Fred

“Sixty-five fifty,” the tired cashier tried to smile. “Do you need a bag?”

“Yes, please.” Vladimir rummaged in his pocket, trying to get some coins out. His fingers were frozen, and the change had slipped into the very corner of the pocket, under his wallet, so he had to pay with bills. Still smiling stiffly, the cashier placed the change in the tray, ignoring his outstretched hand. Vladimir poured the coins into his pocket, knowing that next time he wouldn’t be able to get them out again. “Whatever,” he thought, taking the bag of groceries and heading for the exit. He was too tired to worry about trifles.

Leaving the store, he walked slowly toward home.

It was December, and the evening city was releasing people to their homes. They crowded at cold bus stops, clumsily climbed into frozen cars, and hid from the wind in the metro, briskly stepping along slippery stairs. Everyone looked down at their feet, everyone held onto railings, because they had already grown unaccustomed to snow. Vladimir looked down as well. He didn’t have far to go, but the path leading to his entrance was almost completely covered. He grimaced, stumbling again, and sniffed with his frozen nose. Almost home.

Taking off his boots and sheepskin coat, he headed straight to the kitchen to start preparing a more than modest dinner. He put a pot of water on the stove, salted it, added the food, and wearily lowered himself onto a chair. The snow had already melted in his gray hair and was now running down his face in droplets. Vladimir paid no attention. He was thinking, staring at a single point. Thinking about something of his own, deep and important. About Fred.

After dinner was cooked and eaten, the man went into his only room, which served as living room, study, and bedroom all at once. Though no, it wasn’t really a living room, for the simple reason that there were no guests. Without turning on the light, he sat down at the computer. The next date was scheduled for tomorrow, so he needed to check everything one last time. The browser, with numerous open tabs, displayed a social network page. Opening “bookmarks,” Vladimir selected one of the many pages stored there. A click—and the page of a young, pretty girl appeared on the screen: long blond hair, large dark eyes, a neat little nose, an oval face, beautiful pianist’s hands. Grunting with satisfaction, he began rereading the information: studies, works part-time, plays music. Switching to Google Maps, he once again checked the routes she was supposedly taking around the city. Olya would probably be very surprised if she knew how easily one could predict which bus she took to the university and which street she walked down to get home. And she would be surprised—but later.

Everything was planned. A standard life, a standard route, a standard meeting. Fred would be pleased.

“You’ll like it,” Vladimir whispered.

“Like it…” came a barely audible whisper from the dark corridor. Quiet, but very distinct, and so undeniable was the sound that sweat appeared on the man’s forehead. He did not turn around. He stood up, closed the door to his room, trying not to let the hinges creak, and only then turned off the computer.

He went to bed, and his sleep was restless. He often woke up from someone pulling the blanket off him under the sofa or knocking on the legs of the chair. He wasn’t afraid; people fear what they don’t know, and Vladimir knew Fred well. He had found him himself and had let him in himself, but his greatest mistake was that Fred had been given a name. You can’t simply brush off your own children whom you named and raised. Even if those children have a nasty temper and force you to do disgusting things. More and more often.

Morning brought no relief. The curtains in Vladimir’s apartment were tightly closed. There had to be a minimum of light—that was what HE required. He had to wash up in the kitchen—the bathroom still hadn’t been cleaned after Fred’s last celebration. This time he had surpassed himself, and Vladimir shuddered at the thought of WHAT he would have to clean. And sooner or later, he would have to clean it. But not today. Today was the last night of the cycle. Endure it, and he would live another six months in relative calm.

The day passed in household routine and preparations. Everything was ready, and at ten o’clock Vladimir left the apartment. Before the door closed, a thought flashed through his mind—to slam it shut and run, run without stopping somewhere warm and bright, where you can open the curtains and don’t have to pick rotten hair out of clogged drains. But he knew he couldn’t escape. He knew they would find him. And punish him. Sighing heavily, he softly whistled a simple melody—a call. Now he would have a companion, and that girl would have a lover, as horrible as that sounded.

Outside it was windless but very cold. Vladimir had been waiting for about an hour. Olya still hadn’t appeared. The worry that she might have chosen another route, or that something had happened—say, the bus had broken down—was turning into panic. He did not want to explain himself to the monster, did not want to pay for the unsatisfied hunger of that alien creature.

