Moya Istoria (Mature Content)

[Xenia Chirikova]

I was once an innocent child, though one might not expect that of me. I grew up in the wealthiest .01% of Russia, the only daughter of a wealthy black gold mine. My mama raised me with the fairytales of old days, and put silly thoughts of polytheistic gods and goddesses in my pretty little head. I remember how at night, she would lull me to sleep with stories I couldn't even wrap my imagination around, then kiss my forehead and tell me that I was made to do good things.

I think that maybe she built me up on these fantastical things so that I wouldn't see the evil of the world, my papa.. His world.

I was bred under the guise of the perfect housewife; the way rich men expect their wives to be- silent, slave, and cook. One had to be able to keep up pretenses. My mama demanded the best education available in Russia, and taught me many domestic things herself.

When I was older, I remembered hearing rumors that my papa was linked to the mafiya. Back then, I was naive and had built my papa on a pedestal of utmost graciousness. He provided us with nice things, he took care of mama, and he was helping all of the poor people of Russia by giving them jobs.

Little did I know he was the reason for their woes.

When I was but a flower of 15, still innocent and naive of the world, I was 'recruited,' so to speak, without my mama's knowledge. My brother had been a promising addition to the mob, and while I was a lady, my papa favored me over my brother for my ambition and skill. I was more patient and a better marksman, and more calculating. My brother was headstrong, but still a valuable asset. How else do you think we ended up at the top of the food chain?

My recruitment entailed a vigorous training of sorts, though what they focused on mostly was sniping. I had received plenty of education in the art of negotiating and debating beforehand, but they refined mine into a form of terrorism for interrogation purposes. They made me into a coldhearted, blueblooded killing machine. I was devoid of emotion, but perfected playing pretend. Afterall, was that not what mama was programmed to do when we threw our little tea parties?

I grew up not only into a beautiful woman, but the perfect lethal weapon in the most inconspicuous disguise. Women were still not equal to men in Russia, despite the fact the run they house for the most part. I was the perfect secret weapon. The one to fall in love with and to break hearts with, to steal money and inflict pain.

All thoughts of fairies and ogres transformed into a reality of white and black, light and dark, good and evil. I wasn't so innocent anymore, and I learned that the stories of old were reincarnation of life just written in pretty words to disguise what they trully meant.

Reality isn't quite the happily ever after we expect, after all, is it?

[Xenia Chirikova]

It is ironic that in my attempt to escape reality, I ended up in a world inhabited by the very mystical beings my imagination ran wild with as a child. Though, they do not look quite like I pictured them in my pretty little head.

I had evolved into a pretty woman, nearing 25 then, when I began to either redevelop my emotions, or just began to feel them again. Most of what I felt was an aweworthy, self-consuming guilt that ebbed at my conscious. With the numerous kills I had pulled, did I really even have a conscious? I had somehow discovered an 'off' button for my conscious and emotions, but somewhere along the lines it switched back on and I was helpless. I was rendered incapable of shutting it back out once the flood of emotions I had long since felt returned. I was awash with guilt and woe, the many things that assisted your conscious... And entirely devoid of anything remotely 'happy.'

Papa was still alive, but he was bedridden in his old age. It was moy brat that now the headed of the mob syndicate, our brotherhood. He was brash and ruthless, and as a woman I was supposed to bow down to him. That was what he expected, and that was what I imitated. I was perfect at playing pretend. Those below us in the hierarchy of mafiya mobsters gave me more respect than my brother, and everyone but my brother knew it was really I who lead them.

Anyone who knew me was far more afraid of me than him, because as the saying goes, "You needn't be afraid of a barking dog, but you should be afraid of a silent dog."

Since I was a little girl I had bestowed upon myself a reluctant image of 'seen but not heard.' I was often quiet, but thoughtful. I spoke slowly but surely, and kept a regal poise about myself. No one was stupid enough to think me dense. If I was quiet, one knew to be on guard. I had a poison-barbed tongue laced with vile wit and scorn, and a temper reminiscent of Russian lore. Nobody wished to be on my bad side; they had seen the remnants of others.

