bad gateway

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.

Grigori Rozanov is sixty-two the day his wife commits suicide.

He is sixty-two as he sits in the police car and is informed over the radio by a hoarse voice scraped raw with hours long spent, that his son - the youngest one, the one that looks like his wife - had called the Militsiya with a wobbled voice and a distraughtness that Grigori would work on improving later and told them his mother was sleeping and would not wake up.

He is sixty-two as he stands in the living room of his own house, staring at the couch where his wife had been laying minutes ago before the ambulance had arrived and pulled her limp and pathetic corpse onto the stretcher as though they could save her. Her hair had spilled over the armrest before they moved her, pale and tangled and dry as winter grass. 

There are indignities attached to every death. 

He is sixty-two when he lies to his two sons that their mother died in an accident. 

The lie is made up of two aspects; that it was an accident, and that their mother was dead.

Grigori was long exhausted of Irina; of her emotions that seeped through his house like ink through water, darkening everything it touched with all those emotions. Of her behaviour, where she encouraged the coward in his sons and the gentle touch in them; which prevailed like a weed no matter how many times he tried to teach them the lesson of life.

It was almost too easy to be rid of her.

When the Doctors told him she had survived, by some miracle as she had taken a large portion of sleeping pills - quite the irony, if you asked Grigori, that not even God would take her and so forced her to live and wake up - but she would remain in care for a number of weeks.

They told him it would be hard to reform his house into a home where she could live safely so she would not be at risk again. There were routes they recommended he follow, and when Grigori asked what surgery would remove the tainted poison in her head that made her into this, the Doctor said no surgery would fix it.

They recommended a psikhiatricheskaya bolnitsa, a psychiatric hospital, where she may seek help and be released once she was no longer a threat to herself or others. 

Grigori asked how long she could remain there.

With his power and poor Irina’s mental health, he was able to secure a fifteen year plan, where she would remain until further notice - and once those fifteen years were over, she would be reviewed again and either given another plan for staying, or released. Grigori would ensure, at the break of those fifteen years, that she was not released.

This was the plan.

He told his wife’s cowardly and soft-hearted sons that their mother died, from an accident. She was just tired, simply trying to sleep, and had made a mistake. Too many pills. 

The blond one had screamed and denied this, until Grigori had grown tired of the insistent and horrid wailing and watched red bloom on the boy’s cheek in the silence that followed. The older one glared with a sharpness Grigori would have praised on any other day, but not when it was in defense of his weak and pitiful excuse of a brother. 

When he retires to his bed the night of his wife’s attempted suicide, Grigori harbours no regret, nor guilt. Irina had brought this upon herself, he knows this well. It was her who tainted his house and his name with her emotions; the gentility she carved into her sons that were supposed to be his sons, sons that were supposed to be true soldiers, not replicants of a woman’s emotional fragility. She had tainted this house with her memory, made two boys who had his own stubbornness and determination but for all the wrong things.

Grigori has no guilt in what life Irina Rozanova will live in the white walls within which she will be trapped. She will remain there until she is nothing but a corpse as they thought her to be on their couch, and her sons will never know any different.

They will grow into good, soldiers of men; they will become the replicants of Grigori he had been promised when he had married Irina years ago, the sons they were always meant to be. They will carry the Rozanov family name with pride and he, in turn, will be honoured to know them as his blood and genes. 

It is perhaps Irina’s name, itself, that has tainted Grigori’s sons. Peace, carved into their very genes and blood, so strong and thick in the iron of his boys that he simply must remove she who bears the name and the meaning from their lives.

When you remove the weed from your garden, you do not cut it where you can simply reach above the soil, for the dastardly creeper will simply grow back and live on. Instead, you must sink your fingers into the soil that surrounds the unwanted plant and you must pull and pull on it’s body until you have ripped it from the very Earth that bore it; until you have torn it from Mother. 

The softness in his sons is the weed, and has Grigori has failed time and time again to uproot the invasive creeper, he must simply resort to different measures; remove Mother Earth from her plant herself, remove Irina from her sons.

They will grow. 

They will be better.

They will be his sons.