
The slant of my brows and the silence of my words accompany us the whole way to the city, though I know nothing can be helped.
Even the damned have need to eat.
And so we, the damned, were off to feed, together; Brothers.