"Her... your sister," he continues, his face the same mix of unrecognizable emotions from before.
"Yes. Vanya didn't want to, but I convinced her." I repeat, and watch, almost in slow motion, as his eyes widen, his hands releasing my shirt.
I get myself together and put some distance between us. I wouldn't want to hurt him, even by accident. I'd made a promise that I'd never harm my family and I will hold myself to that.
"Vanya... you spoke with Vanya?" Father repeats, almost as if in a daze. I nod.
"It's not her fault. Please don't punish her, father."
He raises his eyes towards me, the corners sloped downward. His face suddenly looks old and weary.
"How long have you been talking to Vanya, son?" his tone is gentler, and my eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"It's not her fault," is all I say, but father is quick to assure me no harm will come to her.
"I know she... that she's your twin," he amends, and that gives me a little hope. Maybe he will see how important Vanya is to me, and that she should stay by my side.
She is, after all, my better half.
"From the beginning. She's been sneaking to see me. Please let us hang out. She calms me," I say, hoping he'd understand.
"She calms you?" he asks.
"Yes, she does."
"Son..." he starts, shaking his head, and taking a step back, "your sister's dead."
"What?" I blink rapidly, afraid I misunderstood him. "What did you say?"
"Your sister's dead. She's been dead for the last seven years." He explains, but I stop listening.
My ears are ringing, a deafening sound pulsating in my eardrums. My hands go to cover them, hoping to lessen the impact of the noise, but nothing works.
I fall to my knees, eyes wide, limbs shaking.
No... he's lying.
"Vanya's alive." I state, full of confidence. Why, I'd seen her just a few hours ago.
"Son, look at me," father says, and numbly, I do. "Valentino Lastra found you and your sister in a cage. You'd been taken by a madman and..." he pauses, taking a deep breath. "Your sister was already dead when they found you two, and you weren't far behind. I... the doctor told me you'd likely blocked the information because it was a traumatic event, but this... Bozhe, you've been seeing her from the beginning..." he shakes his head, "this isn't normal."
"Dead?" I ask, my mind honing in on that one word. "Vanya's dead?"
She's been dead this whole time?
No! All this time, she's been here with me.
"She's not dead," I state again, and out of the corner of one eye I see her. But before my very eyes, the fifteen-year-old Vanya that had grown alongside me suddenly morphs into a child, her clothing torn and dirty, blood pouring from every orifice.
"No..." I mutter, and my feet start moving, chasing whatever phantasm resides in my head. "She's not dead," I say again, running after her.
I don't know where I am or where I'm going. Time ceased to exist the moment father dared to imply my sister is dead.
She's not.
How can she be dead when she's been by my side all these years?
I've seen, heard and touched her. We spent days and nights talking, debating, and sharing our most personal thoughts.
She can't be dead!
I stare at the empty subway seats, my mind a mess of thoughts. I'd followed Vanya's form all around the city, hopping from stop to stop in hopes she'd talk to me.
Confirm she's not dead.
Even now, my senses are on alert, looking for any sign of her.
I can't help but think back to all the moments we shared, looking for clues it might have been all a lie. But as I examine each interaction, I'm left with a sense of terrifying loss. Because to me, it all seemed so real.
But if it's not...
My vision falters, and images start to get jumbled in front of me, everything fuzzy and unclear. I bring my hands up to rub my eyes, willing the fog away from my sight.
"Vanya," I whisper as I see her in the next wagon, leaning into the door. She's smiling mischievously, her head tilted to the side as she's studying me.
I jump up, getting to my feet and following her.
The door pings as the train reaches the station and Vanya quickly runs out. I follow, hot on her trail.
She dashes out of the subway and towards the park across the street. It's already night out, and I find that I'm having an increasingly hard time focusing on her form.
Her giggles fill my ears as she runs across the green expanse of the park.
"Vanya!" I call out her name. She turns slightly, raising an eyebrow at me before changing direction.
It's only when I start panting, already out of breath, that she stops, tentatively stepping in front of me.
She looks ethereal in her long cream dress, her face pale in the moonlight, the scar on her face even more prominent.
"Vanya," I breathe out, the need to touch her—making sure she's real and alive—eating at me.
I take a step further. When I see she's not running anymore, I take another step.
"Brother," she replies, her voice a soft melody to my ears.
But as I lift my hand, reaching out to touch her, my fingers pass through her form. Like a hologram, her smile never falters as my hands claw at her non-existent shape.
I keep touching her, hoping at some point my hands would meet solid flesh.
"Why... how?" I'm stunned as realization starts to flood my brain.
She's not... real. She truly isn't real.
I stare at her in wonder, her sweet face forever frozen in a welcoming smile.
"No," I shake my hand, taking a step back. "This can't be..."
My mind is going crazy, thousands of scenarios forming in my head, and none of them pleasant.
My sister, my twin... my everything.
She's dead.
She'd been dead for seven years.
While my brain starts rationalizing this information, my heart—that pitiful organ in my body, useless except for pumping blood—can't bear to let her go.
