"I always thought that the first time I'd be on my knees I'd be praying..." I held my breath lowering myself to my knees in front of him,
"Then worship," he smirked, "what do you desire?"
Being loved by the king of Socrates Academy is haunting, espe...
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Play Matilda by Harry styles for this chapter
There is nothing left of me but the memories that make me, that define me, that form my being.
Flashback, Nadya age 15
It is rising summer, disintegrating spring, I am youth encapsulated, barefooted, pink-cheeked and coming of age. I am wearing my old traditional sarafan, the crimson red velvety one my father bought me. It was one of the few gifts I ever received from him, and so I treasured it. I had a kitenge my mother brought along from her last visit back to Kinshasa, wrapped around my waist, a delicately designed wrapper. Every thread woven bleeds my culture into me, I rarely visit Congo anymore, I often feel like a stranger on my own soil.
Andrei lies next to me, with a freckle dusted nose and curly afro, this was before he knew violence, but still not quite comfortable with peace. He is young, beady-eyed, curious, my closest companion. We are outside on the dawn bright lawn sappy with dew, our backs layed on a blanket too itchy, yet to know truths too harsh. Our hands are lifted in the air reaching for the clouds, as if our great privilege isn't enough on land- we dare to claim the skies too.
"Why don't you ever hang out with Dmi and Nico?" I ask him, picking at weeds in the grass. "They're boys, I'm a girl you must not like being with me all the time."
"Dmi and Nico act like grown-ups now, it's no fun and all seriousness with them. They want to be like papa, they won't even stop and play races with us." Andrei scoffs, "it's more fun, here with you in the summer, you're my best friend."
"I know that bit yes." I muse with a crooked smile, "but what about you, do you not want to be like papa?"
"I used to think I did-" he pauses, "but not anymore, I don't know there's just something that's not quite right about everything, the countries he takes, the families he separates. I don't think I want to be like that, I want to be human I want to be Andrei."
"And you think papa isn't human?" I argue feeling a sense of entitlement to defend my father, "don't talk like that, he loves us, mama says so."
"Love isn't something you say, Nadya, it's something you feel. But I have never felt his love, I cannot see its expression therefore to me, it remains fictional. It does not exist, just like folklore and fairytales." He protests turning on his side to face me,
