You could the hard scratch of the stainless steel knife against the soft white porcelain as Dimitri cut into his Foie de Gras. Silence blanketed the room, thick with tension. The tension of knowing the sins of the other, the other who sat across the table. “How is it?” A low, gruff voice spoke from across the table. Dimitri looked up, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I haven’t tried it yet,” he spoke slowly, trying to keep his voice from quavering. He looked into the eyes of Akimov, who sat there smiling. What should’ve been a warm gesture made him feel nothing more than fear.
“Well, go on,” He encouraged. Dimitri coughed, clearing his throat, “What- what did you say this was again? Duck something?” Akimov didn’t answer, he hesitated. A beat went by, then two, then three, “Duck. Yes. Duck liver,” he retorted. The younger let out an awkward chuckle, “Doesn’t sound very appetizing,” he admitted honestly. He knew it wasn’t duck liver. He knew that Akimov knew he knew that. “Oh don’t worry,” Akimov assured, “It’s rather divine, silky and buttery.” right, buttery. He looked down, staring at the “Duck Liver”. Dimitri had been hunting his whole life. His father hunted, his father’s father hunted, and so on. He’d seen duck liver, and this, this was not duck liver. It was larger, firmer, and had a reddish-purple tint to it. He swallows again, taking his fork and stabbing the meat, slowly lifting it to his mouth. He watched as Akimov’s smile spread wider and wider. His heart drummed in his ears as Tchaikovsky played sweetly in the background. The meat came closer, and closer, the buttery garlic scent was nearly overwhelming. He opened his mouth, pushing the fork in and biting down, pulling the food off. It took everything he had not to throw up across the cedar wood table violently. He chewed, and swallowed, sweat sliding down his face as he sighed. “Good, isn’t it?” Akimov broke the silence with his eerie smile and low voice. “Yeah,” he croaked, “Good,” he echoed.
Akimov clasped his hands together, “Wonderful!” he said, leaning over the table to replenish the red wine in Dimitri’s glass. He let his fork clatter to the table and practically lunged for the wine, gripping the glass and drinking like a thirsty dog. He finished the glass, gasping for air as he set it down. He leaned back in his seat, realizing how odd he had just looked. “Sorry–” he apologized, “I was very thirsty,” he lied. He wasn’t thirsty, he just needed to get the taste of that food out of his mouth. Akimov waved his hand as if shooing a fly, “Don’t worry, it’s a nice wine. Very expensive. Its purpose is to be dranken.” he assured. Dimitri laughed awkwardly, coughing afterward in a bit of shame. “Well, go on,” Akimov spoke, pointing to the food, “Finish up. We don’t want the dessert getting cold now do we?” he asked rhetorically. Dimitri sighed, nodding. He pocked the fork back up, hand shaking like a flag in the wind as he used his right hand to grab the knife, cutting another piece of the meat off and eating it. He repeated, again, and again, and again until the plate was cleared. He felt disgusted with himself. “Excuse me,” he said, taking the silk napkin off his lap and putting it on the table as he briskly walked to the bathroom. He shut the door, locking it tightly as he fell to his knees in front of the toilet, vomiting the previous contents of dinner up into the bowl. He gasped, taking in gulps of air before pushing his head back down to wretch into the toilet some more. He panted, standing up on shaky legs as he stumbled to the sink, splashing water in his face. He stared at himself in the mirror and he almost didn’t recognize himself. He was pale and clammy, his hair a mess, and his suit disheveled. He wipes his face with the back of his hands, adjusts his hair and suit, and unlocks the door. “My apologies,” he sighed as he sat back down. “No worries,” Akimov replied, “I hope you like apple pie. It’s not nearly as nice as dinner was, but it’s a good treat after a hearty meal,” he smiled. Dimitri let out an exasperated sigh of relief, “Yes well it looks delicious,” He said, this time he was honest. He took his fork and scooped up a bite, eating it rather feverishly. It tasted a bit salty, however, but the strong sweetness masked it well. He devoured the piece slice within meer minutes, sipping red wine to wash it all down. Akimov chuckled, “I see you liked that more than the Foie de Gras,” He chimed. “What can I say, I’m a sucker for sweets,” He admitted, laughing softly. The tension in the room seemed to dissipate as Dimitri relaxed. “Would you like another slice?” Akimov offered to which Dimitri shook his head, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” he replied while yawning. “God,” He chuckled, “I’m awfully tired all of a sudden,” he said, smiling. He stood up, swaying a bit, “Well- well I oughta get home,” He spoke, words starting to slur. Akimov looked concerned, “Are you sure? You don’t look so well,” He fretted, walking over to Dimitri, “Come on, come sit on the couch for a moment,” He led Dimitri to the leather sofa, sitting him down. As soon as his rear hit the sofa, Akimov’s concerned demeanor faded to an eerie smile again. Dimitri was too tired to care, all his worries and concerns washed away as he slumped over on the couch. He watched as Akimov pulled out a little glass vial from the cabinet and a syringe, he stuck it into the top and pulling out the liquid. His blurred vision could make out one word, Pentobarbital. Akimov chuckled, “You’re going to make a divine Tenderloin,” He smiled.