She drops inside with a thud, and I take a deep breath as I look upon her breathless body—those eyes that are still wide open.
It should be abnormal... staring into the face of death so directly and so casually. But I find that after my own brushes with death, I'm unnaturally immune to it.
Assured that Cressida's body fits in the enclosed space, I get to cleaning the floor. Since I don't have anything else to wipe the blood off with, I reluctantly settle on the torn pages of my book.
But it's just my luck that instead of cleaning the blood, they are only smearing it more. I roll my eyes, annoyed, until another idea pops into my head.
Moving back to the coffin, I reach inside and feel for any material. First, I check the previous occupant of the coffin, but since the material of the habit is so old and brittle, I fear I may make an even bigger mess. With a sigh, I turn to Cressida's body, tearing some cloth from her uniform.
Then, I crouch once more on the floor and start wiping. The material is a good absorbent, and soon the white marble floor is squeaky clean. I turn to the outside of the coffin, and I wipe the walls too, ensuring no trace of blood is left anywhere.
When I'm finally done with that, I move to the other side to push the lid of the coffin shut.
"Drat it." I mutter as I fix my feet on the floor, the slippery marble not helping with my exertion. I move around a little so my heels are against the wall, my hands on the lid. Then, pushing with all my strength, I eventually see it moving.
When that is done, I lift my hand up, swiping some sweat off my brow and thinking how to proceed next.
I check the latch on the coffin, ensuring everything is locked in place.
This is it... I guess.
My stomach is still paining me as I go back to the dorm, choosing to stealthily head to the shower area and wash some of the blood spatters off my uniform.
Claudia is still in class, so there's only Lina inside the room, her brows pinched together as she focuses on sewing an old dress.
"Oh, Sisi." She looks up, surprised to see me. I give her a quick smile and dash out of the room before she can ask more questions.
The bathroom is made up of communal showers that everyone on the floor shares. Heading inside, I deposit my clean clothes on the sink and get in the shower.
Quickly tugging my uniform dress off my body, I place it directly under the water stream. Taking a piece of soap, I rub at the stained areas, relieved to see that the red turns into a yellowy color. The more I rub, the more that fades, too.
When my clothes are done, I move under the shower, hoping the warm water would help the continuing stomach pains.
Holding on to my midriff, I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. But as I continue to wash my body, my hand moving between my legs, I can't help but gasp out loud at the sight of blood.
So much blood.
And it's pouring out of me.
"Good Lord," I mutter, staring intently at the red coating my hand, convinced this is a sign. "I'm cursed... that must be it," I say out loud.
For the first time, panic starts taking hold of me. Because no matter how much I wash myself, blood keeps pouring out of me.
This is it... the physical evidence of my sin.
There can be no other explanation. I'm being punished for taking another life, and nothing is more fitting than blood slowly coming out of my own body—until I'm bled dry.
My legs buckle and I drop to the ground, my back against the wall, water still falling on top of me. As it washes over my body, it turns a muddy color, mingling with my blood in a fitting combination.
Everything I touch is cursed.
The words I'd heard so many times from the nuns and other sisters are finally starting to make sense.
"Sisi?" Catalina's voice interrupts my musings, and I'm suddenly afraid she's going to find out what I've done.
I may not care about other people, but I do care about her opinion. I don't want her to be disappointed in me.
Before I can make something up for her to leave me alone, she opens the door to the stall, finding me huddled in a corner, bloodied water pooling at my feet.
"Sisi," she exclaims, horror in her voice. "What happened?"
I look up, into her eyes, and I say the only thing that I can think of.
"It won't stop... the blood."
Lina takes one good look at me and sighs, "Sisi..."
Helping me up and out of the shower, she leaves the bathroom briefly, returning with a pad. After I'm dressed and my uniform hung out to dry, she takes me back to our room to have a talk.
"It's normal." She explains that nothing is wrong, that I just got my period.
"Period?" I repeat, confused.
Lina purses her lips. "When a woman matures, she starts her monthly bleeding. It's a sign that you're now..." she trails off, a blush appearing on her face, "ready to have children."
"I am?" My eyes widen, suddenly afraid. But Lina is quick to assuage my worries, doing her best to explain to me how children are made and that I have nothing to worry about.
"It will just be slightly uncomfortable when you get your menstrual cramps. And you'll need to change your pad every so often," she continues, going over every detail.
I just nod numbly, half relieved and half in shock.
How ironic, that I should reach my maturity by spilling blood, when I've just spilled blood. Sick laughter forms in my throat until I can't hold it in anymore. Lina looks at me askance, but I just shrug it off as nothing.
Because at the end, an unexpected calm settles over me.
I'm already going to hell. Might as well enjoy the journey.
