Viktor's first memory was eating breakfast. He wasn't very sure if it was the first, but most of his childhood memories are locked away now, washed from his mind like rivers grinding shores to pebbles, then sand, then dust. He had tried to get them back, because they really were the best days of his life, even though the heating sputtered on and off and the chairs were creaky and everybody was talking more about grandpa and less about him.
It wasn't particularly good, as far as breakfast went. But he was on a lap, warm hands securing him against a warm back, and a hand was pushing something pureed into his mouth in one of those little plastic spoons with a cartoon animal on the end. And then, as if no time passed at all, he was being laid on a bed, where the same big hands tucked a warm blanket over him. There was laughing, and then there was nothing at all. Just sleep, and the sound of a song being hummed.
Anatomy of a Failure
How did we come to this? Trigger warnings for child death/mutilation/body dysmorphia. Multishot, as per usual
A ten year old Viktor Kurchatov looked at the corpse beside him, flung out of its seat.
The girl had shared peanuts with him after the plane took off, and they had traded words in broken English. He wasn't sure his name was. She let him braid her hair and her mother had taunted him- "Aww," she cooed, "They're in love," and Viktor got really, really mad.
She looked like meat now. Half of her face was charred and angry red beneath the cracking skin, the other half was melted the way that cheese melted. Her pigtails are clumped together and there was something heavy pinning him down. He tried to pull it off but he was too small, way too small.
Was that what he looked like? Was his face melting? Everything was so blurry. Air seemed to waver.
He was burning out. Just like her. Clothes and plastic and hair were all burning and some of it was turning into nondescript sludge, fusing into his skin. It hurted, it hurted so much, and he was going to die, and he was sure of it. He wanted to see the U.S. Grand canyon. Ellis island. California beaches. New York. Everything. Please, God, don't let it end this early. He was so young. But if he did die, heaven let him in, right? He did everything the way he should. He was a good student. He fed birds and he said thank you to adults and he didn't curse a lot and-
Right before he closed his eyes, he heard a voice.
The girl had shared peanuts with him after the plane took off, and they had traded words in broken English. He wasn't sure his name was. She let him braid her hair and her mother had taunted him- "Aww," she cooed, "They're in love," and Viktor got really, really mad.
She looked like meat now. Half of her face was charred and angry red beneath the cracking skin, the other half was melted the way that cheese melted. Her pigtails are clumped together and there was something heavy pinning him down. He tried to pull it off but he was too small, way too small.
Was that what he looked like? Was his face melting? Everything was so blurry. Air seemed to waver.
He was burning out. Just like her. Clothes and plastic and hair were all burning and some of it was turning into nondescript sludge, fusing into his skin. It hurted, it hurted so much, and he was going to die, and he was sure of it. He wanted to see the U.S. Grand canyon. Ellis island. California beaches. New York. Everything. Please, God, don't let it end this early. He was so young. But if he did die, heaven let him in, right? He did everything the way he should. He was a good student. He fed birds and he said thank you to adults and he didn't curse a lot and-
Right before he closed his eyes, he heard a voice.
There was nothing but pain and beeping and the nurses turning him over in his bed every half a day so that he wouldn't get bedsores. There were tubes in him everywhere, down his throat, in his nethers, and he felt violated but he didn't know how to say it because he barely knew how to say anything at all, just groan and sputter and beg with pleading eyes. His skin either hurt or didn't feel anything at all. Every few hours someone comes in and fources something soft and mushy into his throat.
There were so many hands on him, dressing and undressing bandages, rolling him around, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He wanted to rip the blankets off of himself and the rip the skin off, too, for good measure.
Vaguely, in the cell next door, he could hear voices.
There were so many hands on him, dressing and undressing bandages, rolling him around, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't. He wanted to rip the blankets off of himself and the rip the skin off, too, for good measure.
Vaguely, in the cell next door, he could hear voices.
At first, he was in a medically induced coma- for his own good, he was told, because for every second that he was awake, he’d thrash and scream and beg for something, anything, to stop the pain until he was pumped full of a cocktail of just about every kind of sedative there was. He does not remember the earlier days in the hospital, the sight of his leg being stripped to charred flesh and the swathes of skin slipping off bone. He does not remember being wheeled through the doors of the hospital amidst radio calls and frantic shouts. He does not remember asking where his father went.
Do you know how hard it is to triage? The mass transportation of dozens of victims, the sorting of who to care for first, the delicate process of moving them around without fucking up their spine or having their skin peel off like a juicy rib off the bone?
Viktor didn’t.
Later, he will be in awe of how many people had a hand in his survival. Not just the doctors and the nurses- the pilots who airlifted him, the emergency first responders, the skin donors who he now wears, and everyone in between. But, now, in the hospital bed, he isn’t feeling anything at all, with the painkillers stripping him of his brain functions until his mind is all soupy. He wasn’t grateful. He was angry.
Do you know how hard it is to triage? The mass transportation of dozens of victims, the sorting of who to care for first, the delicate process of moving them around without fucking up their spine or having their skin peel off like a juicy rib off the bone?
Viktor didn’t.
Later, he will be in awe of how many people had a hand in his survival. Not just the doctors and the nurses- the pilots who airlifted him, the emergency first responders, the skin donors who he now wears, and everyone in between. But, now, in the hospital bed, he isn’t feeling anything at all, with the painkillers stripping him of his brain functions until his mind is all soupy. He wasn’t grateful. He was angry.