Moya Istoria (Mature Content)

[Xenia Chirikova]

Papa always used to say that I was special; his very own little fire bird. I never understood what he meant by that, until the moment I unleashed it.

For a moment, I was free. Unbound by the constraints of the mortal being.

It burned like a tingle, and soothed my thoughts. I flew out of my body, found strength in my demise and was reborn from the ashes.

Somewhere in the back of my mind it occurred to me that this had been exactly what he wanted. This was the moment he had been waiting for, where a pawn was lost for the knight to take the queen. I was the piece sought to destroy the entire kingdom. Bring it down from the inside out.

He knew. The bastard had known all along.

But that didn't stop me from raising hell, either.

[Xenia Chirikova]

I returned home, broken and bloody. Papa crowed happily at my return, arms opened wide to receive me overjoyously. I spat blood and spit in his face and nailed him in the jaw with the butt of the AK-47 slung over my shoulder. It was the single most defiant gesture I'd ever attempted against papa, and Gody it felt great.

"I hate you."

Those were the only words I could muster, tears finally brimming at the corners of my eyes. They were still blood red, flashing with humiliation and anger. Most of all, it was hurt. I was fatigued from the exertion of my powers, my tattooes fading in and out as I alternately flashed colors of the rainbow. I collapsed into a dehydrated, exhausted heap and despite how badly I wanted to strangle them I couldn't even lift a finger.

Papa wiped at his face, unperturbed by my behavior. "Moya milenkaya dochery just needs rest, is all," he assured his companions. "Come, dorogaya." With the assistance of my brother, they both lifted me up and led me to my room where I was greeted by a nurse who was prepared to tend to me for the next few weeks.

I went in and out of consciousness, fluttering between dreams of me and Sebastien tangled in silk and fur and dreams where I carved his heart out. It was hard to discern which part was true; it all felt like make-believe. Things like that don't happen to girls like me, we get ther world served on a golden platter. For a while, I think I had convinced myself the entire ordeal had been dreamt up, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew.

My chest ached for a reason.

[Xenia Chirikova]

All I wanted to do was forget.

Bottles of vodka in varying stages of decay littered the small flat I rented. It was nestled in the heart of the grunge, desolate with paint peeling and horribly stained. The place was my escape from my father and his relentless grip, a sanctuary that allowed me a piece of mind. It also made me human. It made me angry, made me cry, encouraged me to hurt myself. At random intervals I?d jump up from the gutted couch, throw the bottle hanging precariously from my fingertips into the wall, and then proceed to add another hole in the wall with my fist or foot. The vodka would burn my throat until I went numb and blacked out, curled in a fetal position on the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

When I slept, my dreams were sinister and tumultuous, but my reality was hardly any different. Inwardly, I seethed and my rage festered alongside the dull ache of a broken heart. I masked my emotions, and as a result of the repression, I grew vindictive and brutal. Moy papa may have thought it was me realizing my true nature, and I allowed him to do so, but it was the only way I could find to hold myself together.

The ink along my petite form grew, as did the bodies in my wake. The only human instincts left in me were the small pieces of bare skin hiding between my victories?and my faults.

[Xenia Chirikova]

He was down on the ground, gasping for air in his last few moments of life. Through the thick laceration across his chest, I dug my fingers inward, reaching for his faintly beating heart. I felt the begging gaze of his startling blue eyes, but I forced myself not to look; not yet. The cracking of his ribs could barely be heard over his strangled cry, my second hand joining in on the effort. My rage boiled so hot that I could barely feel my own pain, the bones in the assisting arm dislocating with a sickening crunching sound.

I closed my eyes in ecstasy, feeling the thrum of life in his heart as my fingers enclosed the organ. It was warm and gooey in my hand, so much easier to crush the life out of. Gurgling noises laced with pain and misery sounded like music to my ears. It was then that I looked down at my once-lover, the adoring look reminiscent of before. "I want to watch ze pazetic life of yours slip out of your eyes," I purred, crimson eyes boring into his terrified blue ones. He made a guttural noise of protest, but my white-hot rage festered stronger than any other emotions, so the notion fell upon deaf ears. I squeezed his pulsating heart, enthralled by the spastic reaction his body gave as I tore it from his chest cavity with painstaking leisure.

