RED AND BLUE.

EXCERPT.

RED AND BLUE.

—
HER LIFE BEFORE NEW YORK.
—

Calloused hands grip the sides of the faded white sink. Among the red and blue bruises that are littered on her skin like a painting, her hands are pale, turning white as her grip tightens. Tears threaten to break free, to show her how weak she can really be. She's on the verge of breaking down but all she can really do is pull herself together or she'd be left dead with a bullet in her pretty head. But how can she, living in a house masked with pretty smiles, family and strength when she knows it's all lies? Lies, lies, lies, it resounds in her head like a song because no matter how many times she says it, it's true. It's all just an elaborate mask to hide their true cruelty. They use tradition and honour as a mask for their cruelty and murder, and they use family as a way to stay together as one. And she? She masks her disgust with her own cruelty, her smile like painted rust. Pieces of rusted metal chipping off her face in such small fragments that they can't seem to notice that she is already rusted. They might be bad, but she's worse. Maybe that's why they seem to worship her.

A tear droplet runs down the side of her cheek. She can feel it as it descends and it's enough to make her bite her lip hard enough to draw blood. Weak, she tells herself as she looks up at her reflection. Her head is a mess of curly auburn hair, her bruised and scarred skin is as pale as the white sink, and her brown eyes drooping with bags underneath them due to her sleepless nights. But how can she sleep when every time she closes her eyes the nightmares start again and seem to play on repeat? As if on instinct when the thought enters her mind, even though she knows exactly whats going to happen, and even though she doesn't want to, she closes her eyes, and it starts all over again.

A gunshot is the first things she hears, resounding through her ears like an echo. At first, it's unsettling because she's worried about who her father's revolver has been used on. But at the same time she's already used to the sound. Only when she was younger would she question what her parents did, because she never understood it, and at that time she felt for the people hurt and perhaps she felt too much. Now she's learned to hide her feelings and her true self under a mask, and she's silent, ever since her father had pulled out his gun in rage and had shot the wall beside her, barely missing her by an inch. Since everything that's happened before, she's learned how cruel her family really is, so she simply ignores the sound of the gunshot.

But what follows next makes her head shoot up and her eyes widen. It's a scream, shrill and piercing. The scream of a girl, and it's all too familiar. She hopes it's not what she thinks it is. She knew the day would come, but she just hopes it hasn't come so soon. She races blindly down the steps of her immense house, the hardwood floor seeming to echo with the sounds of her rapid footsteps. She races towards the sound as though she's running for her life. Her intricate house almost slows her down, but she doesn't let it. Adrenaline courses through her veins as she races forward and is thrown into the backyard, the cold night air hitting her face hard. What she sees next is more ghastly than anything she's ever seen. A gasp escapes her mouth even though deep down she isn't surprised.

Her father stands before her, a gun in his hand, and the body of a girl before him. Not just any girl though. The only girl who's death could make such an impact that tears were running down her cheeks. Before her is the girl she loved so tenderly and so dearly. And she is dead, gone forever. Dead. As the thought settles into her being, into her bones and etches itself into her mind, her eyes close in utter defeat as thoughts about the girl plague her mind.

The girl was a beautiful and delicate russian girl, with light blonde hair that fell down her shoulders, and a smile that was as vibrant as the sun. It was ironic. This girl, so innocent and so utterly good lived in a place run by crime lords and criminals and of course, how could she forget? The Russian Mafia. She knew the girl was far too good for her, but when her lips brushed hers, hope flooded her veins. And when the girl felt the same, she became drunk on hope and the thought that they could somehow be together no matter what. But while she was drunk on false hope and promises that couldn't be kept, her father had seen them, and had decided to slaughter the person his daughter loved.

Her eyes open then, and tears flood down. She doesn't move an inch, too shocked to move. Her chest racks with uncontrollable sobs and she can't help but crumble to the ground. It's the first time she's cried like this in years without having to care that she was weak. It's almost refreshing, but she knows it can't last long. And as if on cue, the cold metal of her father's revolver is pressed against the side of her head. Her sobs stop. She gasps for breath as she looks up at him. His eyes are ablaze with immeasurable anger and she can't help but be afraid. First, he leans down to her, and she wonder's what he's about to do. But when he raises his lips to her ear she knows.

"Prochnost." He whispers to her, the russian word that means strength resounding in her head. To her, the word is like venom on his lips because she knows that she is not strong, not anymore.

"Prochnost." She replies because there's nothing else she can really do except bury her feelings and follow their cruelty like she's been trying to do all these years. Her voice is robotic like it's been all these years and she is sure that it will be the same for all the rest as well.

The word resounds in her head again and again as she stares at oblivion, until it weaves itself into her soul and she is never weak again. But she's not even strong, because to her, strength means something else. To her she is powerful, not strong. To her, she has power, but not in a million years will that mean that she is strong, no matter how bad she wants it to be.

Then her eyes open, and she finds tears running down her cheeks. She wipes them off as soon as she can. She looks at her reflection and looks at what she's become. When she was only fourteen tragedy had struck her life, and she had realised that happiness didn't come for free in the life she led. So, after that night, she changed. The change was drastic and over the years she didn't realise what she had become. It took her three years but she's finally managed to detach herself from people, from feelings. She thought that if she simply didn't have anyone, she wouldn't have any weakness and definitely no targets for her father. She's a cold hearted monster, scarred and bruised, with a tainted heart. She's a sinner in god's eyes. But what else can she do, living in a house of monsters like herself?