So entranced I am by the illusion in front of me that I don't even hear the steps behind. I only feel the blow to my head as I'm pushed to the ground by the intensity of the attack.
Voices... I hear voices. But somehow I can't translate them into meaningful phrases. I know people are talking around me, but to me it's only incoherent sounds.
Lifting my gaze up, I see around ten people, some my age, some older, all crowding up on me.
A few of them remove switchblades from their pockets, brandishing the weapons in front of me, all the while saying something. Their lips are moving, sounds are coming out of their mouths, but for the life of me I can't understand a thing.
Dazed, I bring my hand to the back of my head, not surprised when it comes coated in a sticky substance. As I bring the bloodied hand in my field of vision, I can't help but become entranced by the blood flowing freely down my palm.
For a moment, the people surrounding me are forgotten. It's just me and the red substance. My senses seem to react to it in such a familiar way, my pupils dilating, my nostrils flaring as they inhale the metallic taste.
I bring one finger to my lips, smearing the blood and tasting its essence. On a sigh, my eyes close, my temples throbbing.
Suddenly, I open my eyes and there she is.
Vanya.
She's small... smaller than any child her age should have been. Her clothes are torn at the knees and all around her torso, blood gushing out from open wounds.
Her eyes are bleak as she looks at me, her small lips parted on a silent word.
I freeze as I take a better look at her face, her scar deep and gnarly, her eye almost hanging out of its socket.
"Vanya," I whisper.
She takes a step towards me before falling to her knees, more blood pooling on the floor.
Somehow, that blood is all I can see or think of. And as one of the people around charges me with a knife, my enti
re consciousness collapses.
I snap.
I don't know exactly what's happening. It's like I am, but I am not.
My hand reaches out to grasp the sharp end of the blade. I feel it cutting into my flesh, yet I feel naught.
I stand up, my eyes glazed with whatever's come over me. It's like there's no more room for logical thought. Everything is sensation... primal instinct.
Twisting the blade around, I wrench it free from his hand, using my fist to send it flying into his neck.
His eyes widen for a moment, but I don't give him any opening. I grab the handle of the knife, pushing it down his torso and cutting into his flesh, relishing the way the skin gives way to the sharpness of the blade, more and more blood pooling down.
It's like I'm an addict and I've finally found my drug, because as I see the red liquid accumulate in buckets on the ground, I can only whisper.
"More."
Two more men charge at me, and I quickly disarm them, using their own knives to end their lives.
Guts, intestines, and organs spill on the ground. And blood... so much blood.
I start laughing maniacally as I gaze upon the flooded asphalt, my only thought to cause a deluge of biblical proportions.
Blood... more blood.
The other guys are quick to flee, but they missed their chance. No, they never had a chance to begin with because they chose the wrong target... at the wrong time.
Licking my lips, I smirk as I invite them to make a run for it, the need for chase already simmering in my veins, almost as much as the need to draw blood. Like a predator, the desire to earn my prey is almost as satisfying as finally getting the prey.
My eyes are quick to follow their retreating figures, and then I just run.
Thirst like I'd never known before claws at me, making my heart drum with the intensity of a thousand beats per minute. And in that moment, I know, deep down, that I'm not human anymore.
There's no more ration left behind. Just an all-encompassing urge to kill, maim, and destroy. Bathe in a river of blood.
The guys never stood a chance. One after another, they fall. My hands are haphazardly cutting through their flesh, and when the frustration becomes unbearable, I abandon the weapons in favor of my own hands.
Digging deep into the already wide open body, I wrap my fingers around the ribs, enjoying the way they snap under my strength. The way the organs turn to mush as I push into them, ripping everything apart to shreds.
More...
I don't know who I am anymore as I chase one man after another, turning their bodies into an unrecognizable mess of flesh, blood and bile. But the color is, oh, so alluring, that I can't seem to stop myself.
Even when the last one is down, this intense craving inside of me blooms even more, the need to continue killing almost overwhelming.
My eyes move rapidly around me, gazing past the park and into the streets, where unwitting passersbys are walking around. I can almost feel the pulse beneath their skin, and my desire for more blood intensifies.
I take a step forward. And two. By the third one my legs feel heavy, my entire body falling under a strange lethargy.
From the corner of my eyes, I glimpse my father, a tranquilizer gun in his hand as he's aiming at me. He's not alone, and soon I realize I'm cornered from all parts.
Still, no matter how much I want to stay and fight, my body stops obeying me.
And I fall.
Chapter Six
THE PAST
AGE FIFTEEN,
Tying the garland at the end, I use some of the flowers to hide the uneven formation. Turning to Claudia, I lower it over her head, watching with satisfaction as a smile spreads over her face. Her hands go up and she starts feeling for the flowers.
"Wow," she breathes out, her eyes wide in wonder.
"You like it?"
"Like? I love it! Thank you, Aunt Sisi!" She lunges at me, almost throwing me off balance. I open my arms to return her hug.
"See, I'm good at some things too," I add a little drily, and Claudia chuckles.
