Fatal Passion

My father and I parted badly. After my mother died, he drank a lot.

Dad hadn't been a teetotaler before, but now it was as if he had gone off the rails.

On top of that, he met a woman who had a reputation around the house that was, to put it mildly, unflattering - she drank like a fish, scandalized everyone, but at the same time was wildly successful with men.

And not with some bitter drunkard, no - unbelievably, she managed to gain the trust of quite respectable widowers and bachelors who, after a short time of communicating with her, began to slide downhill - they drank the property, lost their jobs, got into debt.

And after this woman took the last of their money, they died.

Not a single man escaped this sad fate after coming in contact with this "black widow".

Some hanged themselves, some were stabbed in a drunken brawl, others died of delirium tremens.

When the femme fatale found out that my father had become a widower, she immediately dragged her belongings to him.

Dad didn't mind. He was even glad. He fulfilled her every whim, gave her all the money.

When one of the neighbors tried to talk some sense into him, he zealously defended his girlfriend. He shouted that she was the lady of his heart, that she did not smoke, that she made him soup, and that she was a holy woman in general.

And the fact that they both drink, so it's their own business, they don't drink with other people's money, they drink with their own money.

Of course, I didn't like it very much, but my father didn't care. He was enchanted with his new partner and even wanted to marry her. I found out about it by accident. The "black widow" didn't hide the fact that she had her sights set on my father's apartment. It was clear to everyone but Dad.

- What are you waiting for? - the neighbors accused me. - He is going to waste everything! Do something before it's too late.

The zombies are among us

What could I have done? Perhaps only those who have struggled with someone else's alcoholism will understand. Who knows first hand what it means to deal with an alcoholic who doesn't see himself as such. Especially when it's someone close to you, a family member.

How many times I begged my father to stop, to stop drinking, but it was no use!

It was as if he was possessed by a demon. In a drunken rage, he would go crazy, not let me in the house, scream so much that he even changed his appearance. He was a different, completely different and dangerous person.

You know, like in thrillers: when people are bitten by zombies, they keep a human form for some time, think and act seemingly sane, and you think that in front of you is your friend, father, mother, but it is not so.

You are looking at a zombie who can jump on you and kill you at any moment.

That's why I never thought about living under the same roof with my father.

He did not even want to hear about treatment, he was angry: I am perfectly well!

The doctor at the narcological dispensary threw up his hands: it's his right. And advised me to put pills in his food. Side effects? Not without them. So you have to be on guard all the time, preferably close by, watching him and calling an ambulance if anything happens.

You can also wait for the delirium tremens and call the paramedics, but that probably won't change anything. After the hospital, he may be sober for a month or two, and then he will drink again. So pills are the best option. And full control - documents, money - take everything away! - was the advice of the best drug doctor in town.

I refused to put pills in my father's food. But I took his passport, his savings book and his bank card.

At that time, I had no idea of the extent of the disaster. I naively believed that I could help my father, save him, put him on the right path, even if he did not want to change.

After all, I wanted my father to stop drinking!

At first, this arrangement worked for both of us. We went shopping together, I bought groceries, cigarettes, cooked food, left some money for small expenses.

But as time went on, I began to notice that my father was getting more and more moody. And when my father's girlfriend interfered in our affairs, everything fell apart.

Under her pressure, my father demanded his documents and the money back.

I refused, and all hell broke loose.

Drunk, he would come to our house in the middle of the night.

He screamed, cursed, and banged on the door until one day Andrei threw him out.

After my father was rebuffed, he calmed down for a while, at least the night visits to our house stopped. But he started stalking me outside the newsroom. He would come into the office and scream that it was his money, his passport, and his life, and he did not want me to interfere.

In the end, I gave him everything just to never see or hear from him again.

I lived peacefully for a month and a half after that. But then he showed up again, swollen, unshaven, without a penny in his pocket.

He complained that his mistress had cheated him out of his money and gone off to some unknown place with some unknown man, and now he had no money even to buy bread.

Dad cursed her and swore to me that he had calmed down, that he had come to his senses. Like a fool, I believed him and continued to lend him money. But every time my father received his pension, his mistress reappeared on the horizon. She repented, they reconciled, had a party, and started all over again. This went on for six months.

Inhuman Thing

The tension between my father and I grew. Mutual resentments and recriminations multiplied. But he was right, it really was his life, his choice, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was tired of supporting him. Tired physically and mentally. I felt like he was draining me of all my strength, my energy, my life. I couldn't go on like this. So I gave up and cut the invisible cord. And soon my father died.

Fortunately, he didn't have time to get married, but he ran up a lot of debts.

For the first few months after his death, I was terribly angry at him, and at the same time I felt infinitely sorry for him. I wanted to look him in the eye and say, "See, Dad, I was right, all she wanted from you was money". I hoped that at least after he died, he would realize that alcohol and that femme fatale had messed with his brain to the point that he lost his human form and almost turned into a demon. Or maybe the demons were actually controlling him. This often happens to people who drink.

I remember a dream: I was visiting my dad, and he started yelling at me, hissing and spitting.

He was angry, acting like a man possessed, and even swung a knife at me a few times.

