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?

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.

((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.

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.

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 lob 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?

I was a small girl again, seven or maybe eight years old. It was Christmastime; the entire palace had been decorated with pine trees and other assorted d"cor. 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.

"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.

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.

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 hidden in 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.

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 conscienceness, flittering 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.

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.

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.

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 Fouett' en tournant. White feathers rustled with the graceful proceedings, and I felt free, pirouetting away from a swan and en avant toward the audience.

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.

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.

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.

As I finish the last chapter of the book, I only wish that I could keep all of these feelings with me forever. The hope, the love, the joy, the pride, even the anguish But they're like sand, seeping faster and faster between the crevices of my mind until they're completely whisked away, pulled from the shore like the tide falling back to the wide expanse of ocean. I feel so much; the words speaking to me in a thousand different ways.. But once the story is done; I'm left bare and bereft, broken and lost.

There's no purpose, no reason to continue. Just a hollow emptiness that consumes me with grief.

Mama always told me I was too kind for my own good. That I felt more than I should. I used to cry for the dinner they brought home, declaring myself a vegetarian because I couldn't bear to eat something butchered.

Every time I pick up a book, I pour a little piece of my soul into it. There must be hundreds of thousands of books out there with a piece of me, loitering somewhere in the hands of a stranger that caresses the same novel the way I did.

But if that's the case, how much of my soul do I even have left?

The steel-toe boot connected with my face and I saw stars. My head snapped back and I stumbled back into the ropes, blood dripping down my chin and neck. With a split second spared to recoup, I ran my tongue over my mouth and clumsily bounced back up to my feet. Turning my head to the side, I spit, spraying blood and a cracked tooth. My jaw throbbed painfully, making me think it was fractured. Fists poised near my chin defensively, I turned back to my opponent. Leaning right, then left, I abruptly lunged forward and rammed my head into his gut. He wasn't afforded the luxury of even being able to lift his leg to kick me again as he slammed back against the mat with a wounded grunt.

Quick to roll off of him, I forced myself back up before Sergei could pin me down with him. I watched him wince, obviously winded, but he flipped back onto his feet adroitly. We were both breathing hard, but neither wanted to fold. Circling around one another like vultures, I abused the moment and spent it trying to read his movement and anticipate his next attack.

Egging him on, I crooked a finger at him in a "come at me" gesture. We both moved into action at the same time, but I was faster"kicking my leg out from the side so that I could swing it back around his calves. Sergei's arm was en route for my face, the ridgeline of his hand still in the birthing stages when his feet flew out from under him. For the second time, he landed flat on his back, the air squelched from his lungs.

I was triumphant, but it was short-lived. Poised with the crest of my hand, I prepared to chop down at his jugular; but he rolled to his side, his legs curling unexpectedly around my calves. With a quick jerk, he sent me tottering sideways. Arms flailed as I came crashing to the floor. I landed on my side, blinded by pain and moaning. Flopping back, I cradled my elbow to my stomach and rocked side to side. Sergei took the moment to gain the advantage, and I very narrowly missed having my face bashed in by his fist. It pounded into the mat where my head had been a split second ago, before I rolled out of harm's way.

My right arm hung uselessly at my side as I struggled to a crouch before I rose. I was tired, we'd been trading punches for hours now. My hair was matted indelicately to my skull, clothes clung to my skin uncomfortably and I was sticky with blood. My opponent was already rounding on me, but my fist connected with the underside of his jaw as I rose ungracefully, but speedily. For a second, he was suspended in midair, eyes rolled back and blood spurting out of his mouth. He fell back at a funny angle with a sickening thud, and didn't get up.

Suddenly exhausted, it took more effort than it should have for me to limp toward his body. I dropped to my knees and hunched over him, slapping at his face with my good hand. "Sergei?? My voice asked out tentatively, unsure of how to proceed. We'd gone 20 bloody rounds, but it finally tallied to 9-10 me. He twitched, and I sighed in relief. I fell back into a sitting position. Lying back into the ropes like a cradle, I closed my eyes and began counting off my injuries. It was going to take a week or two to heal. Maybe longer.

I'm not a good person.

I've done terrible, thoughtless acts and I'm ashamed of everything that's brought me here. I try to do good. I help out at the Clinic in addition to my normal duties, give money to the poor, volunteer at the Orphanage?

I also try to bandage all of my self-loathing and forget about the past in a series of choking down assorted pills and drugs before seeking the bottom of several bottles and staggering into someone's fist. I relish every hit I take in the rings (and out) as the wards do little to nothing in terms of healing and protection. Each cut and bruise becomes the badge of a past memory, a reminder that I deserve to be punished.

It's only skin deep, however. Nothing heals or soothes my damaged core. I can't reach that far inside to scoop out the rot and decay. Instead it festers at the bottom of a gaping chasm, crawling through me like a disease.

I'm scared to find out what will happen when it consumes me.

I noticed today that I haven't aged since I rose from the ashes.

Staring at myself in the looking glass, I run my fingers over the places I feel should be creased. There are no crows feet, no laugh or frown lines. My face is as round and flawless as it was in my late teens.

Krasivaya. I get to grow old by myself.