Note: "—"italicized text"—" indicates anything said in Russian. (I know it looks so ugly).

“— “Is this him? Iv Sardu?”—" The newcomer asked in a language I didn’t know but was familiar with. I grew up in a big enough city that every summer I heard different languages than I was used to. And every so often, we got those from further east in town. I could still remember being awoken in the middle of the night, hearing an argument in that eastern language, float through my open window. I screamed at them to shut up and went back to bed.

Him, he didn’t look like the man who was screaming at the rest of his company that summer night. There was a sort of delicateness to him. If he fell down wrong, it seemed like he would break. He looked between Luis and Mathias, his hands shoved into his denim jacket. He was too lightly dressed for the middle of winter on the waterfront. “—"Well? Is this him?”—" He asked again.

Mathias looked to Luis, pleading with him to say something. “«Henri, »” he said, and the younger man looked to him, “«in French or in English. You know we don’t speak Russian. »”

Henri stuck his tongue out and I caught site of metal, heard the clink as it hit his front teeth when he tucked his tongue back into his mouth. “—"Shitass,”—” he said with a smile. “«So, is this him? »” He walked closer to me. I started to see the amount of metal that was in his face. One under his bottom lip, another on the side of his nose, two in his left eyebrow, and both ears so full of it I wasn’t sure how he could still hear. He tsked as his blue eyes raked over my face. “«What happened to him? I specifically asked that he not be hurt. »” He grabbed my chin in his hand, admiring whatever new bruise was on my face. He let go, throwing my head to the side. He turned around, screamed, “—"You fucking whores!”—" at Luis and Mathias. “«Out! »” He said a little calmer.

“«What? »” They asked.

“—"Out!”—" He screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing what looked like a can opener at them both. He repeated it, pointing to the door. “—"Out! Out! Out!”—” Luis scurried out, Mathias following him like a lost puppy. Once the door was shut behind them, Henri picked his can opener back up. He kicked the door as hard as he could as a statement, yelled “«Idiots! »” through the door. Henri faced me once again, his face bright red; the spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks drowning in his anger. He stomped over to my seat in the chair, put himself into a flat-footed squat. “«Sorry, »” he said rubbing his nose. “«I hate when people can’t follow orders. »” The shoulder of his jacket started to fall; I swallowed, catching sight of the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his t-shirt. “«Is this interesting? »” He asked with a smile when he caught me staring. He lifted his shirt sleeve to show off a colorful, angry bear. “«Cool, no? »” I nodded, scared of what he’d do to me if I disagreed. He laughed, loud, deep, full, throwing his head back as he did. “«Yves, »” he said, suddenly stopping. “«Where’s your father? »”

Speak, I told myself as the words I don’t know, caught in my throat. He wasn’t Mathias. He was so much worse, if that little display of unhinged anger was anything to go on. If I didn’t speak, he wouldn’t leave me alone, that was certain. He might torture me, all for the answer that I didn’t know where he was. I hadn’t spoken to my father in almost ten years. He blinked his blue eyes in anticipation. The words died in my throat. I kept trying and trying to get anything out, to make any noise. It all failed. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t speak no matter how hard I tried, how hard I wanted to. I was too scared of what he’d do to me if I spoke, of what Mathias would do to me if he overheard and didn’t like it. I closed my eyes, giving it one last try as I finally choked out a single sound: e.

“«And? »” He said. “«And? There’s no ‘and’ in my question. Where’s your father? »” He yelled. I went through the whole process of trying to squeeze out a word again, only this time Henri wasn’t as patient. “«Answer. Me, »” he growled. When I still failed to answer, he sighed angrily, putting the base of his thumbs on either side of his nose. “«Okay. Okay. Where’s Onufrin Surnin? »” He brought his hands from his face. “«He’s more important than your father. »”

I don’t know, it was such a simple phrase. «I don’t know. » That’s all I needed to say. But the more I tried to get my throat to open, the more it squeezed shut. He wasn’t Mathias, he wasn’t going to hurt me in ways he could, I knew that. He’d hurt me in ways only Henri could. He didn’t come all the way here for a simple “I don’t know.” That fear of not knowing how volatile he could get, I think that’s what kept my mouth closed, what kept me struggling to get a single word out. He watched me with calculating eyes, waiting for my answer on either question. I hadn’t talked to Onufrin since he mysteriously disappeared after patting me on the back and telling me good luck. That was ten or eleven years ago.