However, as I grew, I developed a nasty vocabulary when I spoke and became very demanding and impatient. I was weary of the insolence of others and their lazy tendencies. There were rules to live by, and a level of professionalism to be maintained. I was contemptuous and would lash out at any inkling of disobedience. Maybe I did become as bad as my brother, which he minded little. I guess it never occured to me that I needed out. That my fragile mind could no longer handle what I had been especially bred to do.

And out I went, on a foggy day, only to find myself walking out of the fog and into a bright, sunny summer day in a very different place.

A place of fairytales.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Alper Ergin II.
He was a magnificent, glorified man.
Do not ever expect me to admit that.

I would be lying to say my sudden decision to leave my old life behind had not been caused by him. He had become our business partner in the oil industry by a chance meeting, and he used some of our other assets sparingly in the negotiation. We got women, fine cigars and wines from him in exchange for loyalty. Vodka, caviar and occasionally furs were added.

Alper was a good man. He was not rotten on the inside like we were, his soul bore no blackened taint akin to our own. He was pure and honest. A Godsend, one would think. His father was brutal but with a kind heart for those he cared about. Alper was like that. He ruled with the ferocity of a lion, but loved like a lamb.

It was like he had injected me with a spark of kindness and good with his warm, inviting smile and pleasant demeanor. It stuck, sunk and occasionally grew, dispersing and coursing through my blackened veins, cleansing. I do not know if he had done it intentionally or not, but he did it either way. I am eternally grateful.

He changed my entire life around.

I really don't think Alper was aware of these changes. I suppose my silence still managed to mask my change of heart. It was Alper who traced me to Rhy'din after I left, though I headed there based on his contemplated idea to transfer his business there. I never told him that. He offered me a job because he knew I had severed ties with Bratva na peeski or just the mafiya; though he was oblivious to my reasoning. Everyone was. I am sure I disappointed papa most of all, but I bet mama rolled in her grave and sighed one last breath of eased content.

I still treat him like dirt under my shoe. Whether that is because of his desire to use me as a hitwoman or his need for me to contact my brother for him. (The alliance was severed after my disposal, unfortunately, I take blame for that at least.)

May he never know it, but I owe him my life.

[Xenia Chirikova]

The common assumption is the wolf in the lamb's disguise, and while I know I played that stint for too many years to remember... I think it was really the other way around. I was the lamb in the wolf's disguise, attempting to be something bigger and badder than my soul was made for. There's the possibility I didn't have any choice because perhaps subconsciously I needed to reinforce my mantra that I was cold, blueblooded killer that ceased to feel.

For a while, I did believe that I was invincible and a ferocious wolf playing the coy, innocent lamb when necessary.

Then again, I used to believe and do a lot of things.

I regret a lot of the things I have done, and if I could change time, I would return to when I was but an innocent child, and still before mama passed away. She would have shielded me from evil.

Unfortunately, I must live with these things resting on my conscious.

That may very well be where things went south, when mama passed. I was devastated, and it was papa's training that took the pain away. I redirected my hurt and inflicted it a thousand times over onto others.

I was misguided and suppressed. I bottled everything up, and perhaps that was only the beginning of a sequence that led to it all blowing up in my face.

[Xenia Chirikova]

((OOC note: I'd have used the actual Russian figures for the insults, but a- they don't like to show up half the time and b- I don't think I'd have translated them properly. I also just rewrote this into first-person perspective to flow better with the rest of her memoirs.))


The loud echoing of shrieks thrummed dully through the underground facilities. Few heads turned at the noise, as the men assiduously cleaned their weapons. It was just routine.

I was hunched over, blood and sweat dripping down my face. I had been locked up here in a windowless room, chained to a chair, for several days now. The exact time was unknown, for I lost track of time when I passed out the first time from the trauma I received; and had no idea how long I was passed out for. Chestnut locks hung limply, doused in my own body fluids. My back bled profusely, remnants from the chain whip's lashes. The religious icon of the crucifix inked carefully into my back was no savior to me now, the way it bled. Perhaps this was the end, and I would bleed for my sins. Oh, how I would bleed for my sins. And suffer. There was lots of that, too.

