Page 39 of Wreaking Havoc
He looked up to find Papa watching him. Sascha couldn’t tell if he was mad. Papa always kind of looked mad. But he probably was, right? Sascha had disobeyed him, and now he was interrupting, and this strange man clearly had had some horrible accident, and Sascha was getting in the way.
“Come here,” Papa ordered.
Sascha walked over to him, keeping as much distance between himself and the man in the chair as he could. Papa placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, turning him around. Facing the man in the chair.
Sascha kept his eyes on the basement floor. He didn’t want to look at the man.
“I told you not to come down here, yes?” Papa’s voice was flat and cold, thick with the accent of his homeland.
“I know, Papa. I don’t—I don’t feel so good though.”
“Why are you looking at the ground, Sascha?”
Sascha didn’t say anything. He somehow knew whatever answer he gave, it wouldn’t be the right one. He kept hoping Ivan would say something. Offer to take him upstairs, maybe. Away from the man in the chair. Away from Papa.
But it was Papa’s voice that rang out. “Look up, Sascha.”
Sascha lifted his head. It was definitely blood the man was covered in. He had cuts and bruises everywhere, his face so swollen he almost didn’t look human. And his hands…
There were fingers missing. More than one.
A burning sensation rose from Sascha’s stomach to his throat. He was going to throw up. He was.
“You will not vomit, Sascha.”
Sascha looked behind him. Papawasangry now.
It took everything in him, but Sascha swallowed the rising bile down. His mouth tasted like vomit in the end anyway. He wanted to cry. But if he did…
He knew Papa wouldn’t hurt him, not like he’d hurt this man in the chair.
But what if Sascha was wrong about that?
He could hear the blood dripping onto the plastic. A steady, plopping sound.
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
When Papa saw he was keeping it down, he smiled at Sascha. Or his mouth smiled. Not his eyes though. “Good, Sascha. Now look again.” Sascha lifted his gaze, praying again everything in his tummy would stay where it belonged. “This is what I protect you from, yes? Why I send you away to that fancy school with your weak, spoiled classmates. Aren’t you grateful, Sascha?”
It was a long moment before Sascha could speak. “Yes, Papa.”
“What do you say?”
The man in the chair was crying now.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“What kind of sickness?” Papa asked.
“W-What?”
The man’s cries were turning into sobs, loud and guttural. Sascha couldn’t hear the blood dripping anymore.
“What brought you down here, Sascha?” Impatience laced Papa’s words for the first time. “What kind of sickness?”
“My tum—my stomach. And my throat. And—and a fever?”
“All right.” That heavy hand lifted from Sascha’s shoulders. “Back upstairs. Sergei will bring you medicine.”