The last thing that bastard ever saw, was a look of pleasure upon my face. Pleasure at his death. Pleasure upon feasting on his heart. 'Eat your heart out' never meant so much.

I woke up screaming, snarled with the limbs of another. It was dark, my breathing harsh and uneven as I scrambled to untangle myself from the other woman. Her name was Lydia (I think), and she was a beautiful, waifish looking doll. The moon shone across her angelic face, and for a fraction of a second I wondered how she could sleep through my anguished cry. I fought the urge to caress her cheek, biting into my lip with a choked sob. The contents of the room were blurry as I turned my head, only vaguely recalling the amount of vodka and illegal substances we shared. Ah, that would explain why she was still passed out.

Licking my maw, I swore I could still taste Sebastien's blood, and the remembrance briefly made me ill. Trembling fingertips extended, brushing a blonde lock out of her eyes, before I hastily pushed away from her and the sheets. Bare feet met with the cold floor, and I wobbled precariously for a moment. The room was still spinning, but slowly enough now that I could walk several paces without collapsing. Stumbling into the bathroom, I pawed at the wall while hugging the door jamb. After several swipes, the light flickered on, momentarily blinding me.

Groaning in protest, one arm lifting to block my eyes from the brightness, I fumbled along the vanity in search of a bottle of pills. Finally managing to grasp a prescription, I lurched forward just in time to spew my guts into the toilet. Choking back another sob as I sank down beside the toilet, hugging it with arm I continued to pray to the Porcelain God. "Gody," I begged in hushed tones, "Just let me forget." I hacked out my brains for a few minutes, no longer able to contain the threatening flood of tears.

Blindly, I slapped at the nearby vicinity in search of a liquid to consume, sitting up and propping myself against the bathtub. Fingertips curled around the nearest bottle, almost empty of the clear contents. I pulled up against my chest, hugging it there as I picked the pills back up. With shaky hands, I fought to open the pill container, swearing in Russian and other foreign languages. The cap finally popped off, and I lifted it to my mouth, dumping several of its contents in my mouth. I topped it off with a hearty swig of vodka.

My guardian angel was probably stabbing itself in the eye at my death wish; but in the end, I knew it'd do its job. I'd wake up alive, mourning the loss of another piece of my soul.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Little girls--stupid, little girls-- always let their heads fill with fanciful ideas of romanticized love. We believe in our Prince Charmings and pumpkins turning into carriages and our glass slippers and the swoon-worthy, defining kiss that will awaken us.

Well, it awakens us alright. To reality.

I'd always wanted to be swept off my feet. For years I believed and dreamed in my very own fairytale-- a blustery whirlwind of true love that would suddenly bring me to my senses. And then everything in the universe would be right. It was supposed to be perfect. A dream come true.

The reality is that love is sloppy and often confused with lust. Lustful desire. It doesn't always happen quickly, or end cleanly.

I made him work for it, Gody, I made him work so hard. I mistakenly assumed that making him work so hard for it would protect me... Instead it tore me apart from the inside out in a bath of blood and pain.

I've had my whirlwind romances. They differed in many instances from my relationship with Sebastien. Good and bad. In the end, they always felt so hollow. Maybe that's why this emptiness has stuck with me--I never gave enough of myself away to feel full.

[Xenia Chirikova]

And he pulled away.

This did not necessarily surprise the Ruski, because in the end they all did. It was never necessarily my own fault, per se, but it wasn't a secret I was incapable of giving enough. I'd gone all-in, a whirlwind of hands and tangled legs and steamy kisses accented by long, 'Make-love-to-me-here' stares. And that's where it got tricky.

It was much harder to give out my heart. My emotions remained stoic, sealed bottle-tight. Out-of-bounds and off-limits. I wanted the best of both worlds--two bits of the apple, really, but purposefully kept it out of heart's reach. I couldn't let that happen to myself again.

[Xenia Chirikova]

A grand piano occupied the breadth of my front sitting room, and every day I stared longingly after it as I drifted past in the morning and at night. Today, as I returned late from the clinic, honeys lifted lovingly along the cherry mahogany tinted wooden expanse while I crossed the corridor. The door clicked shut behind me, tugging at something in my chest hard enough to make me stop dead in my tracks. The tome dropped from my gloved grasp, echoing around me as an unseen force pulled me toward the piano. I did not even try to fight it. My skirts rustled loudly with the swiftness of my movements, and I swept them back behind me to settle daintily on the piano bench.