Clad in only a coarse sack of a dress akin to what you receive your potatoes in, which I had already wet three times given I was not allowed to rise under any circumstances. I had been brutally punished for that, too. I think both the ulna and radius of my left arm were carelessly snapped; I was aware of at least one protruding from the long, deep laceration.

"Cho ti zdiess narisovalsia??" (Why did you come here?) The words ricocheted off the concrete walls, and I was hardly able to comprehend them let alone respond. I was only aware that it was too loud, but it forced me to come-to.

I opened and closed her maw several times, like a fish out of water, but no words came out. My assailant didn't let them, at any rate. His knuckles came down swiftly to meet with the tender flesh of my already black and blue cheek, slicing it open like a knife to bread. A gasp of shock resonated, and I tasted the coppery tang that was distinct to blood. Furiously, I tried to blink back tears, defiantly inclining my head so my contemptuous topaz gaze could look the sucker in the eyes.

"Past' zabej, padla jebanaja," (Shut the f*ck up, you f*ckin? b*tch) my assialant?s slick as serpent voice cooed in my ear, puffing smoke in my face as he alternately sucked in the carcinogens of the cigar happily. My defiant expression pleased him, and I registered the satisfaction and bemusement in his eyes. He thought me weak in the knees.

I spit right between his eyes before he could withdraw, low uttering commencing, "Perestan' mne jabat' mozgi svojimi voprosami." (Quit f*cking my brain with your questions)

The man growled viciously, striking me again with the back of his hand as the other wiped the spittle off his face. My fresh wound throbbed violently, blood gushing down my throat now. Later, they would pour salt in the wound to stop any arousal of impending infections, but I tried not to think about the burn.

"Nu ti dajosh!" he exclaimed, his cruel laughter bellowing. He backed up a few steps, elbowing another well muscled man in the ribcage. "Ona zabavna, da, Igor?" (She is funny, yes, Igor?)

Igor stupidly chuckled, agreeing with the man. "Da, Grecia, zabavna." There was a rumble of chortling booming in chorus with the other two men.

"U slushet eto, cyka?" (You hear that, b*tch) Grecia's voice threatened menacingly in my ear. "Sasi mooy hui, peezdietz!." (suck my d*ck, b*tch)

My head still hung low, slightly lolling to and fro, as I fought to keep consciousness. The concrete floor rotated and swiveled before my eyes dangerously. The flickering of clumped eyelashes were a signal, I was trying to bring myself back from the dark and into the pitiful lighting of the cell. I couldn't surrender so soon again. There was still some fight left in me.

A low, guttural noise sounded in my throat before lips parted again, my voice thick and raspy, "U tebia ochen malenki hui, skolka...pyat centimetra?" (You have a very small d*ck, how much...five centimeters?) Rumbling, hacking chuckle was emanated afterward.

My snide comment unleashed a series of sniggers from the other men present, which made Grecia even more irate. His vehement scowl instantaneously shut everyone up, save for one. My own dulcet chuckle still reverberated. His scowl merely deepened, anger swelling within him. I didn't even recoil at the impending hit, instead I painfully tried to straighten my posture. Take it like a man, my papa's words echoing in my mind.

The pain almost felt good. The blood on my lips and the sweat on my brow. It was like a flood of relief, when his knee came upward beneath my jaw. There was a sickening crunch as the impact thrust my head violently backward; in the process, injuring my jaw and cracking a few teeth I was sure, where it hung limply over the edge of the chair top. Honey gaze swept back beneath twitching lids, only the whites of my eyes visible. And I sunk back into a blissful, peaceful blackness.

[Xenia Chirikova]

It was a cold winter's eve. The kind of cold that goes so deep, you feel it in your bones. And no matter how close to or how long you sit beside the raging fireplaces, you can't seem to get warm.

My companion sat to my side in an identical leather, wing backed chair. His face, however, was contorted into a look of pain: his last few moments of agony forever frozen in remembrance. His fists were clenched to the point the whites of his knuckles would be visible, if he weren't cold as ice already. Like death.

The poison I administered so stealthily was already evaporating out of his pores; and in the morning when his wife would find him, there would be no trace of it at all. Just a lingering scent of honey would remain.

