Submergence

Note: Substance Abuse, Mental Health, Violence, No Dialogue

5 mg is the amount of morphine Russian soldiers required to escape the cold fist of death on the eastern front. But 10.5 mg is what she administered— it restricted her husband from mourning in the minimalist Stalingrad apartment and revived the man she adored.

20 mg is the amount of morphine he prayed for, it paused his painting's reflections of his world.

The wife prepares meticulously by grooming her visible body hair every day before commencing her labor. She dedicates ten minutes to bathing, three minutes to styling her short hair, and one to brushing her teeth. In haste, she leaves buttons on her uniform undone; her labor is in constant disarray.

A closed-lip grin flashed to her husband before quickly leaving with his requests in mind. Snow was heavy outside the hospital doors, her thin coat doing little to protect her from the onslaught. Shifts were long, but not as long as the lined-up beds of pale soldiers sleeping in agony. 

She used to be uncomfortable, but she’d repeatedly seen the Melpo shapeshift to Thalia once the syringes brimmed. Casting the dry hands plagued with buboes reaching out to her aside, she followed her regular route to the medicine cabinet, welcoming her dispatched comrades with her eyes. 

A shortage. There was only 250 mg worth of morphine left in the cabinet instead of 500 mg. She had taken the earliest of shifts to be one of the first yet there was only 250 mg. She scoffed, and without hesitation, she took the 30 mg to provide her husband; the scarcity had intimidated her. 

10-hour shifts slowly dwindled to 0 as she descended the familiar path back to the concrete apartments. Her pace resembled a dead army, lips chapped, nails overgrown, and eyes creaking to blink. Snapping up rigidly to the sound of trucks overflowing with Shtrafbat being shipped to the northern flank of Astrakhan, sirens wailed to clear the way as they peeped their bruised heads out like livestock to gawk at her. Stalingrad hospitals were full. Stalingrad's resources were little. It angered the wife, unpeopled towns towards the north received their supplies instead of their veterans. How would Vlaiskimov recover when this was all he saw outside?

— 

Vlaiskimov dug his finger into the blue pigment, smearing it against the canvas. A dark fluorescent river contrasting against the vibrant dew beside it popped out to embrace his vision. His eyes had crusted, along with the paint scattered on his cheeks. Sunken yellow eyes sluggishly locked on his finger pressing into a singular spot. No red tainted the work. Red brings back the times. Aggressively, he smeared the wetness as his teeth croaked for relief from grinding. 

An abrupt click at the door suspended the storm of seclusion. He scrambled like a milkweed bug, jerking upright. His blond beard tangled with red dye from the grunge palette, and his hands developed a watercolor blue screaming against his ivory hands. His woman stepped inside, weary floorboards creaking under her weight. The monotone walls clashed with his lush world—the coexistence made him feel grotesque.

Gnashing teeth faltered into a pathetic wheeze as he dropped the landscape instantaneously, ogling at her leather bag’s brass zipper. He lurched forward, unable to speak. Mucin buildup sealed his lips, and his wild jaw had to wail for him. She acknowledged his appearance: pale-skinned, his long hair remained knotted in length—yet, as instructed, his clothes were kept neat despite the pallid stains. A small smile adorned her face as she revealed an empty syringe partnered with a flask of morphine, 30 mg worth. 

Stepping confidently with heavy feet, her heels clicked to a halt before him. Frigid palms gifting the drug, blistered palms seizing them briskly. Only a nod was exchanged. Before the wife could properly communicate, Vlaiskimov marched quickly to the bathroom down the long corridor, his dress shirt slipping out his trousers. A sigh left her nostrils. Vlaiskimov created a mess- vibrant colored footprints embellished the wood floor. The mop was in the storage closet. 

Without pause, she went the opposite way of her husband down a short dark corridor. Dark brows furrowed as she pushed the door open. The hinges groaned— their weary bones letting out a final sigh of relief. The tight space was garnished with webs and mold seething from the racks. A glint of a dusty frame caught her eye. Moving aside the old uniform weighing on top of it, she clutched the portrait dusting off the ancient film. In her display was a wedding dress hugging a woman, a chalk veil shielding her flesh.

