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it's human; we all put self interest first. ― euripides, medea
NADYA REMEMBERS THE LAST TIME SHE STAYED IN THE BERKOV MANSION.
Ivan had been staying in Bulgaria with his cousin — Nadya's uncle and aunt. She'd never met them before, of course, but she'd heard stories: they run naked through the hills, they're wild and crazy, you'll never be like them, darling. Ivan was the family disgrace, a child born out of wedlock (a mistake that was hastily remedied by the knife at the preacher's throat). Meanwhile, Nadya was the jewel of her father's affections, his lovely little Hope. They would dress her uplike children playing dolls, parade her before their friends and family, and while the adults drank wine and nibbled on their food, Nadya would sit on their plush cushions, nibble on her bread, and listen.
The mansion had been filled with life, then. They had guests over almost every night — despite the economic crises, the Berkov's would always come out on top, no matter how many others had to be pushed back down. So Nadya would sleep on her velveteen blankets, let her mother press a soft, rose-smelling kiss to her head, and would always do what was expected of her.
Her parents had died, result of a business deal gone wrong, and Nadya had been left with their fortune, shipped off to join her cousin in Bulgaria. Shamefully, she had liked it there — everything was simple, always black and white, right or wrong like a game of chess. There were no shades of grey, no lies and tricks to be wary of.
Now, the Berkova mansion is empty and barren, like a field stripped bare. The rooms are left shrouded in darkness, and those that are lit are barely so, only brightened by the slightest, dimmest of lights. It's almost as if time is frozen — nothing has changed since she left the house ten years ago — not even the furniture has been moved. Dotty, the old house elf, must've cared too much. There's not much dust, thanks to Dotty, but the poignant absence of any other living presence could not be more obvious from the unused bedrooms, the closed doors. The shadows dance over the walls like marionettes on strings, the ever-reaching darkness unflinchingly strong.
Nadya, seated on her bed, heaves a sigh. She barely recognises herself in the mirror anymore — like a distorted painting, where all her features have been accurately sketched, but the paper has been torn apart and stuck back together roughly, awkwardly, with uneven lines and incorrect angles. It's not just that; she feels so hot all the time, permanently running a fever. As if her soul is burning in hell, and her body is racing to catch up, crumbling to ashes.
Shit, maybe she's just getting sick. She shouldn't be so dramatic, she reminds herself. We all know how that ended, last time you got like this.
Her inner voice is right, however much it ebbs away at her spirit and scratches away her delicately painted masks. All these dramatic thoughts are just her scrambled mind trying to make sense of that sudden emptiness in her heart, screaming out for some help in trying to keep her life afloat. It doesn't mean anything. She's the same as she's always been — she has a vague purpose, though no plan on how to fulfill it. She has all the riches she'll ever need, if you discount the fact that she signed a deal to sell half her belongings. But that wasn't an impulse decision — she hates all that stuff. It just serves as a reminder of everything lost. If Nadya has to see another one of Ivan's watches, or look at her mother's pearls, or trip over her father's cane, she might just scream loud enough to brink the house down in an earthquake of dust and cracked, broken, ruins.