I was unperturbed by my companion?s state, idly sipping a glass of fine wine. Honey hues focused on the flames of the fire, watching the ends of the papers smolder and wither away. Those papers that held so many secrets. They would die here tonight, and cease to exist, much like that of which harbored them.

But tonight?
Tonight they were mine, and only mine.

[Xenia Chirikova]

The water spouting from the shower was ungodly cold, and I involuntarily shuddered at first contact. In a way, it was soothing. I kept my head down, swollen eyes looking down at the red water that pooled at my feet. I knew there was a gash on my face, but that nothing was as bad as my back or arm. Cradling my right arm, I shifted my attention to the open wound; I could see my bones. It took a lot of effort not to faint. Truthfully, I was thankful to not be given the liberty to see my exposed back. The litter of tattoos were marred by open flesh wounds that were sure to leave hideous scars.

Just what I needed, more body art. In the mafiya, these tattoos are a timeline of your history in underground crime. Symbols of your loyalty. Recognition and admittance to my Sins. I, for one, was covered from the neck down in brilliantly colored inks; like my entire body had become a sleeve. The most prominent one was of a crucifix that expanded the length of my spine. It was very precise and ornate, and stood as a symbol of my faith. The back of my right shoulder donned an ornate cathedral accompanied by the Holy Theotokos and Jesus. My left shoulder an imprint of military insignia and uniform epaulets with a skull on it had been drawn. Two stars decorated my foreshoulders. On my frail, thin hips were a set of eyes to give me extra sight. My forearm was decorated with a Soviet propaganda poster from the World War II era; the striking two-color tattoo features the rare Polikarpov I-16 'Rata' fighters found in the early days of the war on the Eastern front in Russia. My left hand bares my name in fancy Cyrillic fonts, the symbols accompanying moya imya on my fingers have specific coded meanings: "In life, only count on yourself," is the meaning of the symbol on the first finger, and the three skulls on the third finger symbolize murders committed by the criminal (though not a thorough count by any means), otherwise known as me. A very detailed firebird, known as a phoenix to most, curled up my left leg beginning with its tail tip on my foot and ending with its head near my backside. My right foot houses a very cute little kitten who looks like she's taking a dive for my toes. Or maybe it was the ball hanging from the chain drawn around my ankle the kitten was going for. Further up on my knee cap was Russian Coat of Arms Imperial Eagle Russian Crest, and it looked like it was imprinted with molten gold. Down my left side, there were two separate inscriptions on a 'ribbon', so to speak. Residuals of church, and though scribed in Russian, read "The Joy of All Who Sorrow" and beneath it, "Heaven on Earth". I was a walking checklist of pride. I was also the Life Taker, Bringer of Death... whatever you would like to refer to me as. That was my haven, my sanctuary.

With a groan I leaned my forehead against the wall, no longer looking at the pool of blood or marring of flesh. The wall was cool against my skin, and I closed my eyes to savor the peaceful moment, enjoying the sound of the water trickling around me even though it didn't feel as nice as it sounded.

When I opened my eyes again several moments later, they burned not honey but near-crimson, filled with such a hatred that ran deep and fortified my seething anger. They would get their just reward, and all of the deepest, darkest pits of Hell would reign loose on their decaying cadavers.

I would make sure of that.

A maniacal smile curved of its own accord.

[Xenia Chirikova]

When it came to a 'job,' I had the patience of a saint. I could wait, unmoving, for hours on end, just for the perfect moment to arise.

And then BANG.

It would be over much more quickly than it had begun. I was just a shadow in the evening, a ghost of a killer.

That night I'd soak in an exotic aroma of bubbles in my bathtub, taking shots of vodka.

One day, I knew I would need to repent for my sins... but then, I basked in the glory.

I should have known it would all come back to me. Karma.

