SERAPHIC BLISS

25. I quit

Victoria comes around after an undefined amount of time , hopelessly disoriented and feeling soreness in each and every part of her body ,every muscle , every joint , every cell was burning.

She was lying face done , her cheek away pressed against the cold floor , mere meters away from the bodyguard's mutilated corpse , a crimson pool under his body , a stark contrast among the white bags hanging over their heads. As her senses come back to her , she realizes something-other than the disturbing harshness of her messy state is wrong.

Aside from the Bodyguard's mutilated outline , she is very much alone in the room full of cadavers. She sits up , fighting the urge to sleep again. The room is empty and the gun is gone , the streaks of matted blood is the only indication that whatever went down wasn't in her own imagination.

She knows , that she should be dead. Martha gained consciousness before Victoria and any fool could've killed her , and yet there she was, alive ,aching and near numb with the pain in her head

What could be more efficient to preserving secrecy than permanent death ? Its very unlikely that it is a bout of human empathy , humans possesses that , assassins don't.

Victoria hauls herself up on her feet as the fragile restraints of her brain threaten to give up , not only she is a great threat to her false integrity , but now she has additional difficulty formulating a credible story to David , Vincent and Elizabeth-

Realization hits hard.

A medical professional assassin with Elizabeth sounds just as threatening as pointing a gun at a blind person. She realizes she needs to get back and save Elizabeth. But then Lucas could still very well be in the manor , she chooses to go back Elizabeth , she always will. The mere thought of Martha with Elizabeth induces panic though her.

Victoria reaches into her pocket for her phone , but only manages to feel the dusty cloth of her pants , the phone was in the penthouse Cursing loudly she wipes out blood-slicked hairs from her face and tries to think, trying to see past the glaringly bleak outcomes of her circumstance.

With no particular plan she decides to take the stairs , climbing two at a time , she passes a wood craved bookshelf. There is no method to her madness , she is searching , looking around frantic , in uncoordinated desperation. She enters a corridor and catches a glimpse of the Presidents liquor shelf , its in the vintage-ly lit living room.

Her eyes darts to vodka bottle that sits on the top shelf, just then her body burns , in an agonizing shrill course. She has to take support of the wall due to her constant blurring vision. Making a subconscious decision , her legs limp her towards the alcoholic demise of her principles.

The burn of the Vodka subsides the burning pain i her living cadaver , she tears off a part of her shirt and dads the bleeding injury on her forehead with Russian Vodka , a wince involuntarily escapes her cracked lips. Her breaths shallow out, and the neck of the bottle her partially broken fingers grip-makes their way instinctively to her mouth.

Her throat burns as the comforting liquid of metaphorical gold runs down her neck

Russians weren't all too bad , after all.

Sip after sip , gulp after gulp she drowns her pain in the bottle that cost more than the mansion itself. I deserve a break , is her constant mantra as she empties the contents of the bottle , in her liver. Feeling a clam wave wash over her anxieties ,but soon her ears pick a up a high pitched shrill ringing of familiar sirens.

Police

She walks out of the room and looks around in a frenzy.

Her vision is blurry but her eyes are focused , she runs through the doors , past three security members lying like red rag dolls against the windows passing lead peppered wall. A man of Ivanov's wealth has to have a selection of cars parked on the premises somewhere.