THE ART OF MURDER ━ tom riddle

THE ART OF MURDER

WARNINGS; mental illness, depression, suicide, violence, blood, gore, murder, sexual abuse, misogyny, racism, antisemitism, toxic relationships, death, self harm, alcohol abuse, heavy smoking, profanity, blasphemy

he's a god, he's a man, he's a ghost, he's a guru
they're whispering his name through this disappearing land
but hidden in his coat is a red right hand

nick cave and the bad seeds, red right hand

. . . 

NADYA BERKOVA is not recovering, despite all the rumours. 

(This is because to recover, you have to have something to recover from; some traumatic experience that will never stop replaying before your eyes like a broken record, each time more glitched, more shaky than the last, never pausing for reprieve. — and Nadya has never experienced that, of course.)

She is fine — her grief is stifled, her pain is dulled by the red poison she ingests so regularly, her anger is dying out like a supernova on the brink of destruction. She has never been better; a survivor's heart in the body of a corpse, slowly rotting and eroding away, a jagged cliffs edge with rocks of steel. 

So there is no need for their pitying smiles, sympathetic sighs, their illegally obtained monetary donations (well, she's okay with the money). A rich heiress has no need for petty troubles and secrets, to concern herself with their toxic gossip. So she confides in only the deathless, speechless shadows on her bedroom wall and the cracked, bloody glass windows that never seem to repair themselves, no matter how many times she tries. Her hands are stained with blood that she can't scratch off, no matter how many times she shoves them roughly under her taps and scrapes and shouts and slashes at her ivory skin. And, most tragic of all, she is alone again. 

So Nadya grits her teeth, painted with violent crimson, washed with pain. She grits her teeth, lets the grit of the gravel tear at her skin and clothes and nails and hair, allows the water to fill her lungs and choke her, permits the rich pureblood families of England to suffocate and stifle every word she speaks. 

Because Nadya Berkova has a job to do, and nothing will stand in her way. 

&&. 1946, LONDON.  

The war has finally ended, and with it has ushered in a new era of revolution. British politics is failing; the economy is stumbling, rations are still imposed. The country is left in disarray; the empire crumbles and a new party is elected in government. In Bulgaria, things aren't much better. The People's Republic of Bulgaria has just begun; the economy is starting to pick up, due to new leadership and an evolving opinion on Western capitalists. 

Nadya Berkova has found a home and is well on the way to making a new life for herself in Britain, despite the tragedy and enmity of the public that she can't seem to shake off, and the general sense of distaste she's greeted with whenever she introduces herself. It's difficult for a girl of her age to make a name for herself, especially considering she spent the last six years in s sheltered boarding school trying to pretend there was no war, but she ignores that. She is a Berkova, and an opportunist. She can, and will do whatever the fuck she wants and if they don't like that, fuck them.