[Xenia Chirikova]

He always made a valiant attempt to slip into the dacha unnoticed. My ears were too keen, my slumber too light. My breathing remained even as I listened to him move across the house as quiet as a lamb, sprawled beneath the thin fabric of a sheet on my stomach. One hand was peacefully tucked beneath the pillow I rested my head on, the other beneath the sheet near my bent knee. I'm sure he thought I looked serene, dark locks pooling around my face elegantly. It was with a single sweeping motion that he moved across the bed, but I was stealthier. As soon as he was upon me, I contorted around to meet him. My arm had slipped from beneath the pillow, blade against his throat, and my other hand slid to nestle the nose of my gun against his bare ribcage.

"Privyet, moy lubchenko," I purred throatily, breath hot against his ear. Lips parted, moist muscle slipping out to flicker along his ear lobe in a teasing manner.

"Moya lubchenka,," he growled against my throat, "You never let me win."

My skin prickled threateningly, rippling beneath the thin satin nightgown. I sighed softly against the side of his face, chuckling lightly in the dark.

"Nyet, things vould not be so much fun if I did," I murmured into the crook of his neck, nuzzling gently.

His skinny but strong fingers encircled the circumference of my wrist, easing my knife-wielding hand away from his jugular. It was with hardly more than a look that he pushed me flat onto my back against the bed. The fingers around my frail wrist tightened. I made an effort to fight back, but instead my fingers uncurled of their own accord. The knife clattered to the stone floor noisily, shattering the intense moment, but only briefly. I was so entranced by the crystalline blue eyes and the way his sculpted torso pressed against me, that I hardly noticed that he had entwined his other family of five around my grip on gun. He pushed that hand away from his side, and for a moment held the barrel of the gun just to my temple.. A simple display of dominance that, for the moment, I appeased to. Then he stretched my arm back, tossing the gun over the edge of the bed.

I was effectively pinned beneath him, breathing heavy now as I took in the sweet visage. A split second later, he lunged at me like a ravenous beast. We were lip locked in a wild, hungry kiss that hardly began to satiate.

What described love better than a man so willing to jump the gun like he?

[Xenia Chirikova]

All mafiyas and mobs across the globe do the same things essentially: They hide their operations under the guise of legitimate business operations, and through appearances in the realm of religion.

I made the sign of the cross before I crossed through the parted doors of the parish. The cathedral was empty, the clicking of my heels echoing ominously as I slowly made my way across the spacious terrain of dancing flames. No lights burned, only candles, and it smelled thickly of incense. The icons of saints and Jesus Christ glared down at me in disappointment. For a moment, a flood of remorse washed over me. It was very brief.

A single candle wrapped around in a 5000 rublay note was held and twiddled betwixt gloved digits as I paused at an icon on a stand right in front of the altar. I crossed myself twice, leaned forward to first kiss the icon, and then press my forehead lightly against it, before I withdrew and crossed myself once more. I should have prostrated like a good little girl, but I only prostrated for Easter.

Raising my gaze up to the glorified ceiling that depicted all of the holiness of God and his magnificent creations, I heaved a sigh. Another crossing of myself as I passed across the rouge carpet that ran straight out into hell from the altar.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the priest beckoning to me from his alcove.

It was time.

Time to repent for my many sins.

[Xenia Chirikova]

I was a small girl again, six or maybe seven years old. It was Christmastime; the entire palace had been decorated with pine trees and other assorted decor. Papa was dressed up like Saint Nick lounging in an overstuffed chair facing the fire. Mama and I had spent an entire day decorating the tree when lent had begun, and I know she spent most of the month sewing my emerald and gold silk dress for me.

"Ah, moya malinkaya czarina," Papa purred in his manly, rugged way, "You look bolshoya kracivaya." Papa scooped me up in his arms and set me in his lap, crystalline blue eyes twinkling from behind the faux, bushy white beard.

Mama was on the opposing chair, reading from a book, but from the corner of my eye I swear I saw a smile twitch at the corner's of her lips.

I squealed with delight, kicking my vinyl-shoed feet excitedly. I was pleased with his reaction, fingertips absently soothing the emerald fabric, which was inlaid with golden thread. Papa's fingertips tugged on the golden bow in my hair and I shrieked with a renewed zest of pleasure.

Nicholai glanced up from his throwing knives set he had opened just moments before father picked me up, scowling with a burning hatred. I ignored him.

