Page 31 of The Beauty Who Loved Him

“It would have been final,” he said. “I at least wanted that. To know for sure. I could go somewhere from there.”

Right.

He probably felt like he couldn’t go anywhere now.

Vera remembered what the doctor had included in his letter to Vaslav that was basically a simple report to explain what he believed the brain disease to be and why he thought it was so. Apparently, something like chronic traumatic encephalopathy wasn’t confirmed until after death when the brain could be removed and studied.

It was only after the appearance of many symptoms ranging from mental to physical, all of which Vaslav had just based on what Vera understood to be true about him, and specialized testing to rule out other known diseases and illnesses, on top of a pattern of documented, repeated brain trauma, would a doctor make an assumed diagnosis of CTE. It still couldn’t be verified until after death, though.

When she was a professional ballerina, Vera had been at least partially aware of the sports world for a time. Through competition, and the like, she was often kept informed on the topics that mattered amongst the elite athlete circle. The very acknowledgment of CTE as a real disease being found in the brains of famous football players, boxers, and even some veterans that had suffered multiple brain injuries during their service, was a huge debate that still wasn’t entirely over.

Vera was not completely unaware about what she had found in Vaslav’s office. It simply never occurred to her that she could somehow tie that disease to him.

Now, she couldn’t unsee it when she stared at him. Vera couldn’t sit there and act like she didn’t know what she did. That his future would be bleak at the very least, and tragic at most. Early on-set dementia was a real possibility, but so was chronic, debilitating depression and even suicide.

The doctor had made it a point to note to Vaslav in his short report that medication and monitoring would be helpful for both those things. She bet he hadn’t taken either of those suggestions well.

“How many brain injuries have you had?” she asked.

His left eye squinted in obvious irritation. “You think I’ve kept track between what, the metal ladles my mother cracked me in the head with when I was kid, or the cement walls that guards made my best and most acquainted friend?”

“Well, is there a definitive start and end to it?” She considered the confusing question, mostly brought on by the stark reality he laid at her feet about his previous abuse, and clarified, “A timeline of ones you can point back to? I mean, if you remember those—”

“Don’t do that! I’m not here to go over history with you.”

“Stop yelling,” she said calmly.

It took more effort than she cared to admit. She willed herself to show him the compassion he so clearly struggled to find for everyone else around him. It wasn’t his fault, though. Not one goddamn thing that made up the horrifying, terrifying spectacle that was The Beast of Moscow to the world was his fault.

The very thought sobered Vera.

She couldn’t help but ask, “What happens if all the people who are scared of you find out you’re not a homicidal maniac living out in the woods, you’re just ... sick?”

“Shut your mouth.”

He hissed every word.

Vera blinked down at the papers she still held, and more tears gathered on her lashes and fell. “I bet, nothing good,” she continued like he hadn’t said a thing. “I bet, you know it, too.” He gestured with the papers again. “I bet knowing it doesn’t help with the symptoms, does it? The paranoia and the erratic, destructive behaviors. That’s why your doctor destroyed your files; why you wouldn’t even tell the truth to me.”

What could she do?

How could she hurt him to simply know?

Vera looked back up at Vaslav then only to find he blankly stared at the wall somewhere behind her head. His distant expression and lack of attention didn’t stop her from saying, “Making everything about it disappear won’t actually make it go away, Vas.”

“I know,” he whispered.

But treating it would also make him vulnerable. She didn’t need to hear him say it. That didn’t mean it made sense to her.

“You’d rather suffer and deteriorate alone than risk people knowing you’re sick, even if it means you could have more good years?”

Better years.

Years he intended to spend with her, apparently.

Vaslav gnashed his teeth. The sound pained her, but she didn’t show it. It was the sardonic sneer that stretched his cheeks, and put his scar on prominent display, that cut her deep. Especially when he said, “See, that’s the thing, I won’t be alone. Isn’t that why I have you?”

If he meant it to sound cruel, the tone did the job. If only he could comprehend the way it sliced at her heart to know he thought she would only stay if he made her.