Chapter 1: Aftermath
1948 Words
Valentina
Nobody has left the house in the past three weeks since Romeo got shot at my father’s birthday. The first few days after felt like nothing had really changed, but the atmosphere in the house has been different. Everyone tries to act like nothing really happened, like we’re fine and it was just a normal birthday.
No one ever mentions the security guys outside our house, nor the security kiosk that has been set up in front of our gate two days after the incident.
I had to go to a party at some point with Raisa and Isaac, but my mother said no. I wasn’t sure why I even felt like asking for permission the second time around, because I never had to do so before, but she still said no. The reason given to me were the Covid restrictions, even though people had been allowed to go outside for months now.
I knew that wasn’t the reason, but I never put up much of a fight anyway, so I ended up going along with it.
Staying inside for weeks has left me with nothing better to do than to think, and most of my thoughts ended up leading to what happened with Romeo. I keep asking myself why he was targeted and who had wanted to kill him in the first place.
Sometimes I would think about the way he clung onto me as the life drained out of his eyes, or how his limp body felt as it weighed down mine.
My mother had insisted that both Adrik and I visit a therapist as soon as we arrived back home from Italy. I went one time, but the session was mostly spent looking at each other without saying anything.
“Why are you here?” she had asked me after I sat down without saying anything.
“Because my mother told me to.”
“You seem bothered by that.”
“Maybe I am, I don’t know.”
“Do you often feel like you don’t want to do what your parents tell you to?”
It had felt like a very intrusive and personal question coming from a stranger. “How is that relevant?”
“Isn’t that what you said? That’s the reason why you’re here, isn’t it?”
She seemed like she already knew what I was there but was playing dumb.
“Yes, but she didn’t make me come here to talk about my feelings about my parents.”
“Why did she make you come then?”
“Did she not tell you?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
I proceeded to tell her what had happened.
“And how do you feel about it?” had been her conclusion.
“I don’t know. I guess I’m just curious.”
She didn’t look like she had expected me to say that. “Are you experiencing any symptoms?”
“Like what?”
“Recurrent fear? Nightmares? Any signs of PTSD?”
“PTSD just because- I mean, nothing happened to me. I’m just wondering what he did to get himself shot.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“I’ve known him for more than half of my life I guess. He was the housekeeper at our house in Italy.”
“And you’re not sad?”
“I was sad, but I’ve had time to grieve.”
“It’s been a week since then.”
“Should I still be sad then?”
“No, I was just checking the facts. Do you feel nervous, tense?”
“Because of the event? No.”
“Have you been back in public since it happened?”
“No, but I’d like to.”
“Could you go back to a theatre or a public place?”
“I guess so. I haven’t tried it. I wanted to go to a party yesterday but my mother said no, like I’m a child that needs to ask for permission.”
“Does the idea scare you?”
“Asking for permission to go outside? Yes.”
“I meant going to a theatre or a public place.”
“Why would it?”
“Because you might get shot again, maybe.”
“Why would I get shot again? I wasn’t shot the first time. He was the target and I was just happening to be standing next to him.”
“Why do you refer to him as your target?”
“It definitely wasn’t a terrorist attack or something like that. Whoever it was, they wanted to kill him and no one else.”
“Alright. Are you reliving the event?”
“I mean, I think about it sometimes.”
“What do you think about?”
“Who was trying to kill him, what did he do…why it had to happen.”
“You’re curious because you feel like there’s no closure?”
“Exactly.”
“Does this need for closure make you scared?”
“No.”
“But are you reliving the terror? The fear? The feelings you felt when it happened?” When she had seen that I was confused, she elaborated. “What were you feeling when it happened?”
“I felt shocked.” My brain had been completely paralyzed for a second and I felt like I was watching myself from somewhere else (but I didn’t tell her that, because it wasn’t relevant to her question).
At the end of the session she told me that I was fine and that I didn’t require therapy for PTSD.
