A New Father

My father had been gone for about a month. He'd gone "on a side hustle," as he put it, to the steppe region, to launch a grain elevator. He came back a complete stranger. Or rather, he didn't come back. Damn it, it wasn't him who came back.

My mother sensed it too. Hmm, it was hard not to sense it—she set homemade noodles on the table, in his favorite cup, once brought from Kazakhstan. He swallowed the portion in one gulp, instantly devouring the plate and spoon. Then he devoured my mother.

Thus began my new life with my new father.

He continued to go to work. That's how he spoke. Actually, no, he didn't speak anymore—his voice was meowing, high-pitched, his words slurred, as if he wasn't even trying to articulate them. But I understood everything. Or thought I did.

Every evening, he sat in front of the television, like a human being, quickly changing channels with whatever object was nearby. It could have been a magazine, or an ashtray, or the tea glass I'd left behind. He'd pick up the ashtray and mime the remote control, and the TV obeyed. And he'd watch intently. No, that's wrong again. He wasn't watching; he might be sitting sideways or even with his back to the TV, his eyelids might be closed or blinking randomly, but it was clear he was watching and seeing. And he was very attentive.

About a week later, he became especially voracious. Apparently, he secreted a special odor that attracted dogs, cats, rodents, and insects. They became extremely numerous in our apartment. Even squirrels appeared. He couldn't keep up with the animals, and the smell of blood, waste, and rotting remains drove the remaining creatures into a frenzy and rage. These creatures didn't bother me.

Oh, you'll assume, and then he started growing, increasing in size? No, he remained the same. My father. A thin man, in a cheap gray suit, with a gray face, a dark gray shirt, and dusty black shoes. But he seemed to be thickening, becoming harder, or something.

A week later, he began to flake.

It was like a massive piece of flint splitting into many identical mica sheets. Now I had over a dozen identical flat fathers.

Then they began to thicken.

In some of them, I noticed changes in silhouette and other characteristics of the prototype. Soon, I had a mother again. Several mothers. And each had a son.

Me.