"I vas bolshoya horosho, Papa. Vhat do I get for being good?" I asked, looking up at him, gold gaze glittering expectantly in the firelight.

Papa laughed in his throbbing, loud way, obviously satisfied with my inquiry. "I haff something vedy special for you, czarina," he replied, deviousness twinkling in his eyes.

"Oh, you do? Vhat is it, vhat is it?!" I squealed with enrapture, clasping my hands loudly together beneath my chin.

Leaning over the side of the chair, Papa withdrew a parcel from his velvet red bag. Sitting back up, he passed the burgundy wrapped gift to me. I looked up at him, briefly, fingertips trembling with anticipation. At his nod of insistence, I began to tear wildly at the wrapping, fistfuls of paper falling all around me like a flurry of blood red snow.

I squealed with excitement and awe as I gingerly opened the velvet box to uncover my fanciful treasure: diamond, emerald and amethyst jewels glittered along the wrought silver and gold handle of the exquisite mirror. The hairbrush and comb were designed similarly, and I swear my voice was caught in my throat as I gasped in surprise. Accompanying these decadent pieces were several hair clips, hair combs, bobby pins, and even hair chopsticks, all designed just as beautifully. Tears glistened in the corners of my eyes as I looked up at Papa in wonder. "Es tres magnifique, Papa," I whispered, practicing my French as something so beautiful needed to be admired in an equally beautiful language.

"Moya czarina only deserves the best things," Papa winked at me jovially, before gently lifting the velvet box out of my grasp so he could hand me a much thinner, gold wrapped gift. "There is more for you, my pretty."

With renewed zest I stripped the gift of its shroud, revealing a brilliant silver scabbard engraved with traces of gold; a phoenix emblazoned on it (little did I know what significance this would garner in the future). I gazed at it with a soft gasp of awe. While at this sweet and tender age I was rendered incapable of deciphering the real reason for the bestowing of the gift given to me, I thought it every bit of beautiful. A bookworm since before I could talk, I seized an affordable appreciation for weaponry at a young age. If only I had known what future it began to lay the foundation for. So captivated by my gift, I missed the pursing of my mother's lips and the death glare she fed my father.

Papa was unphased, urging me to unsheathe the brilliant piece of weaponry. Clutching the blade by the ornate gold and silver hilt, I carefully withdrew it from the sheath to reveal a brilliantly shiny sword, a dragon emerging from the hilt. I shivered; it was my sign, my insignia since I was born. I looked up to my father beseechingly.

"I haff lessons planned for you, Xenia," Papa whispered. I should have seen the greedy look in his eyes as he watched me awe over my sword, like I was a prize. Instead I gloated and bathed greedily in his affections.

Eyes rounded to the size of saucers, thrilled at the aspect of his proposal. "Do you really?" I whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Then again, I usually got what I wished for.

"Da, my pet. First thing in the morning," he rumbled, gently patting my backside, "So off to bed with you, little one!"

I reached up to wrap my arms around his neck, squeezing and planting my lips on his cheek for a chaste kiss, "Oh thank you, Papa! You are the best!" Papa laughed at my antics, clearly delighted as he kissed my cheek back and embraced me lovingly.

Clambering off his lap, gifts in hand, I ran over to give Mama a hug good night and a kiss on the cheek. Mama smiled at me, kissing my forehead. "Good night, Xenia. Do not forget to say your prayers before bed," she chastises, continuing, "and sleep well."

"I von't, I von't!" I promised, gleeful and giddy as I hastily dashed for the stairs so I could try out my sword. "Thank you, thank you!" could be heard echoing down the stairs.

[Xenia Chirikova]

For years, my acts were of no consequence to my conscience. I processed my missions with a fine combed tooth, in a state of blind belief upon the authority and demands of mine dearest papa. Papa's decisions were wholesome and based on the word of God, or so I believed. I was naive, foolish, and lost to the human part of me that had been pushed back by the raging flames within. Pleas for limbs and life moved me not, empty words for their fleeting souls. I often blessed the newly departed with words that may have been of more use for comfort before meeting with death; I wished for them to meet with God.

