Vröia: A Short Story
“So now you recognize me? What about before, when I was struggling for money and you were out whoring, bringing home men and sums four times my size? Where is my money, Mama? Where have you hidden it?
There was little wrong on that day in June. It had been forty-five days after the tenant, who found no comfort in, yet still made her home in a garrett at 419 Napravelnye Kopye, had realized that she would be evicted unless she conjured up a sum of ₽10,000. To say it surprised her wouldn’t have been an understatement. If anything, the statement made something out of nothing - the calm, stoic state in which the tenant had surveyed the notice, written in the shaky, aging hand of Praskoviya Adrikovna Kuznekova, the landlady, made into the expected panic and desperation taken from Prestuplinye i Nakazeniye.
Vröia Avdotya Zoień had known that this would happen. That was why she had been saving for years, ever since she had first taken up residence at the aforementioned garret at Napravelnye Kopye and had seen the greed in Praskoviya Adrikovna’s beady black eyes. Shark’s eyes, looking for fresh meat, had then found her own, black as well, both sets allowing passerby a glimpse into the mind of the person whom they belonged to. A person filled with bitterness is what they saw, regardless of which pair they peeked into, towards every single thing they beheld. Both, but particularly our tenant, despised people, the way they talked, what they talked about, how they never listened.
Our tenant had had only her books and clothes with her when Praskoviya Adrikovna saw her. No other possessions, her clothes drab and stained, but she seemed to radiate confidence, not to be trifled with, never to be trifled with. She was not worried about the rent or what people thought of her, nothing bothered her. When the tranquil mask cracked, however, the monster beneath her skin took its place, its claws hid under frighteningly pale knuckles, its rose eyes waiting to turn red and feral with the promise of a kill.
This was what led our tenant to sift through the piles of money in her safe to find one of her prized possessions - a palette knife, given to her by her lover, along with a message: she deserved the world and the heavens, no matter the cost. The same platitude, old and tired, but Vröia was never one to complain. Better let it fester - older wounds made for better motivation.
She took the palette knife, admiring the thin bloodletting slits in the blade. She had gotten the idea for the slits after she’d dug up a foreigner (a story for another day), who turned out to be alive, and then proceeded to tell her everything about his country’s weapons and whatnot in exchange for safe passage back to his home..
Once she had the palette knife, plenty of cloth to hide the traces of what had transpired, and a bag for carrying her earnings, she set out to find the landlady.
She wished to do harm not because she wasn’t able to pay the exorbitant sum demanded of her, but because of Praskoviya Adrikovna’s evil glass eye. She had finished reading The Tell-Tale Heart when she discovered that her landlady also had an evil eye, and she figured she must do something about it. Like in the book it drove her mad, but she should be smarter about it, seeing, after all, what had happened in the story after the deed was done. Take the aftermath as a warning, why not? She needed the valuables that were treasured by her landlady anyway, so why not use it as an excuse? Kill two birds with one stone.
Our tenant went up, up, up reaching Praskoviya Adrikovna’s door. The placard read: Praskoviya Adrikovna Kuznekova-Zoień. A swift kick, and the door shattered easily - it was old and thin, rotting at the edges, the nameplate shining in the dim light.
“Ahh! Someone please help me!” A voice screamed, cries echoing through the narrow corridor. A familiar face appeared above her.
“Even at Death’s doorstep must you always be so prim and proper?”
“Dunechka! My child, come help me, please!”
“So now you recognize me? What about before, when I was struggling for money, and you were out whoring, bringing home men and sums four times my size? Where is my money, Mama, where have you hidden it?”
“Dunechka. Dunechka please, I do not know what you speak of! Help me get up please, then we will–
“Shut up.” Our tenant cuffed her mother across the face, brought out her knife.
It was over fairly quickly. Our tenant was sure the screams and cries she heard would stay with her for all eternity, and she felt regret clawing its way in almost as soon as she dropped the palette knife, ready to replace the monster, kill the fragile girl it protected.
Our tenant blinked, and was calm. She could feel the blood on her hands, flowing out even with the blade still lodged in bone, the chill of the sheath, the heat from the fire in the grate, the dust in the air, the smell of the flowers lining the walls, the breeze from the open window - surely, the neighbors had heard - the buzz of the lamps.
The eye was closed now - it would no longer haunt her.