“Why the hell aren’t you training?”
Yuri looked up from his easel, over at the man who had just emerged through the doorway, out onto the roof. He was but a silhouette, illuminated by the lights coming from the Chicago skyline, and the fading light of the April evening. A slight part of him bristled with annoyance, although he did well to hid it. This was his father after all. And of course, children obeyed their parents.
“I already finished for the day.” Yuri mumbled, his voice made even thicker by his Ukranian accent. Dipping his brush on his palette again, he turned back to the easel.
“You finished? Who the hell said you were finished?” Augustus Briese demanded, continuing to stride across the roof.
“It was a three hour session. Besides, it’s nighttime.”
“Three hours.” Augustus Briese muttered. “There’s twenty-four hours in a day, and you’re training for THREE. What the hell are you doing for the other twenty-one?”
Yuri didn’t answer, just sat still as he listened to his father berate him. He could hear the footsteps growing closer, stopping right behind him.
“I see,” Gus said. Yuri wrinkled his nose, he could smell the Scotch on his father’s breath. “This.”
Before Yuri could even moved, Gus leaned over, and picked up one of his paints. Winding up, he threw it at the easel, Yuri standing up in both outrage and a vain attempt to avoid the splattering paints as the can crashed against the canvas. The easel overbalanced, tipping over and clattering to the roof. Yuri looked down at the painting. It was ruined- what had been his three-day effort to paint the Chicago skyline now lay beneath a large red splotch of paint. Outraged, he looked over at his father, only to receive a slap across his face for the deed.
“Don’t look at me like that, boy. Remember who you’re talking to.”
Tears welled up in Yuri’s eyes. Obviously, the blow hadn’t hurt physically. But it cut deep into his pride and sense of self-worth, that much was certain. He forced himself to remain stoic, but Augustus had already noticed.
“Oh, my God. Are you going to cry now, like a little faggot? Is that what you are? Some faggot who sits on rooftops and cries and paints his life away?”
“No,” Yuri growled. For not the first time since he’d been reunited, Yuri had the urge to punch his sneering father in the face. But of course… he mustn’t. He oughtn’t.
Gus pointed down at the painting. “This isn’t you, Yuri. If you were supposed to be yet another mediocre painter, the Russians would have let you die choking on your own blood as the radiation turned your guts into mush. You’re supposed to be the one everyone fears. You’re supposed to be the one everyone trembles at the sight of. Are you? I’m not even a third your weight, and you’re more afraid of me than I am of you.”
Yuri stood silently, his hands clenched at his sides. Gus had berated him before, but never to this extent. And that painting. He had spent…
“I just watched your sister. She beat some pink-haired little slut. Tore through her in three minutes. She’s trying to ignore you. She’s trying to pretend like she didn’t just watch her fat slob of a manager get nearly killed by you.” Gus looked back over at him. “I want you to beat Chase Dupree so badly she can’t ignore it. I want you to break every bone in his body, and for her to stare at the television, knowing that soon she’ll be in his place.”
“Why?” Yuri finally dared ask.
Gus spun around, glaring at him. “Why?”
“Why do you care about this so much?” Yuri asked, folding his arms over his massive chest. “You hate wrestling. You’ve said over and over it’s for degenerates and freaks. Hell, all this started because you didn’t want her in wrestling. And yet, you’re up here, pushing me to kill some eighteen year old kid. Why?”
For a second, Yuri thought that he was going to receive another slap, and steeled himself, more to avoid retaliating than for any pain. But Gus merely laughed, as if his son had cracked a joke. “Did the radiation eat all your brain cells? You are a degenerate and a freak, my son. Look at you. You’re huge. You’re hideous. Everyone stares at you and shies away everywhwere you walk. You’re the perfect person to walk into a ring and kill people for the entertainment of the masses, because really, what else are you good for? Should I put you on a stage, and wince as you butcher Shakespeare? Should I put you in a leotard, and watch you try to dance Swan Lake?”
He sighed, looking down at the painting again. “That was supposed to be her. She ruined it. Her and that greasestained jackass she married. Everything I did for her, gone. And then, at my lowest point, when the government accused me of murder, she abandoned me. Left me to rot in a jail.”
Yuri didn’t bother mentioning that if Gus ever harmed HIS mother, he’d never even live to see prison. He wanted to be filial to both his parents, but it was no contest to whom his devotion was greater to. Gus turned back to him, and looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t ever forget that this is all her fault, Yuri”
“I know,” Yuri replied.
“Now come on, you should get ready to pack for Minneapolis,” Augustus said.
“I’m supposed to do an interview tonight, via..”
“I had Ivana cancel it.” Gus cut Yuri off. “What the hell were you thinking? I’d bet your sister already suspects you’re with me, and if she got the slightest shred of proof, she’d have the authorities crawling all over you. We can’t afford to risk anything. And besides, you don’t need to say anything, not that anyone could understand you. You’ll do all the talking Monday night. Now come on. It’s getting late, and I’m thirsty.”
“Yes… father,” Yuri finally said. He looked one more time at the ruined painting, then out at the twinkling Chicago skyline. He didn’t want to go downstairs. He wanted to stay up here, and enjoy the evening. But his father awaited. “
Ah well, at least Augustus wouldn’t be able to come to Minneapolis, for fear of being caught. Maybe the night sky was as beautiful there as it was here.
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