𐄁 Trixya One Shots 𐄁

"Everything else was just background."

They ask me what happened in the room that night. I tell them I don't remember; I don't remember the blood on my hands, I don't remember the bullet in his head. All I remember was how I felt. How angry and frustrated I felt.

They ask me why I did it, I couldn't give them an answer. I didn't know why I did it either, I just did it. I was so blinded by the white fury that the man had given me that I didn't know what my limbs were doing. But I can tell you this, he wasn't all that meets the eye.

-

Let me tell you a story about a woman named Katya. Katya Zamolodchikova. She was a beautiful woman, but she couldn't speak a lick of English. She came to my doorstep one day in a frantic craze, her hair messy and clothes filthy. If it was any other person, I would've closed the door, but something in her eyes made me welcome her.

She tried talking to me but I couldn't understand. She was probably speaking in Russian or some other Eastern European language. She had bruises on her face and mascara smudged everywhere, I assumed something traumatic happened.

Anyways, as any good person would, I fixed her up a warm cup of tea and a small tray of biscuits and I made sure she stopped crying. The poor thing looked miserable like a puppy in the rain, but something about her just intrigued me.

Her crystal blue eyes were still sharp even when they were red and puffy. Her cheekbones jutted out but she wasn't starved. Her voice was rough but had a hint of tenderness to it even if she wasn't speaking English. And like I said earlier, she was beautiful.

I offered her a place to stay the night seeing how miserable she was. I made a makeshift bed on the lounge with blankets, pillows, and all that jazz. I cleaned her up and put her to bed. I lived by myself at the time so it wasn't a bother to anyone.

Flash forward into a few weeks, Katya was still at my home. She started to learn a few English phrases like please and thank you and how are you. We communicated mostly with hand gestures and awkwardly phrased sentences, but it wasn't all that bad. I learned that she had the oddest sense of fashion and an even odder laugh. She looked happy even when she didn't understand a word I was saying.

Days went on like this with Katya learning more and more each day. Two months and she could speak sentences to me. I still never knew why she knocked on my door that day, it could've been any other door, but it was mine that she knocked on. Call me crazy, but I considered the fact of fate, perhaps it was fate that led her here, but maybe it was just a huge coincidence.

Every day I grew a little bit more affectionate towards her. Her odd humor made me laugh. Her eyes seemed to gleam in the sunlight of the day when I took her out grocery shopping. Her short wavy hair was warm blonde that bounced like a floating halo around her head every time she walked. I didn't want to admit it, no, of course not, I didn't want to admit that I was falling for her; a petite Russian woman that ran away from God knows what.

We grew very close as a result of living together. She knew what flowers I liked best, she knew what color I was the fondest of. In return, I learned what foods she liked to eat and I learned that she had a bad habit of smoking when she was anxious.

One day, we were sitting at our dining table, having a nice dinner by candlelight and she opened her mouth to tell me something but closed it shut at the last second. Of course, I asked her what she was about to say, and she didn't make a peep. I didn't push further.

A little later, I found her packing her clothes into a tiny brown suitcase and looking as frustrated as ever. I asked her why and I saw her facade start to crack. She started crying to me, muttering things like "Can't stay" and "Not welcome." I sat her down like I did when she first knocked on my door.

She confessed to me in a flurry of words. Her blonde hair seemed to have lost its glow and her face was sunken. For a moment, she made herself a stranger in my eyes and a foreigner to my home. My heart sank at the sight of her sorrow, but we had the same issues.

We loved each other.

-

All that was two months ago, but I remember it like it was just yesterday. She reluctantly stayed with me for another month, but something was bothering her.

I found her crying in her room one day, holding a little note in her hand. The note was scrawled with messy Russian and I didn't know how to read it. She cried to me that it was an old note that her "husband" had written to her the night she had fled. She told me that she was in a forced marriage with an abusive man and that she fled when she couldn't take it anymore.

The note must have brought back terrors.

She told me that he would beat her when he came home. He always smelled of alcohol and he would be an infuriated man when she asked why he was like that. It went on like that for months and all for what? All for the little bit of money that he sent to Katya's family every month to support them.

This angered me. I have never seen such a beautiful woman get so disrespected. This was the beginning of the end of him.

I asked her where he lived and though she begged me not to go. I had a pistol in hand and anger to waste. I rushed out in a flurry. I was too blinded by anger to know what I was doing just then. And it turns out, he didn't live very far.

I knocked on his door and his scraggy face decided to show up. He smelled heavily of cheap vodka and had eyes that looked like he hadn't slept in days.

I must've blown his brains out at the sight of him because the last thing that I remember was the cold feeling of handcuffs on my wrists.

Do I know that what I did was illegal? Yes. Do I regret it? Not a bit. I did what I wanted to do and that was that. The night of his death is still a blurry one to me. Anger isn't the best emotion to make a judgment, but here I am and I will say it again.

I don't remember what happened in the room that night. I don't remember the blood on my hands. I don't remember the bullet in his head. All I remember was how I felt. How angry and frustrated I felt.

Because she was what I paid attention to; who I paid attention to.

Everything else was just background.