BLOODHOUND ࿐ THE MIKAELSONS

01

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
chapter one
"alone"
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If there was one thing about Ravenna Russo - it was that she was alone.

A trailer home for three which now lived only one. A void of loneliness in the air being the only thing keeping her company. If you were to ask her, she'd tell you she prefers it, that she bathes in the quietness and welcomes it with open arms. But she'd be lying.

Her older brother had been gone for two years. No call, no goodbye. Her parents? they've been dead since her prepubescence.

Murdered.

Her father was how all fathers are, angry. The type of anger that was hard to ignore, hard not to clutch his fists and punch. Even if the target receiving his mean left hook was his own child. The type of man who if you were to cut him open with a knife the blood that pours would not be thick and rich in redness, it would be the intoxicating liquid of cheap alcohol.

However, besides his empty eyes and bloody knuckles - he was also the type of man who was sweet when he wanted to be. A forehead kiss goodnight, a warm embrace of loving arms, a sincere apology after an imprinted red hand stain on Ravenna's cheek. Yet, his anger would only brew stronger when he realised his daughter wasn't as forgiving as his wife.

He was a walking contradictory.

An inherited fury from a man that no little girl should've known and a mother who gave birth to her pain instead of her child. A cycle unbroken.

A childhood of broken bones, harsh words that still ring in her ear till this day and an invisible fire that burned inside her home that no one knew how to put out. A beating here and there that the children had no choice but to grow accustomed to. If you wanted to give hell a home you'd point to the Russo household.

They ruined her yet still had the audacity to comfort her. The very hands that hit were also the hands that caressed. It wasn't fair to be shown tenderness after violence. It wasn't fair.

Perhaps she should be grateful for what her brother did. But she's not.

Murdered in cold blood by your first born isn't a poetic tragedy. It's just a tragedy.

As a 12 year old, witnessing the brutal death of your parents by the spiteful deed of your own brother - there's not much to do but to freeze up, keep your mouth shut and watch. Cry your tears in the corner of the room like a wounded animal and let the blood smear your face and the walls. Normal, happy childhood.

Thinking back, Ravenna thought that she should've called the police right there and then. But she was scared. Too afraid to dial the three digit number and snitch on her brother, too afraid to risk the only family you have left to leave, too afraid to be alone.

So she didn't.

Even if the person she'd be living with was a murder, at least his bloody hands were hands that she knew, hands that she trusted.

Her brother Giovanni had always sworn protection over her. But it seemed his definition of the word was completely fucked.

What's the use of protecting someone when you can't seem to get it right? On that night, she didn't know what Giovanni was protecting anymore. Her body? Because it wasn't her mind. No, he tainted it, he corrupted it with nothing but darkness that even when she dies; the light at the end of the tunnel wouldn't be visible to the eye because you can't imagine something you've never seen.