As always at such moments, he began thinking about suicide, but then at the end of the street a mass of blond hair flashed. It was her. The man pressed himself deeper into the wall of the house by which he had been hiding and prepared himself. When the girl approached close enough that the earrings in her ears became visible, Vladimir stepped out of his hiding place and walked straight toward her. The sudden appearance of a strange man in a narrow dark alley frightened Olya, but he emerged so close that she had no time to maneuver, and she didn’t want to simply turn back and run, fearing she would look foolish. Instead, she smiled and nodded to him. She hoped to establish “contact” that way and protect herself. But she was mistaken. As soon as they drew level, the man raised a hand holding something white and pressed it to the girl’s face. The movement was well practiced, so Olga immediately lost consciousness. Vladimir lost consciousness too. From that moment until it would be time to clean the bathroom, Fred had to take the wheel. That was how it had to be; that was how it had been eight times before.

Opening his eyes, Vladimir looked around. He was in his kitchen. Complete disorder reigned there: overturned chairs, broken dishes, scraps of clothing scattered everywhere—the atmosphere of his companion’s entertainment and dinner. With difficulty rising, the man poured himself some water and with a trembling hand tried to bring it to his mouth. His plan was to recover for about ten minutes and then go to the nearest store and buy a lot of vodka. The cycle was over; he was free for six months, and he would force himself to forget the price he had paid for that freedom.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound. Nothing specific, just a sound coming from his room. Not believing his ears, Vladimir pulled back the corner of the curtain and looked out the window. It was light outside, therefore Fred should be asleep, not to mention that he should sleep for another six months. The sound repeated. Slowly, trying not to breathe, the man moved toward the room. What he saw there made him cry out in surprise. The girl was lying on the floor. The very one he had caught for Fred the day before. Her arms and legs were tied behind her back. There was no light in the room, but even in the few rays breaking through the curtains, it was possible to see what a pitiful state she was in. Her hair had been torn out in places, in others matted into a tight tangle; numerous cuts and scratches, one blackened eye, and her inner thighs darkened, most likely with blood.

Seeing Vladimir, the girl jerked fearfully and moaned.

“Don’t come closer,” she blurted out. “Go away, kill me, don’t touch me, pleeease…” The last word broke into a moan, and she began repeating like a whimpering child, “please, please.”

Still thinking poorly from awakening and shock, Vladimir approached and bent over her. He felt very sorry for the girl, but even more he wanted to know the answer to his question.

“What does he look like?” he asked, bringing his face close to Olya’s.

“Let me go, please.”

“I’ll let you go. What does he look like?”

“Please, please.”

Slapping her, he repeated the question, promising to help her in everything and release her as soon as she answered. Of course, he had no intention of releasing her—he didn’t want to go to prison—but as practice showed, lying was not the most serious of his sins.

“How?! What does he look like?” unable to restrain himself, he shouted at her.

“Who?” she finally asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Who? The one who did this to you, the creature that tortured you all night.”

“There was no one here but you,” the girl now looked him in the eyes. “It was you.”

“No!” Vladimir could not believe it. “Fred, Fred did this, why are you lying to me?” Searching for deceit in her eyes, he moved closer.

“And anyway,” the girl seemed to smile slightly, which was impossible in such a situation, “that’s pretty self-critical.”

The meaning of her words took a long time to reach him. Too long he couldn’t believe that she was… joking? Bound, raped, on the verge of death—and joking.

“You bitch! I’ll show you how to be rude to me!” It was becoming harder and harder to control himself. “I’ll show you! Fred will show you, you’re finished.”

His hands began to tremble, the headache intensified, he was ready to strangle her right now.

“I am Fred, I’m the one in charge here,” he laughed.

“Before you kill me,” her voice dropped to a whisper again, “lean closer, I’ll tell you…”

“What?” Unable to restrain himself, he leaned toward her face and turned his head.

“Your Fred is imaginary,” she arched to whisper right into his ear, “and mine is real.”

There was a crunch, and her mouth opened almost one hundred eighty degrees, revealing crooked and sharp fangs. A long, muscular, forked tongue lashed Vladimir across the face, leaving a trail of foul, sticky saliva. Hands with long fingers—almost twice as long as they should be—easily tore the ropes and embraced him, simultaneously digging into his skin and ripping his spine from his back. And then her jaws snapped shut.

Dinner began.