Post by tingrin on Nov 26, 2006 7:54:44 GMT -5
He walked.
He had no idea where he was going, but he walked anyway. Away from the hotel, away from Sibyl, away from his sister and his mother - he walked.
Eventually he stopped and sank down onto a bench in the middle of a very pretty, well-kept park. There was not another soul in sight and Piotr was grateful for that. He needed to be alone right now.
The way he had acted towards Sibyl stuck in his throat like a particularly unpleasant fish bone. He had been almost primal for a moment; his need for her touch, for the two of them to become ardent lovers so desperate that he wondered whether he could have stopped himself had it gone any further. The fact that he had almost been so brutal with her made him feel physically sick.
What had he been thinking? It wouldn't surprise him if, when he returned to the hotel, she was packed and ready to return to New York, where there were less aggressive people.
What was wrong with him? When other people lost loved ones, they wept. They cried. They put their arms around their friends and they grieved. His sister had done it, his mother had done it, Sibyl had done it. But he had not. He could not. It was almost as though Nikolai had taken that part of his humanity with him when he'd passed over, leaving nothing but a gaping void of empty feeling and hollow anger.
Yet when news had reached them of Mikhail's death, he had wept. But then that was partly because he cried for the fact that they would never know the real truth. There was no body to make it real for him.
He wanted to cry, so badly. He had loved Nikolai; had lived to please him, lived to follow in his footsteps. In a desperate attempt to bring sorrow to himself, he tried to think of memories from his childhood, memories of Nikolai, younger and fitter, with his four year old son on his shoulders, showing him around the farm that he would grow up to work. Memories of Nikolai cleaning his scraped knees when he'd fallen from the apple tree. Memories of Nikolai sitting over his bed when he'd had a fever.
Memories of Nikolai's final words to him.
Memories like this, and more, swamped the big man's mind and yet the tears still would not come.
"My papa," he said, aloud. "Why is it that I cannot let you go? Help me."
By now, much of the anger had left him, leaving just a sense of brokenness, and a terrible feeling of sorrow for the way he had treated Sibyl, the most precious thing in his life.
Perhaps if he concentrated on fixing that first, everything else would follow.
He sat there for a long time, long into the night and as the night sky began to give way to the cold grey of the pre-dawn, he finally returned to the hotel, much more at peace with himself and determined to see this thing through.
He had no idea where he was going, but he walked anyway. Away from the hotel, away from Sibyl, away from his sister and his mother - he walked.
Eventually he stopped and sank down onto a bench in the middle of a very pretty, well-kept park. There was not another soul in sight and Piotr was grateful for that. He needed to be alone right now.
The way he had acted towards Sibyl stuck in his throat like a particularly unpleasant fish bone. He had been almost primal for a moment; his need for her touch, for the two of them to become ardent lovers so desperate that he wondered whether he could have stopped himself had it gone any further. The fact that he had almost been so brutal with her made him feel physically sick.
What had he been thinking? It wouldn't surprise him if, when he returned to the hotel, she was packed and ready to return to New York, where there were less aggressive people.
What was wrong with him? When other people lost loved ones, they wept. They cried. They put their arms around their friends and they grieved. His sister had done it, his mother had done it, Sibyl had done it. But he had not. He could not. It was almost as though Nikolai had taken that part of his humanity with him when he'd passed over, leaving nothing but a gaping void of empty feeling and hollow anger.
Yet when news had reached them of Mikhail's death, he had wept. But then that was partly because he cried for the fact that they would never know the real truth. There was no body to make it real for him.
He wanted to cry, so badly. He had loved Nikolai; had lived to please him, lived to follow in his footsteps. In a desperate attempt to bring sorrow to himself, he tried to think of memories from his childhood, memories of Nikolai, younger and fitter, with his four year old son on his shoulders, showing him around the farm that he would grow up to work. Memories of Nikolai cleaning his scraped knees when he'd fallen from the apple tree. Memories of Nikolai sitting over his bed when he'd had a fever.
Memories of Nikolai's final words to him.
Memories like this, and more, swamped the big man's mind and yet the tears still would not come.
"My papa," he said, aloud. "Why is it that I cannot let you go? Help me."
By now, much of the anger had left him, leaving just a sense of brokenness, and a terrible feeling of sorrow for the way he had treated Sibyl, the most precious thing in his life.
Perhaps if he concentrated on fixing that first, everything else would follow.
He sat there for a long time, long into the night and as the night sky began to give way to the cold grey of the pre-dawn, he finally returned to the hotel, much more at peace with himself and determined to see this thing through.