It's a running joke among Claudia, Lina and I that I never do anything right. Granted, I rarely put in the effort, but they are right to laugh at me when I fail at even the most basic things. Why, recently I'd been assigned to my first baking duty. Before, I'd merely assisted the older Sisters, so it hadn't been too hard. This time, however, I'd been the only one in charge of making the Sunday pie, and by mistake I'd added salt instead of sugar.
How is it my fault when they looked the same? Even the containers were the same color.
But that small mistake had gotten me in a lot of trouble. No one could eat the pie, and so Mother Superior had taken it upon herself to make sure I learned which is sugar and which is salt—by cleaning and organizing the entire kitchen. Part of my punishment had also been that I'd been prohibited from eating anything until the kitchen was sparkly clean.
I was lucky Lina had sneaked me some food, since that kitchen is enormous. I would have died of starvation before I was done cleaning it.
"You're good to me," she giggles, leaving my arms to go pick some more flowers.
I shift position, folding my legs under me, and I turn my attention back to my current punishment, picking up the hefty book and opening it on my lap.
This one isn't as bad as the kitchen one, but I still have to choose a passage from the Old Testament and write an entire essay on it. I guess that's what I get for accidentally falling asleep in class.
But really, how am I supposed to pay attention when everything is just so... uninteresting? I've been hearing the same stories of God creating the world, or Jesus sacrificing himself for our sakes, since I was a little girl. I probably know some passages by heart if I concentrate hard enough. It's always the same discussion about the same texts. Why would I be intrigued by that?
I know there's more to learn than the same old tales. One time, I even managed to sneak into the library and I'd seen so many interesting texts... Still on the subject of God and religion, but they were exquisitely different from anything I'd read or heard before. I'd managed to steal a copy of the Confessions of St Augustine, and I stashed that at my hiding place at the mausoleum. I've been reading it every chance I got, and while the moral of the story is that a religious life is better than a sinful one, I'd been able to read between the lines.
Life outside.
Sinful, immoral, seductive. It showed how not to behave, yet it only made me want to experience it even more. He'd even talked about carnal relations...
A blush envelops my entire face as I remember eating those words straight off the page, my curiosity about such an act only increasing the more secretive St Augustine was in his narration. Why mention it at all if you're going to mince your words? For all his descriptions of his immoral existence before the church, I still don't know exactly what the act entails.
I sigh, the direction of my thoughts taking me further and further away from my assignment. Considering I have to turn it in tomorrow, I need to get my head in the game.
Hands to my temples, I give them a quick rub, squeezing my eyes shut and willing myself to focus.
"Claudia, don't go too far!" I call out to her when I see her running in the opposite direction.
Her shoulders slump when she hears my voice, and dejected, she comes back.
"You know your mother counts on me to make sure you're safe," I add as I pat her small back.
She gives me a tremulous smile and nods, taking a seat next to me and focusing on the flowers she'd already picked. She starts playing with them, trying to build another garland.
By chance, as she shifts positions and tries to get more comfortable, I get a closer look to her bare legs.
I frown as I survey a mass of brown and yellow bruises stretching from her shin to her knee.
"Claudia," I turn to her, "what happened?" I point to her bruises and her eyes widen. She folds her uniform over her legs, obstructing my view.
"Nothing," she m
utters under her breath. "I fell."
"You fell? When? Does your mother know?" The words tumble out of my mouth, even though I can bet Lina doesn't know. She's so protective of Claudia that if she were aware of those bruises on her daughter's skin, she would have never let her hear the end of it—likely she wouldn't be allowed to play anymore either.
Lina is a little too much sometimes when it comes to Claudia's safety, but I can understand and appreciate her attention.
How I wish someone cared for me like that too...
"No," she lowers her face slightly, before coming closer to me. "Please don't tell her. You know how she's going to react," she says as she pleads with me with her big eyes.
I'm torn. On the one hand, I owe it to Lina to tell her, on the other, I don't want Claudia to lose her trust in me.
"Tell me what happened." I urge her, and she starts recounting how she'd tripped and fallen on the hard floor of the classroom. It had been only an accident, and she doesn't want Lina to make a big deal out of it.
"You're not lying to me, are you?" I narrow my eyes at her, and she promptly shakes her head. "If... someone was doing this to you, you'd tell me right?" I add for good measure, knowing just how easy it is to get picked on.
I'd sported my fair share of bruises growing up, and things had only changed in the last few years when I'd simply refused to play the bullies' game. Instead of showing them fear like I'd done in the past, I didn't bother with them at all. My indifference seems to have worked since after some time they simply stopped bothering with me, unable to coax a response out of me.
After all, that brand of evil feeds on fear, shame and self-loathing — and I'd had buckets of all three.
"Nothing happened, Aunt Sisi," she reiterates, "I just tripped."
I hold her gaze a bit longer, wanting to make sure she's saying the truth.
"Fine," I sigh, "you can keep playing, but don't go out of my sight, ok?"
She readily agrees, taking off once more.
Mildly satisfied with her answers but still a little suspicious, I banish all thoughts from my head and start focusing on my assignment.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 6