Behind the veil was a flat blanche hairless face without texture, crimson lips lacking outline — eyes with no lids. Short chestnut hair frayed out, strangling her neck. The bouquet of thorny flowers tethered with the same chestnut color. There were no shadows, no cheekbones- no bones present in the face. Eyes were not protruding or hollow, they were just there. The wife's expression twisted to discomfort. For the first time, she noticed her husband was not painting her anymore. Her eyes bulged as she examined the cramped quarters. Why was she hidden? Jaw hanging lowly, her gaze dragged over the work. Dim oil paint reached out of its barricade, seducing Valentina’s core- her heart refused to pull away. The more parched her eyes became, the more her pupils swelled. 

A shriek pierced the damp air, trailed by crashing and clattering. Urgently she abandoned the portrait on the ground, tossing the snagged soldier uniform to cloak it. Escaping the cage, she sprinted down the hallway- hinges whimpering for her. Barging into the bathroom, her sparse wrinkles spiraled downward as a petite vial of morphine dripped over the counter. Drip. Drip. Drip. Vlaiskimov frantically clawed at his yellow beard, eyes spasming at every minuscule occurrence to his senses. Valentina grasped his hands only for them to be swatted- hard. She flinched away shocked for a moment. His eyes begged. Touch was not what he needed. The last of the morphine dripped onto Valentina’s skirt. The red dye was scattered throughout his dense beard, hairs standing up before he clawed again. She frantically reached for tiny hand scissors on the counter, snipping through the red tumors. His hands flailed as she shoved them in retaliation. Red sores dotted his chin from the tangled hair follicles.

No words were exchanged. Their worried expressions shifted expectantly. Valentina reached for a shaky hand. Vlaiskimov lunged like a lion for the empty vial of morphine instantly, the sound of bones popping competing for room against the weight of his breathing. Valentina flinched away. Expectant expressions shifted to disappointment. His hands fumbled disorderly, raising the vial to his pupil. Disappointed expressions snapped to bitterness. Peering through the red bottle, down from the wife's tensed hands were stains on her scrub moist from absorbing his essence. 

— 

Today was their 5th anniversary, and Valentina woke up early but alone. At the crack of dawn, she shut the bathroom door keeping it unlocked. Part of her hoped for him to step in. She couldn’t rest when Vlaiskimov's portrait was carved into her heart.

Yawning, Valentina started her morning routine by running the water. As she prepared, she paused to examine her reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes stared back at her, prompting her to lean in for a closer look. Thin facial hairs caught the dim light from the bulb above, and as she brushed her fingers against them, she detected their dry and brittle texture.

Valentina then began to shave, addressing not only her body— but her face as well. Fog marred the mirror as she inspected her face. Some had escaped the razor; to most, they were invisible, but Vlaiskimov's portrait lingered. Reaching for the tweezers in the drawer, she picked the tiny hairs along her jawline. She was hairy.

Suddenly, she paused, her focus shifting to the blemishes damaging her complexion. Attentively rubbing her fingers across her skin, her lips parted. Disbelief painted her features. She was meant to be pale. Valiskimov saw her as pale. Her hands scrubbed at the blemishes as she dipped her head underwater. Her neck cracked as she tilted her neck back repeatedly to check if the blemishes had faded. Was it blemish or tan? Has her skin changed since then? The naturally flushed color of her cheekbones provided a vivid contrast to her pale complexion. Valentina whimpered as she dipped back underwater.

Huffing, Valentina fingered her cracked lips, spreading them in all 4 directions. Her teeth were drained yellow, and her gums were pale pink. Fisting the toothbrush she spent 3 minutes instead of 1.

The door creaked, hinges scarred from the red incident. Humid air consolidated in her lungs— soggy patches adhered to wooden joists, bleeding into the monotone walls. Nuisances left to themselves fester. Isn't this supposed to be a home? Her lips pursed, a twist of resentment, as she pressed forward. If Valiskimov wishes to stay an empty tusk, so be it. Crusted-colored footprints loitered on the floor. She had labor, not time.