His patience for his second question had run out. “—"Answer. Me,”—” he yelled, grabbing me above my knees. It was to be a simple show of strength, that he was in a better position than me. But I let out a whimper as pain from my bullet wound shot through my leg. “«Interesting… »” He mumbled to himself, then pressed harder to test his little theory. I yelped in pain, and he laughed, standing up from his squat. He walked closer to the door Mathias and Luis left from. “—"Hey! Train station whore!”—” He called through the door. “«Luis, I need you! »” He sang. Luis came back into the small room, asked what the matter was. “«Why is he hurt? »”

Luis sighed, “«That was Matias. »” Henri crossed his arms, looked up at Luis. A silent demand that Luis wasn’t able to reject. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, screamed for Mathias. I wondered why they were humoring Henri. He was shorter than them, looked more fragile. One good shake and he’d crumble, something Mathias could easily do. Yet he stood where Luis once was, his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting for Henri to say anything, to give him some kind of instruction.

And he asked him, in that authoritative, yet slightly crazy, tone of voice, why I was hurt, and what had happened to me. Mathias let out a long breath. “«I hit him. I shot him. I broke his ankle. I raped him. I hit him again. »” He shrugged as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“«I said don’t hurt him! »” Henri screamed. “—"Whore! Is that your kink? Are you a sadist? D—” —”

“«No, »” Mathias said, interrupting Henri’s little temper tantrum. 

“«No? »” He repeated. “«You speak Russian? »”

“«No, »” Mathias responded. “«That word ‘sadist’ is the same in English. And I’m not a sadist. He made me angry. So I punished him. I didn’t know he was Yves Sardou at the time. »”

“«What? »” He asked, completely frazzled. “«Not Yves Sardou? »”

“«Yes. He was Soren. »”

Henri turned to fully face me, laughing a bit, and scratching his cheek. “«…like him… »” he mumbled. His eyes grew wide as wires connected in his brain. He whipped his head to look back at Mathias. “«Wait. You raped him? »” Mathias nodded. “«Why?! »” Henri cried.

“«He made me angry. »” He answered.

“«Really!?” » He screamed. “«That’s your answer? You raped a man because he made you angry? »”

“«Henri, »” Mathias said, placing a hand on Henri’s shoulder, “«don’t question adults. »”

In the flash of a second, Henri hit Mathias as hard as he could in the middle. Either it was hard enough that Mathias had to double over in pain, or he was trying to make him less mad by pandering to him. “—"I’m twenty-three!”—” He roared. “«Twenty-three! Understand, » —"walrus penis?!”—” He spit on Mathias’ boots.

That seemed to rattle Mathias just enough that he pulled himself up to his full height. He grabbed Henri by the collar of his t-shirt, picking him up off the floor. Henri grabbed at his wrists. “Speak in a language I can goddamn understand!” Mathias barked in Henri’s face. “You’re just a little fucking asshole!” He shook Henri around a bit, and Henri grabbed on for dear life. “«You see how irritating it is? You’re twenty-three. I don’t care. You’re just a little bitch who can’t shut up. »” He brought him closer to his face. “«I brought Yves here. I did what you wanted. Finish so we can leave. Understand? »” Henri nodded. “«Good, »” Mathias said, putting him back on his feet.

Henri tucked his tail, tucked his head in submittance to Mathias. “«He won’t speak, »” he said quietly. “«Y-Yves, »” he stuttered out, bringing his attention back to me. “«Where’s your father? »”

I didn’t try to utter a word at this point. I knew it wasn’t going to come out, so why bother trying? Instead, I watched Henri. His demeaner changed in a blink of an eye. Facing me, he became the man in charge again, arms crossed in confidence. He kept his focus on me, blue eyes unblinking. Eventually, during his waiting for the answer that would never come, he started fiddling with the piercing under his lower lip.

I switched my gaze to Mathias. His eyes caught mine and I fought to keep myself from looking away. That ever-analyzing glare was searching my soul. Searching it for the answer Henri so wanted. Henri repeated the question, slower this time, as if asking a child. I didn’t blink and switch my focus back to him. In the grand scheme of things, Henri was just a chihuahua. Mathias, on the other hand, was different. Submitting to him was when you really meant it, yet he was always open for the challenge to his dominance.

“«You see? »” Henri said. “«He doesn’t talk. »”

“«He doesn’t. »” Mathias agreed, a slight smile on his lip. “«Is there something you want me to do? »”

I finally looked towards Henri, submitting myself once again to Mathias. Henri looked me dead in the eye, which seemed to make his next words even more cruel. It was like he knew how much I feared whatever Mathias would do to me. “«Make him talk. »” The unnervingly calm words echoed in my head. A small smile grew on his lips, and he pushed his brown hair back. “«Yeah. Make him talk. »”