𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

04 || Backstabber

SZA - low

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Adrik

I broke a rule.

It was something I never did.

My rules were what kept me sane, they were the only form of conduct I upheld. They were my personal standards, things that made up my behavior and belief system. All organized into a carefully crafted tier system.

Odds over evens.

Talking is only to be done when necessary.

Solitude comes above all.

Lying is only acceptable when it's in my benefit.

But those were nothing but small guidelines put in place to sooth the obsessive nature of my brain.

The real important rules were limited to a select few and there was one that came above all else.

No physical contact.

I did not touch others voluntarily, I did not put myself in situations where I'd be forced to touch others, and when it was absolutely necessary, I gloved my hands, making sure to do anything in my power to avoid the contact that came when skin cells collided.

The last time life had been so unfortunate as to curse me with the wretched act of touch, it was my fathers frail old hand, droopy white skin and overgrown nails that brushed the skin of my hand in his last moments of consciousness. 

It'd ruined the perfect last memory I'd created with him. The one where I was enjoying myself, watching the way his eyes pleaded with me for mercy, his ability to speak had long gone especially as I used two nine volt batteries, an aluminum wire and a lighter to fry his brain until he was nothing but a miserable vegetable. And that was after I nearly beat him to death.

He had to go and ruin my memory of it by touching my hand.

A blissful eighteen months had passed since, all for my streak to broken by some serpent eyed maniac.

One that was proving to be more of a liability than an asset.

"Unless you are calling to tell me you've handled the issue," I turn my attention to the large oak framed window and stare into the yard, more so the men working on building out my vision. "I would tread carefully."

The scent of bleach and lemon filter through my senses. Despite having the library professionally disinfected and every nook of it wiped, I can't bring myself to call it clean.

Dima's heavy breathing filters through the line and nothing else.

He's giving me silence.

It's always silence when they've fucked up.

I often wonder if it's because they know better or they're afraid. Either way, it satisfies the part of me that values minimal human contact.

That is until the unevened rhythm of his breathing turns unsettling and I'm forced to speak."Govorit'."
(Russian| speak)