It had been years since I last touched a key, maybe longer, and my fingers trembled with trepidation as they hovered anxiously above the piano. I can?t rightfully say if it was from fear or joy. Tentatively, I lowered them. The glided carefully down the length of the keyboard, caressing the keys in long, loving strokes. The piano vibrated sonorously in an obnoxious clash of jumbled notes, lost without the direction of harmony to guide them. I was only testing the waters.

After a split second of hesitation, the quiet house erupted with the soothing tones of Swan Lake?s opening act. I was transfixed in my endeavor, fingertips lost in the music. Tears stung at my eyes, a threatening wave of tears dangerously close to the brink. The piece I was playing brought generated a resurgence of old, dusty and forgotten reminiscences; memories from a time when the world was mine to conquer and I was filled to the brim with wishful thinking and whimsical dreams.

[Xenia Chirikova]

The 'lake' parted to reveal the Swan Princess as she rose from the water, a woman now and no longer a swan. She was a dazzling mirage of lakewater hues and glittering golds, her legs endless beneath the protruding, feathered tutu. For a moment, the world was still as they beheld the prima ballerina's stoic beauty. Then the music came crashing down on them all, and the world resumed spinning again.

The bright stage lights blinded me as I rose from the belly of the stage. The spectator's faces were a mere twinkling of eyes in a dark expanse of sea sprouting past the orchestra and beyond the stage. My petite form sparkled spectacularly beneath the spotlight where I was poised, mysteriously rising from the depths of the makeshift lake. Chestnut tresses were pulled back sharply into a diamond crowned bun. Greens, blues, and golds shimmered around my eyes, my high cheekbones flushed a deep pink shade. I could feel my cheeks burning from mild embarrassment and nervousness. For a moment, the theatre was silent. I remained statue still, eyes trained straight ahead into the crowd, and my form contorted into position in which I stood on my supporting leg en pointe while my working leg was lifted and well turned out with the knee bent at approximately 90-degree angle.

In that fraction of a second of silence, I felt horribly self-conscious. The resulting silence left me with the mortifying thought that the audience was already disappointed flitting around my head. I feared that my relief showed on my face as the music resumed, and I was ushered into movement by my attendants, twirling in an elegant Fouette en tournant. White feathers rustled with the graceful proceedings, and I felt free, pirouetting away from a swan and en avant toward the audience.

[Xenia Chirikova]

I played the remaining pieces from "Swan Lake" before ending with a cadenza I composed myself for Sebastien. The poignant melody came to a dawdling close and I closed my eyes. I remained there with fingers still outstretched and my face a mottled mix of flushed crimson and tear streaks. Emotionally spent and physically exhausted, I heaved a sigh. The sun had long since dipped back behind the city, the flames of the street lights burning dimly through the shades. Wearily, I lifted a hand, the satin touching my cheeks tenderly as I wiped my salty tears away. An involuntary sniffle caught my off guard, and instead I dropped my face into my hands and dissolved into heart-wrenching tears.

I don't know for how long I sat hunched over my broken spirit, but at some point I fell asleep, nestled in the crook of the keys and the piano. I was finally home. Dawn streamed past the shades, and I awoke to the shadows dancing across my face. For the first time I could remember, I felt strangely well-rested.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Silence.

What a familiar sound; it was a deafening roar. Hours of solitude had befriended me in the last few months since I watched him disappear into the shadows of my black heart.

I'm sure I've read half of the Rhy'din library by now, if not more, as I've grown more and more reclusive in my lair. Days came and went, I went to work and came back. I fed the cat, maybe stroked the piano or violin, then curled up in the oversized, wingbacked leather chair before the blazing fireplace with a book that weighed half as much as me.

"And this was the life I wanted?" I spat out to Socrates, my trusted feline. He merely lifted his head from his resting spot in front of the fireplace, yawned, then returned to dozing.

No, this wasn't what I had wanted. I wanted companionship. By God, I'd get it. With a sound of disgust, I lifted the tome and dropped it onto the side table with a resounding thud. I was determined to go for a ride, feel the night breeze against my face, and maybe smash a few bottles and break some noses.

