by Bonny Capps
SNUFF (Book 1)
Copyright Bonny Capps 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person (alive or dead) is coincidental. The characters and story were created strictly from the author’s imagination.
This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
WARNING
This book is not just dark—it’s horrific, depraved and disturbing. If you do not enjoy books containing blood, guts, taboo and more, this book is not for you.
Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank my amazing husband and children for being so patient with me while I write my stories.
To the wonderful members of Gabe’s Girls, you guys have so much more faith in me than I have in myself. Thank you for keeping my head above water and my vision clear.
I couldn’t do anything without my incredible PA, Ebony Simone McMillan. I love you, sister. <3
Tara Dawn, my literary twin—you’ve become such an incredible friend, and you deal with my random midnight ramblings. Thank you for everything that you do for me—and thank you for editing this bad boy! Also, a big thank you for your parody making skills! I can’t wait to write Twins this year. Stay in my head, and I’ll stay in yours. I love your face! <3
To the lovely ladies that beta read this book: Sharon Sheeley, Wendy Wuttke, Agnese Maria Kohn, Amy Davis, Jamie Buchanan, Catherine Gray, Linda Marie Barrett, Sanne Heremans, Sara Gagnon, Melissa Mendoza, Angie Vogelzang, Diane Norwood, Phyl Drollett, Kylie Hillman, Kimberly Ervin-Echols and Nerdy Nadine—this book wouldn’t be possible without your feedback. Thank you so much.
To my wonderful parents who have supported my dreams, your faith in me keeps me going. I love you guys.
My sister and biggest fan, Heather—I love you to the moon and back.
To everyone that’s taken the time to read this story, thank you.
“Alright Sofia, let’s start with some spinning,” Mirna, my coach says as she watches me with eagle eyes.
I nod as I allow my feet to glide to the center of the rink. The jarring sound of my skates grinding into the ice are audible over the upbeat music that streams from the speakers of the empty stadium.
“Left hip up!” Mirna demands softly. “Keep your thighs and feet tight!”
I lift my left leg and spread my arms as I welcome the spin.
“That’s right, drive your heel down. Very good. Very, very good. Now finish,” she says as I allow my body to gracefully come out of the spin.
She nods pointedly to the center of the ice. “Classic, side, and hair cutter.”
I nod as I gracefully stride across the ice. I gain momentum as I enter into the spin before bending my left leg at the knee. Leaning back, I fall into classic position before leaning my head to the side. Then, I pull my foot up behind my head to perform the hair cutter.
Mirna claps her hands. “Yes! Your grace has improved immensely since your injury. How are you feeling?”
I smile as I approach her. “Much better now that the cast is off.”
“Well,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. “You keep this up, we may be able to make it to Nationals, yeah?”
I smile as I nod. “That would be amazing. I want to compete more than anything in the world.”
She places a hand on each of my arms before gently squeezing. “You’ve come a long way. The fact that you got up after that fall several months ago shows me everything. This is in your blood, Sofia. Not that I’ve ever doubted it.”
Looking down at my skates, I blush.
“Are you up for any jumps? Maybe a half turn or a single?”
I flash her a toothy grin. “How about a double?”
Her eyebrows sit high on her forehead. “A double? Do you think you’re up to it?”
“I think so. I’ve got to prepare. Nationals are six months away. I can’t miss it.”
She smiles, releasing me. “Alright, then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Months ago, I was at competition performing to a shortened version of Smetana’s Die Moldau. When I didn’t land the triple jump, I rolled onto my ankle. I still swear to this day that I heard the bone snap over the powerful melody. I knew that I had hurt myself badly—especially when your feet are your life.
The only thing that made me get back up was the music streaming through the speakers as the audience silently looked on. I got up because of Smetana and his drive to never stop creating masterpieces regardless of not being able to hear them. He was deaf, but he never gave up on his music. Music was his art … skating is mine.
I attempted to stand, and when the pain shot up my leg, I fell to my side. Finally, I stood on one shaking leg and managed to push off with my wounded one. I finished the song, and I smiled when red roses rained down around my feet. I didn’t win that competition, but I finished it. That’s what matters.
My mother and I are both equally passionate about my sport. I was tiny the first time that she laced up my first pair of skates. I clumsily tried to straighten my stubby, toddler legs when I first felt the slick ice beneath me.
The rink became my entirety. Soon, I came to glide effortlessly. Then came the spins and the jumps.
I train over twenty hours a week. When I’m not practicing at the stadium with Mirna, I’m at the ballet studio or the gym.
When you’re a figure skater, you must have the agility of a speed skater, the strength of a hockey player, and the grace of a ballerina. The sport is a mystery to most who watch. What the audience sees is a beautiful girl effortlessly gliding and leaping. They don’t see the blood and sweat. That’s how it’s meant to be. If it looks strenuous, the art is ruined. There is only room for perfection. The best feeling in the world is an effortless program; all of your choreographed steps neatly executed as an audience looks on with starry eyes.