My mother was so surprised when she heard that she had called the therapist to make sure. Then she called a family meeting to talk about it, and it turned out that Adrik was the only one out of the four of us who wanted to continue therapy.
Once they started talking about the schedule he would follow, I zoned out.
***
Moscow, Russia - September 17th 2020
By the time September is halfway through, I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of feeling like there’s nothing going on in my life, like every day is the same and I can’t do anything I want to do.
A part of me knows that I’m being ungrateful; living in a big house with a pool and a cinema room wasn’t a bad place to be locked up in. When I was younger, I used to dream of giant mansions with pools and tennis courts. Now I live in one of those and they seem average to me.
Now it feels like I have nothing to look forward to.
My parents are in the living room when I go on a quest to find them; my dad is at the desk on his laptop and my mom is on the couch, watching TV.
“I’m going to the movies tonight with Raisa.”
“You can’t.”
This makes me angry. “Why can’t I even go outside?!”
“Because there’s a pandemic-“
“That’s not it. You didn’t have a problem to go anywhere until dad’s birthday! You can’t honestly tell me that you respect the governments advice or expected me to genuinely believe you. We were travelling against ‘restrictions’ when we went to Italy for dad’s birthday. You didn’t have a problem with the pandemic then.”
They look at each other.
“So that’s not the reason.” I add, not sure whether I’m angrier because they won’t let me go anywhere or because they are lying to me. “Are you scared something will happen to me if I leave the house?”
“No.” my dad says.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Until we find out what happened with Romeo, you’re not allowed to leave the house.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re not sure if Romeo was the target.”
The possibility of the shots being intended for someone in our family scares the life out of me. It places fear inside every fiber of my being, and I am uncomfortable when I feel scared.
“Who else? I’m sure whoever shot him was aiming for him. He was shot twice.”
“How can you talk about it like it’s nothing?” my mom asks.
“Because you also act about it like it’s nothing! But you’re scared, and you want me to be scared as well.”
“Nobody’s scared.” My dad says in a serious tone. “We’re just precautious.”
“Then let me go.”
“You can’t go yet, and it’s final.”
“We didn’t even go to the funeral, and he was part of our family since I was a child.”
“We’re not going anywhere, especially not Italy until we figure out what happened, so you can drop the subject Valentina.”
I feel like a child again, when they wouldn’t let me have fun. I feel like screaming and crying and making a scene, but I just go back upstairs instead.
***
Moscow, Russia - September 22nd, 2020
My mom calls me into her room a few days later, interrupting me from my show.
“We’ll go to a Russian charity event in New York next week.” Is what she says when I enter the bedroom. Dad is on the bed watching TV, and she’s taking her makeup off at the vanity table.
“This sounds like the last thing I would like to do.”
She throws me a look.
“Why do I even have to go? Like what’s the point of going to these things?” I whine.
“We were invited and your father is a stakehold-“
“But why do I have to be there?”
“You were just complaining about not going outside a few days ago and now you don’t want to go?”
I groan. “That’s not what I meant. I meant going out into the city, by myself or with someone. Not going out because I’m forced to by my parents.”
“Nobody is forcing you to do anything.” My dad interjects.
“Can I stay home then and go out in Moscow instead?”
“No.”
“Why?!”
“Because the fundraiser is organized by one of your father’s friends, and they invited us.”
Rolling my eyes is the only answer I can come up with.
“We’re leaving in a week.”
“Can I stay home?” I try again.
“No.”
“Have you figured out who was supposed to be killed?”
My father looks at me with an unreadable expression on his face.
“What?”
“You can’t just talk about things like that.”
“Isn’t that what you said though?”
“Valentina.” My mother tries to reason with me as she throws a worried look towards my dad.
“Fine. I can’t wait until school starts next month so I can finally be away from you.”
With that said, I make my dramatic exit out of their room.
---
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Ronnie
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