Watch out, here comes trouble.

[Xenia Chirikova]

There was nothing like the feel of a fresh bruise and a busted lip.

I'd gone into the Outback many times before.
Usually, it was just to maintain a fit level without actually doing an exercise routine.
Other times, it was to relieve stress.

Sometimes, I got angry.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, fingertips gently brushing the edges of my swollen cheek bone. One eye was black and grotesque in appearance. My lower lip was split in three places, caked blood splattered along the edges and down my chin. I was a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure. Unfortunately for me, my anger never helped my poise.

To be sure, I got my rear end handed to me, but I savored every punch, every kick. It reminded me I was alive. My hands moved down, away from my face, and gingerly massaged the left side of ribcage. I winced, sure that I had a cracked rib. The rings couldn't always heal me when I swung through the rops and back into the crowd, or at least not well enough.

My gaze lowered almost guiltily as a flash of monster red then white and whiskey crossed my mind. Sniffing indignantly, I pulled away from the counter as if pained. Maybe I was. I was still alone after all of that. I lifted my head proudly and moved for the bathroom door.

Time to face the world again.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Breaking news!

President of Russia and known mafia leader, Mikhail Cherikov, was pronounced dead this morning. It is reported that his heart was removed from his chest clavicle, work known to be done by "the Fire Bird." While this known assassin has never officially been tied to the Russian mob, it stirs many questions on why he would make such a political kill.

-

I glanced at the piece of the article that stood out most in mild amusement, almost relishing in the fact they thought I was a man. However, I found it offensive they considered it only likely. They say that women are twice as deadly as men. Papa was a durat for thinking I wasn't going to tell Alper what his devious little plan was, let alone that I would not retaliate.

Doubling over in my seat, I put my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. It was just really beginning to dawn on me.

I killed papa.

It wasn't until after I killed moy papa that I realized this was what my brother had wanted all along. He needed the old man out of the picture, and I paved the way for him with golden bricks. I was such a fool, playing into his hand the way I did. Crumbling the article into a ball with my fist, I growled and slammed it down. White hot heat burned beneath the glove, and I hit the table with enough force to splinter the wood. Honey gaze turned red with fury.

He had just become the number one person on my sh*tlist.

And I had just missed the perfect window to put him down like the dog he was.
I don't know when I'll have another opportunity, if ever, to sink my claws into him.

[Xenia Chirikova]

You fight hard.

His fist came at me hard, easily half the size of my face, and there was a loud crack when it conected with my cheek. I gasped in pain as I got knocked back onto my rear end by the sheer force of impact. Gingerly, I lifted a hand to touch my busted cheekbone, with tears welled in my eyes.

"Nyet, nyet," papa barked at me, wrenching me up by my hair. "Ve Russian, ve do not show veakness. You vill not ever show me emotion. Te ponymaish?"

I had quickly swallowed back any noises of pain, the tears that threatened earlier still in the corners of my eyes. Too proud to wipe them away, like it would mean admitting I was weak, and I didn't dare to let them spill down my face. "Da, ya ponymaio," I replied obediently.

When his knee met forcefully with my gut, I clamped down my mouth and bit into my tongue to stifle the moan of injury.

I was barely 10 years old when papa introduced me to fighting. Sworn to secrecy, I wasn't allowed to tell mama. She knew, though, with just a look. Nothing I did could hide the bruises from her, not even my powers of persuasion with my face. Like a trooper, I internalized the pain, seeking each punch, each kick to savor. Every bruise was a memory; the longer it took to heal, the better the lesson.

I never cried again, though.
Not 'til Sebastien.

[Xenia Chirikova]

I felt the gentle purr of the mechanical beast vibrating between my thighs, reverberating straight through every fiber of my being. Helmetless, russet locks whipped wildly in the wind as I sped through the winding country lanes. My body was pressed snugly along the steel frame, fitting like a second skin so that I was one with the precious podarok I'd received so long ago now.

Every day was the same. I absently moved through the motions without really paying attention. My whole life felt like one big, giant haze- I recognized that days passed by, but I couldn't rightly tell you what transpired at any given time. I woke, I ate, I worked, I read (though, what I was reading, I couldn't tell you), I slept a few hours, then I repeated. People spoke to me, but they might as well have been on mute: I smiled, nodded my head or shook it, but I didn't register anything that happened.