I’m sixteen years old, and I’ve been skating for twelve years. My one wish in life is to compete nationally for the US. Though I’m of Russian descent, I was born in the states. My mother and I have moved seven times since I can remember. It was odd for me to remain at the same school for an extended period of time. So, every year, I had to combat the stares that I got when I was introduced at a new school. My fellow classmates thought it odd when a foreign looking Sofia Dmitriev was introduced, then when they didn’t hear a trace of an accent, the questions would pour from their mouths like water from a vase.
“What’s up with your name?”
“Are you from here?”
“You sound American … are you American?”
I’ve never really fit in because of that reason. When I’m not on the ice, I prefer to stay to myself.
My mother is a doctor—a successful one, regardless of our countless moves across the country. Finally, we settled down in St. Louis. I have to say, it’s my favorite to date with its old antique buildings; some with statues that sit atop them. I guess my mother likes it, too, because we’ve lived here for over three years, which is a record.
I make it to our townhouse, which is a short walk from the Stadium where I practice.
“Mom?” I holler from the entryway as I throw my saddle bag beside the shoe rack.
“In here!” she yells from the kitchen. I’m relieved that she actually isn’t working tonight. It’s a rarity to have her home since sh
e’s always on call.
I smell something burning as I approach the kitchen and smile when I see her waving an oven mitten around. Smoke billows from the open oven as she pulls out a pan with something burnt to a crisp. I can’t make-out what it is.
I laugh. “What are you making … or, what were you trying to make?”
She shakes her head slowly before taking a sip of her wine. “I wish that I would have paid more attention when mama tried to teach me her recipes.”
Sliding onto the barstool, I rest my chin on my hands. “I could have cooked.”
My mother rolls her eyes as she places her hands on her hips. “For once, I wanted to make you dinner. It’s okay. Chinese it is.”
She places her elbows on the wooden island before propping her chin on her hands. “Mirna said you did phenomenal today, my love. You’ve been working so hard.”
She pauses as she reaches down behind the counter and retrieves a package.
She slides the silver and black wrapped gift toward me before tapping it with her index finger.
“What is this?” I whisper as I run my finger along the black, silk bow.
She grabs my hand and presses it to her lips. I try not to become emotional as I watch her proud eyes fill with tears.
“I am so proud of you, Sofia. You couldn’t be any more perfect. You’re a dream come true. Your papa … he would have been very proud.”
I blink to clear the tears that have collected in my eyes.
“Go on,” she pressures. “Open it.”
Sliding the present across the table, I gently unfold the wrapping paper to expose a brown box. When I lift the lid, my eyes grow wide.
“Mama, these are four hundred dollar skates!”
My eyes snap to her cognac colored gaze. “Only the best for my princess, yeah? The blades are also top of the market.”
Her slight Russian accent is airy and light. Her words always warm my soul.
“Thank you, Mama. So much.”
She sniffles as she runs her hands over her teary eyes. “Enough of that. Let’s go get some food.”
6 Months Later
When you want something badly enough, your soul craves it. You could starve for days to achieve it. The climb is just the beginning. Finishing … that’s where you feel success, and I’m not planning on taking a fall again. Not anytime soon.
I only feel comfortable on the ice. When the music possesses me and my body seemingly becomes a note in a song.
The stadium is dark as Big Eyes by Lana Del Rey streams through the speakers above. The surrounding space is black, and the spotlight is on me as I pretend an audience is watching. My mother doesn’t know—and Mirna doesn’t either—that I’ve been practicing my triple jump. My ankle is still weak, but I can do this. At sixteen years old, the perfect triple is almost unheard of.
Today, I’ve fallen twice, but I almost landed after the third try. What I wouldn’t give to land that triple jump and find my mother amongst the others in the audience smiling proudly. It would be perfection … it would be priceless.
Lana’s melodic voice blankets me as the blades of my skates slice into the ice. My body feels weightless as I circle the rink with my arms out. My eyes are closed as I feel the music in my very soul.
Work. Never-ending work. I know the end game, so giving up isn’t a choice. My legs are on fire from the relentless squats, jogging, and other horrible exercises that I inflict on them.
I stumble when I reach the last step of the bleachers and place my hands on my knees as I catch my breath.
I see a pair of cleats appear in my line of sight and my eyes work their way up the legs, to an abdomen, and … to a handsome, familiar face.
Standing straight, I place my hands on my hips as my breaths furiously work their way in and out of my lungs.
“You’re that Russian girl,” Brent Masterson says as a broad smile covers his face, showcasing a deep dimple in his cheek.
I roll my eyes as I begin to jog around the soccer field. It doesn’t take long for him to catch up.
“You are Russian, right? I’m just saying that because it’s what I’ve heard.”
I smirk. “I’m American. I was born here.”