Valentina's body turned rigid. Her breath hitched— a raw exhale escaped her. Framed landscapes polluted the hall, hues echoing a fragmented battlefield. It was deplorable. It was sickening. Every day, Valentina had to work extensive hours to provide; not for personal endeavors. Exhaustion seethed out as she yanked the inadequately nailed illustration off the wall. Subpar pieces thieves time from the eyes.  

Resuming her march with his world chained against her side, she opened the melancholy apartment door with her free hand. She didn't want her coat or leather purse. She wouldn’t need them. 

An evacuation notice was tacked on the outside, “The fray against fascism has dawned on Stalingrad, and our heroes demand freedom to combat.” Meaning, "German platoon passages withstood the expectations of Russian polkovodets".

There, it registered to Valentina that comrades had failed. The patients in her hospital had failed. Sold to the Eastern front, only to return with missing parts. Their substitutes squandered on a man she polished since discharge. Polished to the extent of losing the innate ability to acknowledge his wife. So privileged, he dares to cast her aside as a mistress to his— inappropriate needs, in her own marriage. The needs that others needed more

—

The frigid ground was coarse. Plop. Plop. Without misfire, droplets drilled a cold pinpoint on Vlaiskmov's forehead. Barren skin unaccustomed to hydration. Ignoring reality only made it coalesce. The Vitruvian Man had nails hammered through his palms- garnishing him to peer at the iridescent drab ceiling. Palpitations shackled his conscience. Thump. Thump. Bang. The barynya of his heartbeat and spasms within his retinas remind him of his world. 

Gasping for air, Vlaiskmov rolled over and resumed his labor. Like ants, pointillist dots tediously formed, gradually assembling an overflowed black tub. He forgot to drain his reference in the bathroom. His head cocked overhead towards the stained wooden joists. Part of the joist was tainted permanently. If it wasn't neglected, it would be mendable. It's too late for that. But Vlaiskmov wanted to try the best he could. Holding the deep wood plank, he aligned the painting with the joist. It was too high up. mendable. It's too late for that. But Vlaiskmov wanted to try the best he could. Holding the deep wood plank, he aligned the painting with the joist. It was too high up. 

His mind screamed "shagom marsh"! Jostling upwards, he trekked stooped, skeleton collapsed, absentmindedly pursuing the storage.   

"Levo... Pavo... Levo... Pavo..."

The voice of his sergeant's drill commands pounded his brain.

"Stoy!"

The storage door was left wide. Disoriented, he pulled the ladder from the corner in front of the shelves. Onslaughts of palpitations momentarily relaxed seeing the painting of Valentina pure. His picturesque barynya was enshrouded by a fresh uniform. Yanking his eyes away he returned to his original task. Mending the stain.  

"Levo... Pavo... Levo... Pavo..."

"Stoy!"

Taking the ladder off his back, he failed to wedge it into the ground. Gruffing, he picked up the wooden plank before ducking his head and scaling up. He crucified all 4 corners to the joist, faultily obscuring the stain.

Click. 

The apartment door pushed open and closed viciously to detour snow. Valentina had finished her 13-hour shift. She slumped down to a fetal position, utilizing the doormat as a pillow.

Vlasikmov skittered to pie the corner. Seeing his wife so cracked stirred discomfort deep within. But worse, was that she carried no leather purse.

Valentina's sunken red eyes locked with Vlasikmov's piercing blue stare. Brows furrowing, she shot up from the ground, sieging towards him. He involuntarily recoiled backward, tripping back on his bum. A thin slab of rubles scored his chest, a sharp reminder of her frustration. Sympathy flickered on her face, before recoiling as well. 

Blinking, Vlasikmov crawled onto his feet. She must've seen the wooden joists before leaving. Disregarding the rubles, he grabbed her hand and urgently showed her the fix, stomping over the peeling footprints. The wooden joist had a plank decorated in dots protruding, an image of a brimmed tub. An eyesore thieving from her view.

Shouting in vexation, she wrenched her hand back and pelted it on the empty slot in the monotone wall. Is her husband absurd? Why would she want more flimsy art after selling the last in the cursed line-up?