Smiles were rarely wrought, if at all, stoic posture unkind and repressive.

I was the Phoenix, Bringer of Doom rather than He Who Gives Hope to Those who Need It, as legends recall.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Only one man has ever held my heart in his hands- in the end, it was I who gouged his out with bare hands. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. A woman's heart can be a fragile thing, hard to win, but deceptively easy to twist and break. Sebastien had to fight hard to break through my shell and the layers of protection that surrounded my heart and delicate mindset.

It was a slow but deliberate process, methodological to an extent. A man who played the very same game I won at on numerous occasions was a very dangerous idea. We sparked and grew quickly into a whirlwind of wild flames that danced and licked. He tore me open, inside out, and examined every fiber of my being until he broke me like a Faberge egg.

I remember the first smile after my rebirth; it was caused by this intriguing man who managed to deceive my protective structures. Honey irises sparkled, wide with delight as his fingertips brushed my bangs out of my face, oh God, the way he looked at me. He undressed me with his eyes but he looked heavenly smitten. I mistook determination for love. Outside, it was freezing, but here on the bear rug in front of a raging fire and entangled with another, it was delectably warm. He paid attention to me, whispered sweet nothings in my ear, and made me laugh, but that wasn't all. The bastard made me feel whole, for the first time since I was a child I felt as if I was actually living life again. As it should be.

I saw the world through new eyes, like a newborn, a sudden discovery of a kaleidoscope of colors. It was beautiful to feel so alive again.

[Xenia Chirikova]

Sebastien was philosophical, and saw the world through different eyes that witnessed more tragedy than I could conceive. It was like a trainwreck when I saw him. Even though my conscience had made a comeback, even to this day I do not regret the way things ended between him and I: in blood, sweat, and salty tears.

And a broken heart licked in roaring flames.

[Xenia Chirikova]

It is truly flabbergasting how one look can shatter the world as you know it, and consequently, whatever semblance of a heart one possesses. I find it unnerving and painful to have been able to feel so many things at once while my heart is being spliced apart. The hurt, anger, humiliation among a few notable ones.

I sat there, nearly naked, body limp as a ragdoll. My hands were bound behind me by thick rope, and my head hung low with eyes closed. I both felt and tasted the salty, coppery mix of blood and sweat dripping down my face. I?d lost track of time, of how long since I'd last seen a sun not inked into the skin of a guard. My leg twitched, and for a moment I thought to fight against the rope restraints that bound my ankles against the cool metal of the chair. I knew it was futile; the chair was bolted to the ground. I didn't have the energy, anyway. The only option of escape from my very own personal hell opened and closed loudly. I didn't even flinch, unconcerned by whoever was about to inflict more abuse to my fragile limbs. Just a whisper of a sigh as I prepared myself. It was a particular voice that finally stirred me. "Xenia, moya lublya."

My head snapped up like a viper?s attack; puffy, swollen eyes torn between delight and acidic vengeance. "Sebastien?" His name spilled from my lips as a question, as if maybe this was my mind playing tricks on me. He looked so strange after all this time. Maybe it was the deceitful smirk playing his face that left me guarding myself. Something wasn't right. Too many thoughts and feelings were rolling around my decayed state of mind for me to feel like I comprehended anything properly. I was confused, I know that much. Was he here to save me? If so, why was he taking his time? Then it clicked. I shook with frenzy.

"Da, eet ees me," the snake crooned, pulling up a chair and seating himself across from me. He crossed his leg over his other knee, looking smugger by the second. "Have my men been treating you well?" he asked, malice masked by his sugary tones.

I stared at him for a long moment, rage festering as my heart fought to hold it's tearing seams together. It hurt so badly, this situation, and I could feel my anger flaring like molten lava beneath my skin. I was told later that my usually honey irises turned a violent shade of red in that long moment. Something snapped in me, and without warning while snarling like a rabid beast, I lunged at him with such force that I ripped the chair out of the very cement that held it. I caught him unaware, my cranium meeting with his pretty little nose at a violent speed.

Sebastien made the mistake of thinking he had weakened me, but his betrayal gave me strength. He left me locked up like an animal for too long.