He keeps with my pace as I round the soccer field.
“That’s cool.”
I stop suddenly and turn to face him. “What do you want?”
Looking over his shoulder, I see his fellow teammates have paused their training as they stare at us. My eyes snap back to his. “I need to finish up my workout.”
He smiles sheepishly. “I thought maybe you and I … I don’t know, we could catch a movie or something.”
I smile as I turn on my heel and continue on my way.
“Not a chance!” I holler.
“You have to go out with him!” Mirna exclaims as the hairstylist finishes up my hair.
I laugh. “Absolutely not!”
“Why?” she implores.
“Because, he’s not my type,” I respond as the hairstylist pats my shoulder, letting me know that she’s finished with me.
“And, what is your type?”
I scoff as I turn to face her. “Not him. He’s popular … and wealthy. He doesn’t know anything about anything.”
“Dumb jock,” she remarks and I nod emphatically.
“Well,” she continues, “I think you should try and date. You’re sixteen going on seventeen. I know skating is important, but I don’t think it should impede on your teenage years as much as you’ve allowed it to.”
“Says my coach,” I retort.
She smiles fondly. “And your friend. I’ve known you since you were tiny. Your mother is a dear friend of mine, so naturally I feel a little more for you than your average coach.”
“Speaking of,” I say, slipping my phone out of my bag. “I haven’t heard from mom. Has she texted you or called?”
Mirna smiles as she shakes her head. “Not yet, but you know your mom. She probably is making it here by the skin of her teeth. I bet she’s just getting off the plane.”
I nod as a fond smile spreads over my face. She’s right. Mom is always fashionably late, but I know she wouldn’t miss this. I’ve been waiting for my chance to compete at Nationals. I know she’ll be here right in time to see my performance.
My heart pounds against my chest as I watch another skater perform. I’m next.
I shake my hands in front of me before hopping from one foot to the other to keep myself warm for my program. I look around and see others practicing their steps. Some are singles, like me, and others are couples.
I spot Mirna before approaching her.
“I’m freaking out,” I breathe out.
Smiling, she grasps my shoulders before giving them a squeeze. “You’ll be incredible. Don’t psyche yourself out.”
“Can I see your phone?” I ask, and she nods before placing it in my hand.
“Make it quick. You go up in five.”
I nod as I step away from her and dial my mother’s number.
“You’ve reached Dr. Lidiya Dmitriev. I’m busy, but leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try and speak past the lump in my throat.
“Mommy, it’s me,” I whisper as my eyes spring open and dart around frantically. “I’m going up soon. I hope you’re here when I do. I love you.”
Handing the phone back to Mirna, she squeezes my cheek lovingly before slapping my butt.
It’s time.
I close my eyes as I drift across the ice to the center and pose, awaiting the song that will accompany my program.
Once Blackmill’s Evil Beauty begins to play, I become something different; a duckling that transforms into a graceful swan, full of beauty and confidence. The sheer white skirt whispers against my thighs as I prepare for an axle jump. When I drift half circle, I kick off and spin effortlessly before landing.
The set is going exactly as planned until it comes time to execute the triple that I’ve been p
racticing for months. This was meant for my mom and Mirna, but I can’t look toward the audience, because I know either way, whether or not she’s there watching me or if she didn’t make it … it would only serve as a distraction. I’ve been training non-stop for my moment—for this moment.
I glide across the ice, spinning several times to build up the momentum that I need to execute this jump. When I’m airborne, I spin three times before landing perfectly. My heart soars, and I’m sure my pride is evident on my face. I imagine Mirna and mom smiling from ear to ear as I conclude my flawless set.
Crossing my legs and lifting my arms, I welcome the cheering audience.
I did it.
I look into Mirna’s eyes, and my smile immediately falls when I see her distraught appearance.
A police officer stands beside her as she clutches a large teddy bear and sobs into its faux fur. My mother is nowhere to be seen, and the world closes in on me as I fall to my knees onto the sea of roses that had been thrown at my feet.
Mirna clutches my hand as my mother’s attorney reads off her will.
Her funeral was two days ago as rain poured from the heavens. She always called rain angel tears, and I guess that hit home more than anything. So many attended, and they all looked toward me solemnly. There I was ... an orphan … parentless in an ongoing world. It never slowed down, not even when the most amazing person I’ve ever known had been stolen too soon.
Everyone went home afterward and lived their lives while my tears never let up. There I was in our empty home, walking the halls aimlessly and smelling her clothing.
She was struck by a car as she frantically tried to make it across the street to the stadium where I performed. While I was in my happy place, she was taken from me.
The attorney’s words mean nothing. Yes, she left me everything, but I’d gladly live on the street if it only meant that I could see her one last time.
“Sofia,” the attorney says as his eyes flit from the will and then to me. “Do you know of your uncle? He lives in Russia. His name is Artur Ivanov. He is your mother’s brother.”