Feeling the breeze through my hair was one of the singular acts that made my face flush crimson and my blood pump riotously, a bursting moment of life and momentary transformation. I felt free. I had yet to hear back from Jaycy, and I silently prayed that she was alright. She was smart enough to not be caught or busted by brat moy idiotskiey.

Leaning into the bend in the road, I belted through it as easily as a knife through butter. The ominous crunching of gravel beneath the tires was both alarming and exhilarating; I loved the thrill of danger, to hang precariously on the precipice of life and death. It was empowering, made me feel shivoy.

It made me feel like maybe I wasn't dead just yet.

Tilting the other way as I eased into the next bend in the road, I closed my eyes. The wind caressed my face, whistled in my ears and it was euphoric. Not paying enough attention to my surroundings, my front tire hit a large stone. I thought I knew the roads well, but I couldn't account for nature.

For a moment, I swore I was flying.

Time passed in slow motion. I was distinctly aware of the jolt the bike gave as it came to an abrupt stop, and I felt like I hit a brick wall. The back end whipped up as a result of the impact, sending me catapulting over the handlebars. My eyes had barely opened before I hit the ground, landing flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me.

I wish I hadn't opened my eyes.

Wisps of dark, menacing clouds, a twilight sky dotted with twinkling diamonds, and brown and bare trees blurred above me into a grotesque, dizzying grayish black. The gravel burned into my skin as I slid down the length of road for what appeared like forever. Rocks cut through my flimsy clothing and slashed straight through my skin.

A guttural cry escaped, my skin flickering through shades of hues and tattoos, exposing the real parts of me I hid.

I felt so alive, I wanted to die.

[Xenia Chirikova]

I distantly recall hearing sirens; a low thrum that started in the back of my conscience before steadily growing nearer and louder. Groaning, I rolled over and moved to pull a pillow over my head in a weak attempt to suffocate the blaring sound. I had to tug roughly on the pillow just to get it, barely registering the dull thud of a body hitting the floor as result of my effort.

I couldn't bother myself to care, too tired and exhausted. My bones ached, my skin burned, and I felt my lungs wheeze with every shallow breath I took. Teetering on the brink of sleep and consciousness, I was acutely aware of every sound in that moment: the whir of the fan, drip-drops of the faucet, crunching and grinding of gravel beneath the tires of an approaching vehicle, and the distinct lack of an accompanying heartbeat.

Eyes wide open; I bolted upright, the pillow falling to the ground. A horrified gasp slipped past my lips: all I could see was red. "Oh, no?" I choked back a piteous whimper while the room came into focus. It happened again. Those sirens? They were for me. My heart thump-thumped wildly in my throat as the flashing red and blue lights filtered between the blinds and curtains threateningly.

Holding the blankets up to my chest, I chanced looking over the edge of the bed, aided by a few scoots. There she was; her name was Genevieve and she remained beautiful even in death. Light brown curls shone golden like halo around her lifeless, martyred body. Dark chocolate eyes were open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

"Gody," Tears welled in the corners of my eyes as I murmured throatily. I could not take my eyes off her. I bled for her and the hole in her chest, silently wondering if she watched her assailant rip her heart, her whole life, away in those last moments before she passed on.

I could hear the police now, setting up a perimeter and plan of attack.
I needed to move.
I couldn't.

"Mne tak zhal." The whisper of my voice was barely audible except to the angels. Bringing myself to the edge of the bed, I leaned forward and brushed my lips against hers before resting our foreheads together. "I'm so sorry. Rest in peace."

Hearing guns loaded and c*cked jolted me back to the present, and I dashed out of the blood speckled bed. Struggling to find clothes in the aftermath of our heavy partying, I tripped over glass bottles that clinked together noisily, stumbling through the thick haze of lingering smoke. I stuffed my limbs into whatever I lifted, mismatched and out of place.

Footsteps thumped heavily up the concrete steps.

"Idti," I urged myself, fumbling to strap on my guns with stubborn fingers.

There was just enough time to snatch up my sword before the police crowded around the door. I looked back over my shoulder for a brief moment, sorry to leave her behind. Whipping back around, I gave myself a short running start and catapulted through the window at the same time the door was rammed open.