They watched her writhe upon that shabby blanket, that dirt floor, their mouths coiling and their filthy hands shaking. Brows were furrowed and lips had gone dry, as though a harsh and icy wind had beaten the moisture from them.

Their mother was dying. Their mother, that devoted woman named Natasha. Her womb had swollen, her hide bled of its entire flourish. There was a tumor beneath all that strong muscle, those worn and strong limbs, and their pockets were barren of a cure.

They took up jobs at a soap factory so far from home, at the other end of St. Petersburg, attempting to pull that beaten woman from the clutches of death. But in that fatal game of tug-of –war, mortality was more powerful. It always was.

There were only enough rubles for bread and tea, a few saved away for the doctor, a few away for that desperate cure. A few away for hope. A few away for prayer.

But all the dreams in the world could not save Natasha.

Her close was drawing near, and all that remained was torturous waiting. Attending in a body that still managed breath, but had deceased a long, long time ago.

They could sense it. Death lied within the putrid dirt beneath their freezing toes and it contaminated the stagnant air that suffocated every living thing within that home. The animals would not come near any longer. Even the rats took their leave. It was as though the sick thing's plague was stronger than their very own.

"Come here…" Sound dripped in a whisper.

The young men followed orders.

"I need to tell you something. It's been welling up in me for years…I'm not quite sure I have the time to allow it out."

They kneeled at her corpse.

"What is it, Mama?"

Natasha' heart appeared in those filmy blue eyes and she swallowed hard, as though her mouth had stolen vodka and the evidence needed to be tossed away.

"You know that I used to be a noble. And I left when I became pregnant with either of you-because they were incredibly harsh. I had become a laughing stalk. And then I traveled here, to St. Petersburg, in hopes of finding your father…"

"But you couldn't, could you?"

Then came the stabbing silence, where either boy could not tell if their mother had been subjected to sleep or consideration. Even speaking exhausted her marrow, as though Natasha was ripping at the tendrils of her soul, just for a few phrases.

"No…I did." Gasp. "I found him. But I couldn't approach hm. I felt terrible, dropping so much upon his shoulders when there was too much stacked there already…We even made eye contact, once. But he didn't recognize me, with two babies in my arms and my face laced in dirt. I looked familiar, but it could not have been me. Natasha wasn't a peasant. Natasha didn't have two sons. Natasha lived in Belarus. It couldn't be her."

The siblings did not know what to make of so much new material, all piled about their pitiable hands.

"His name is Ivan Braginski. A Russian. I just thought I should let you know…" She grew limp. The one on the right checked her pulse with an intrepid heart.

And the opposite grasped at her palm.

"Mama, I'm sorry…"

"No, Andrei. It's not your fault." Those foggy wells were uncovered. "You and Dmitri are my life. You're good boys, and I'm proud of you. This is no one's predicament but my own."

"Mama…"

"Go to work, either of you. You can't afford to be late." That gaunt appendage devoured Andrei's palm, which had been discolored a heavy red due to birthing dye day after day.

A certain illness curled within their stomachs as they watched that poor creature slide to the possessive hands in unconsciousness. Andrei Massaged her chilled phalanges between his crimson clutch and tried to rise from that ugly floor, suddenly so taken by gravity.

"I love you, Mama."

There was not even acknowledgement against those mounds.

Sore tendons were left to their owner, and those young men began their descent into the inferno, so skin could grow even redder and backs even sorer.