In this dream I was very afraid of him, I felt like a little defenseless girl. I was standing in front of him, sinking my head into my shoulders, looking at his angry face.

But suddenly a small detail caught my attention. The teeth! They were perfectly straight and white. Dad never had teeth like that in real life.

And something clicked in my brain. The fear disappeared. I raised my head and challenged whoever was pretending to be my father to tell him that he wasn't my father and that I wasn't afraid of him.

The inhuman thing from my dream staggered back. It was clearly confused and angry that I'd somehow managed to figure out the deception. It raised its head and howled. And in that wolf's howl, I heard such longing that I woke up.

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My father never attacked me again in my dreams, he always remained himself, but he still did not believe in his own death.

Aunt Nina tried to assure me that my father's soul was not at peace and that he continued to wander around the house as a restless ghost. Once she even saw him on the balcony. But in the year and a half that my husband and I lived in that apartment, I never once felt my father's presence. I admit that Dad could have killed himself. But then he would have known, right?

Alive

One day I had another dream about my father.

In this dream he was saying something, making plans for the future, that he should do this and that, go there. I replied, "Yes, of course, all this is wonderful, but you are dead".

A grimace of pain and disbelief contorted his face. He had heard me say that sentence so many times before! But Dad didn't mind now. He was silent for a long time, as if trying to remember something. Finally, he gathered his courage and asked, "How did this happen?

I replied that I didn't know, but people say he fell from the thirteenth floor.

- Really? - asked the surprised father. - So I really died?

The realization of his own demise shook him to the core, if not stunned him. It was obvious that Dad didn't want to believe it and remembered absolutely nothing of what had happened to him on the night of his last "flight. And yet, I think I know what happened.

Neighbors told me that my father was not himself that night. He had lost his passport and bank card, and he suspected that his mistress had stolen them. She had managed to subordinate him completely to herself and her will during those six months, while at the same time having an affair with a neighbor.

This neighbor, who lived in a one-room apartment on the thirteenth floor, was a hard-drinking bachelor.

His drinking buddies called him General, although he was not a general.

My father was insanely jealous of his beloved and demanded an explanation.

Rumor has it that he rang the doorbell long and persistently, behind which the lovers were hiding.

They wouldn't open the door. Dad got angry, worked himself up, and slowly got mad. And then, apparently, he decided to get to his rival through the common balcony - these two balconies were separated by a small brick partition. But Dad didn't count on his strength and fell.

Or maybe they pushed him down - unintentionally or intentionally, I don't know.

Either way, the "black widow" saw my father's death. I admit that she didn't want to kill him, but she saw everything.

Why am I so sure?

Last Call

On that fateful evening, my husband and I were home alone. I was taking my evening shower.

As we later learned, my father had been dead for about half an hour - lying at the entrance to the high-rise amid a pile of bags of construction debris. It was late, and the few passersby hurried home, ignoring the blackened figure in the darkness.

While I was in the shower, I didn't know any of this. The phone was silent. But as soon as I came out of the bathroom, the phone rang at the same second. It was the same one - the "bell.

My father's body was discovered by the driver of our newspaper office, who had delivered the newspapers to the neighbor's postmistress. The neighbor called the editor, the editor called someone else, and then the chain went on to our landlady. No one could explain why they didn't call me right away, even though they all had my home phone number. I think my colleagues were afraid to tell me about my father's death.

Next to my father's body, they found the keys to the apartment and a boot that had fallen off his foot when he hit the asphalt. My father's cell phone was also there, covered in snow and blood.

It took about two hours to inspect the scene, write a report, communicate with the police and the interrogator, bring in a forensic expert, followed by a team from the funeral home. And all the time I was holding my dad's cell phone. It was broken, it didn't work, and I wanted to throw it away, but for some reason I didn't.

I didn't call my sister either. I didn't want to wake her up in the middle of the night and upset her. What could she do to help?

But it was Tanya who had the idea to take the SIM card out of the broken phone in the morning.

When we made a printout of the calls, it turned out that the only incoming call that day was the femme fatale's number. She called my father ten times, but judging by the length of the calls, they did not talk for long. Sometimes my father hung up right away.

Just before my father died, she called him again. The call lasted five seconds.

And a moment later, at 8:36 p.m., Dad was gone.

However, the "black widow" apparently did not believe that Dad was dead and decided that he had somehow managed to survive a fall from a great height. So she kept calling his number.

But since the cell phone was smashed, instead of calls to the phone, there were only late text messages saying that someone had called from that number.

After the funeral, my sister called the number. She didn't even have time to say anything before the "black widow" screamed hysterically: "Don't call here again! Dead people don't call!"

And turned off the phone.

The Black Widow

The investigation into my father's death went nowhere. The case was closed. They wrote it off as an accident. Daddy's lover went to the General, and a year later, when he also went to the other world because of drunkenness, she found a new victim.

I rarely see her alone, she is always in a hurry to go somewhere with some men.

