The Pale Lily

Talkin

The bar was dimly lit, filled with the low hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. Elara sat at a small table, a glass of whiskey in her hand. Across from her, Lysandra casually sipped a Bloody Mary, the red liquid swirling like a sinister reflection of her personality. The playful smirk on her lips had faded, replaced by a strange, distant look.

For the first time since Elara had met her, Lysandra seemed… subdued.

They drank in silence for a while, the atmosphere oddly heavy between them. Elara could feel something shifting, as if Lysandra was on the verge of revealing something she’d buried deep.

Finally, Lysandra broke the silence, her voice softer than usual. “You ever wonder what makes people like me?” she asked, her eyes tracing the rim of her glass. There was a strange vulnerability in her tone, a far cry from the teasing and cruel edge that usually laced her words.

Elara glanced at her, not sure how to respond. She took a sip of her whiskey, the burn steadying her nerves. “What do you mean?” she asked, cautiously curious.

Lysandra let out a short, bitter laugh. “You know, the whole ‘psycho criminal on the loose’ thing. I wasn’t always like this.” Her pale fingers wrapped tighter around the glass, and her eyes darkened with old memories. “I was born in Italy. An orphan. That’s all I ever knew—being passed around, forgotten.”

Elara listened, the weight of Lysandra’s words sinking in. She could sense that this wasn’t just idle talk. Lysandra was opening a door she rarely, if ever, let anyone near.

“I grew up in this rundown orphanage in Naples,” Lysandra continued, her voice cold with memory. “It wasn’t much, but it was all we had. The nuns there? They didn’t care. We were numbers to them. I counted the days until I turned eighteen, thinking I’d finally be free.” She paused, taking a long sip of her Bloody Mary, her eyes narrowing. “But I was wrong.”

Elara felt her grip tighten on her whiskey glass. She could feel where this was heading but said nothing, letting Lysandra continue.

“Turns out,” Lysandra said with a bitter smile, “the orphanage wasn’t exactly what it seemed. The day I turned eighteen, they didn’t just let me go. They sold me. Like some kind of… object.”

Elara’s stomach twisted. She had heard of things like this—trafficking, exploitation—but hearing it from Lysandra, seeing the hollow look in her eyes, made it all the more horrifying.

“They sold me to a group of sick bastards,” Lysandra went on, her voice dropping lower. “The kind of people who like to break things, especially people. They drugged me, tortured me, messed with my mind. They wanted to see how far I could bend before I’d break. For a while, I did break.” Her fingers traced the pale scars on her arms, barely visible but still there, a haunting reminder.

Lysandra took another slow sip of her drink, her eyes distant. “After a while, they got bored. They dumped me like garbage, thinking I wouldn’t survive.” She chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “They underestimated me. I came back. Different, yes. But not broken. Never broken.”

Elara felt a lump form in her throat. She’d always known there was something deeply wrong with Lysandra, something twisted and dangerous, but now she understood the depth of her darkness. It wasn’t just madness—it was survival, born from unimaginable pain.

Lysandra’s gaze shifted back to Elara, her smile returning, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You see, sweetie, they thought they could kill the humanity in me. Maybe they did. But they made something else in its place. And here I am, playing the game my way.” She raised her glass in a mock toast, her eyes glittering with a dark satisfaction.

Elara clinked her glass against Lysandra’s, unsure of what to say. She had come to know Lysandra as a dangerous, unpredictable force—but now she saw the cracks, the trauma that fueled her cruelty.

As they both drank in silence, the weight of Lysandra’s past hung heavy in the air. There was no undoing what had been done to her, no fixing the damage. But for the first time, Elara realized just how much Lysandra’s fractured soul mirrored her own fears—the fear of losing control, of being consumed by the darkness she hunted.

Lysandra smirked, seeing the emotion flash across Elara’s face. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetie. I’m still me. And we’ve still got work to do.” She downed the rest of her Bloody Mary in one gulp, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“Come on, doll,” she said, standing up and offering Elara her hand. “Let’s go make some more memories.”

Elara took her hand, feeling the weight of their strange, twisted bond settle over them. Whatever happened next, there was no denying it—Lysandra had pulled her into a world she might never escape.