For a moment, his world stopped. A piece was gone from the loathsome monotone wall. He was so enamored with fixing the joist, he never noticed. She was the one who took away his essence. Again, she had stolen it! His eyes jumped at her scrub uniform. She has been destroying his world constantly. Her skin was blanched, sick, as sick as she was for what she's done. A witch- a hostile, leaving her imprint on his soul. Giving, then taking away morphine as she feels. Selfishly! 

Like a rat, he cowered back into the bathroom, barring the faulty door. Valentina's eyes clouded with sorrow, a storm brewing in her consciousness. Pearls welled up in her eyes, pouring down her face. Hyperventilating, her heavy fists pounded at the door for anything. For a word, for a whisper— for an answer.

Thump. Thump. Bang. His heart wept. Each bang was a reminder of the hostile's resentment. Extensions of his palm tugged at his hair, roughly fidgeting and pulling as dragged himself into the full noir tub. Water bobbled out soaking the floor. He sank into a fetal position. His teeth chattered, his voice broke silent whimpers, and his eyes screwed shut.

Valentina wailed as her fists grew red. She began to claw at the door, digging her fingers into the unforgiving wood. She refused to be ignored- to be set aside. Not anymore. 

Her grief shifted to solitude, as she dropped down and rested her ear against the door. Solitude shifted to waiting. Her gasps and sobs were apparent and loud— loud as bombshells. Waiting shifted to-

The door hinges blared in pain. Valentina crashed her shoulder against the door. Over, and over. Sobs fading into thunderous shrieking.

Thump. Thump. Bang. Valiskimov turned the faucet, hot, to drown out the sound. His brittle teeth croaked for relief from grinding. His skin flushed red, unfamiliar with the heat. His clothes clung to his skin. It was a surprise Stalingrad still had hot water. Valentina wouldn't even let him try to turn the faucet hot.

The wooden joists jostled, the poorly nailed art plummeting to the ground. 

The crashing subdued as the door surrendered, breaking off to the side. Valiskimov jerked, causing water to splatter in Valentina's eyes. He sputtered, unable to apologize as palpitations grew overbearing. All that was audible was the beat.

Thump. Thump. Bang.

Valentina shouted, fists rubbing her fragile eyes. Valiskimov would rather bathe than talk. Splash water at her- like a pest, as if she wasn't worthy. What has he ever been worthy of! Could he even live a day without her? 

Hollering, she lunged in the tub at Valiskimov. Grabbing his neck, she yanked his head underwater, beating him. Every hit is a reminder of her resentment. Valiskmov gurgled. His limbs flailed, spasming as his body convulsed. Thump. Thump. Bang. Valentina pressed her body weight on him, as her skin reddened from the heat, her resentment. It burned. Bawling, she paused her assault to press her palms against his eyes. Valiskimov's lungs were crammed with water as he frantically tried to grab at her. He couldn't breathe. It was dark. His legs kicked as Valentina pinned him harder. Thump. Thump-

Valentina blubbered, pressing harder as his flailing ceased. Her breathing was chaotic. Her body thrashed as she shoved her hands on his face, moaning every time his head rebounded from the tub's floor. Resentment turned to solitude. Silently weeping, she screwed her eyes shut refraining from repeating. She was tired of repeating when no one wanted to listen. Solitude turned to realization. Valiskimov was dead. He was no longer here. She opened her eyes and gazed upon what she had done. Solitude turned to grief. 

The water metamorphosed into wine as Valiskimov's retinas were frozen in time. Blood drooled from his nose, floating up to bubble on the meniscus.

Adjusting her body off of him, to the back of the tub, she turned his body and dragged him into her lap. Cradling him, her eyes were shell-shocked. Muttering under her breath she peppered kisses to her husband's numb face, frozen in a frightened expression. Not even the heat of the bath changed that. Hyperventilating, she combed her fingers through his blond locs. The tips tainted with watercolor mahogany ends. She gulped, attempting to calm herself, to stop feeling. Boring into her husband's eyes, ensnared was the reflection of an estranged wife. A breathy sigh followed an ugly sob.