How strikingly the appearance of the "black widow" changes when the "donor" is not there. She dries up, looks unkempt, with a face swollen from vodka. But when the "donor" is found, the widow is unrecognizable. She, as they say, blossoms. She immediately gains weight, begins to take care of herself, puts on makeup, washes her hair, dresses decently. But her suitor turns into a wretch before her eyes. Perhaps she really is a black widow? Who knows.

Mom's waiting

I have always envied people who have never lost a family member in their lives, who have never grieved, who have never had to deal with a funeral.

As for me, I knew from an early age that I would hardly be able to avoid it and that I would definitely outlive my parents.

But it would be good if their deaths coincided with my absence, so that I could go somewhere and when I came back it would all be over.

I was afraid to see them in a coffin, I wanted to keep them alive in my memory.

But I had to bury my whole family. And if I had expected the death of my father and mother, the death of my sister came as a shock to everyone. But there were some signs. Tanya told me that she often saw Mom in her dreams, coming to the window and looking at her sadly for a long time.

The relationship between Tanya and Mom had never been very good, and my sister was frightened by these dreams.

She tried to find out what Mom wanted from her, but she would not answer and would go away.

In the two years that had passed since Mom's death, Tanya had never been able to bring herself to visit her grave. Suddenly, on the eve of Elijah's Day, she called me and suggested that we go to the cemetery together. I had no time, so I said it would be better for her to go alone. For some reason, my sister asked if there was an empty space near our parents' graves.

I said there might be. "Then it's for one of us," my sister grinned. - Who do you think it's for?" And without waiting for an answer, either joking or serious, she said: "Please let this place be for me."

I listened to her and couldn't get out of my mind the dream I had long ago when my mother had said: "I'm waiting for Tanya and your father." Dad was already with her. Was it Tanya's turn?

Many times I wanted to tell my sister about my dream, to warn her, but I couldn't tell her directly. As for my hints: "be careful", "anything can happen", Tanya did not listen to them, she even took offense: "Are you waiting for me to die?"

Later, Tanya's son told me that she had gotten her papers in order anyway, settled some things that had never been settled before.

But for some reason, my sister was sure she was going to get hit by a car.

Coma

It was the last day of summer. I was at home writing an article for the newspaper when my cell phone rang. It was Tanya's husband, Sergei:

- Tanya has died," he said worriedly. - I came home from work and she was lying on the floor. Already cold.

The blood started pounding in my temples: it can't be! There must be some mistake! I rushed to her house in a taxi, I could not believe that my sister was gone, I hoped that she was still alive.

But Sergei was right. The doctor pronounced her dead from liver failure.

Tanya had fallen into a coma before, but luckily she had always been rescued.

This time there was no one around to help her, or at least to call an ambulance.

There was a bag of clothes on the floor near the couch-a pair of jeans, a short t-shirt, shorts-all new, bought a few hours earlier at the mall, where my sister had spent her last hours with her friends. The girls drank beer, had fun, and then decided to go to a nightclub. In the end, they didn't go, they went home, but as the friends remembered, Tanya felt great and wasn't going to die. That's why her sudden death came as a shock to everyone.

My sister died of the same disease as my mother. Their fates are very similar.

Judge for yourself: my mother met my father at a dance when she was seventeen, and my sister met the future father of her child at a disco when she was seventeen.

Even my dad and Tanya's first husband were born on the same day - September 28th!

Both Mom and Tanya worked in the same factory, in the same chemical production.

Mom died a few months before her 55th birthday, and Tanya died just before her 35th birthday. And the most inexplicable thing is that their husbands died the same way, within a year of their wives' deaths. Tanya's last husband repeated my father's fate - he fell from a height. I believe that such coincidences are not coincidental.

Cat and mouse game

When my mother died and my father went all out, at first I tried to fight for him. But I soon realized that it was an unequal battle and all my efforts were in vain.

My father told me - in a feverish delirium he had a vision: he fell into a snow well and tried desperately to get out, but only sank deeper and deeper into the abyss.

- Do you know what that means? - I asked. - Death is following you.

- That's none of your business! - Dad shouted. - What is all that cackling for?

All my doubts about whether to keep meddling in Dad's life or to leave before he dragged me down with him vanished when I got the sign.

In the center of town, along the riverbank, the wind chased a dry leaf down an alley. But upon closer inspection, it turned out to be... a mouse being chased by a cat.

The mouse acted strangely. Instead of fleeing into the bushes, which were only a short distance away, it scurried along the sidewalk. The predator sat nearby and just watched.

From time to time, he would make short but precise leaps, catch up with the mouse, pin it to the ground, and, with a slight strangulation, push it under him with his paw.

The game of cat and mouse clearly amused the cat.

I felt sorry for the poor rodent. It seemed to me an innocent victim whose fate I should have interfered with. So I rushed to the mouse's aid. I blocked its path as it ran toward the cat, pushed it aside, drove it into the grass, but to no avail.

The mouse ran back with manic persistence.

As I ran back and forth with him, the cat watched us calmly, almost indifferently. He seemed to have no doubt that the mouse would not escape.

And the silly little mouse seemed eager to get into the cat's paws. And it succeeded: it rolled right up to the cat. He grabbed it with his teeth and dragged it into the bushes.

To be continued