Chapter Seven
THE PAST
AGE TWENTY,
Stepping under the warm water jet, I watch as some blood pools at my feet. I feel for the knife wound, my fingers measuring its depth. Satisfied it's not too deep, I get out of the shower and take out the first aid kit.
I force my brain to shut all the noise around me, focusing only on getting this damned wound fixed.
I place myself in front of the mirror to get a better look at my body. Then, taking some gauze and soaking it in disinfectant, I douse it all over the affected area. The pain is minimal, almost like a ticklish feeling. I can't even remember the last time my body had ached, or any wound had pained me.
Now, they're simply there. I know I have to be careful so that they don't become septic, but other than that they don't interfere with my other activities.
I'd gotten this specific one because of Bianca, my new partner. I grit my teeth as I think about that, because most of the time she simply annoys me with her presence.
This time it had been no different. She'd goaded me into a fight and when we'd reached our target I'd snapped, losing control and slaughtering an entire room of people. It was during that bloodbath that someone must have jabbed me in the ribs, although I have no recollection of it.
If only Marcello were still here.
I sigh as I continue the ministration, taking a band-aid and placing it on top of the wound.
Marcello and I had had a quiet understanding and we'd worked in one of those rare partnerships where one didn't even have to speak for the other to follow. We were evenly matched in most things, his intellect sharp, his skills unparalleled. But certain issues had made him abandon his place in the famiglia.
I still keep tabs on him, but something's changed. He's... broken.
That doesn't mean I forgive him for leaving me partnerless, since my father had had to find a replacement as he doesn't trust me to do a job on my own.
Hell, I don't trust myself either.
After my break-down in Harlem, a few years ago, he'd placed me under strict supervision, knowing that my grasp on my sanity had dimmed considerably once I'd found out my sister was, in fact, dead.
Although I don't appreciate the constant attention, even I have to admit that I'm too dangerous to be left alone.
My fascination with blood had onl
y increased after that incident. But the same substance that once brought me joy, has now become my main trigger. If before I lived for the sight of blood pouring out of my victims, now I avoided it like the plague, knowing that if I became too enthralled by it, my mind would slip from me.
Usually I can feel a crisis coming, and I do my best to calm down. But sometimes, the bloodlust becomes so strong, I'm simply no longer human.
A killing machine. A monster. A berserker.
People have given me many nicknames over the years, but only one has stuck: Berserker. Ironically also my codename, I'd been given the nickname after the Norse mindless warriors. Those fighting in a fury-like trance with no recognition what goes around them except destruction.
Because that's exactly what I become when I lose myself.
A mindless monster.
Of course my father couldn't rid himself of his perfect weapon, so he'd sought to control me in the least intrusive way—a new partner.
Bianca is three years younger than me, and while her age would put her firmly into an inoffensive category, she's also a born killer. Clinically diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder, Bianca is brash, reckless and a major pain in the ass.
We do complement each other well on the battlefield, since guns are her weapons of choice while mine are knives. This way, I engage in close combat, and she has my back from a distance.
Theoretically, it's not a bad arrangement, since we work pretty well together. But she's also an immature brat and her carelessness sometimes endangers our missions.
My wound bandaged and ready to go, I put on some clothes and head to the gym, thinking to spend what time I have left before the next mission training.
I start humming a soft melody to myself, still forcing myself to tune everything out.
But as I cross the backyard to get to the gym, I hear my brother's leering voice.
"Come on, Lenochka, drop the towel," he says, and I turn my head slightly, noting they are all by the pool.
Misha is sitting by the pool, leaning on his elbows as he looks suggestively at Elena.
Both Katya and Elena are sitting timidly in a corner, their hands tightly gripping the towels covering their bodies.
They look a little apprehensive as they spot Misha, and I can see Elena's eyes darting between the pool and the house.
They're almost teenagers now, and while my father keeps Misha under control, there's no denying the lascivious way he looks upon our sisters, especially Elena.
I'd mentioned this obsession of his to father and he'd grunted, assuring me Misha would never overstep his boundaries. But I have to wonder. Does father not see the pest he has in his own house? Is he so blinded by the fact that Misha is his eldest that he's willing to overlook his cowardly behavior and decidedly dishonorable reputation?
Elena takes a step back, cowering behind Katya. Born only a year apart, Katya's always been the stronger of the two. Sometimes their relationship reminds me of Vanya and I...
Shaking myself from that line of thought, I turn to leave.
Misha chooses that exact moment to be the asshole he is, rising from the pool and going to where the girls are. I watch from the corner of my eye how his fingers circle Elena's wrist, jerking her towards him.
"Let her go," Katya's voice booms, but even that isn't enough to stop Misha as he rips the towel off Elena's body.
"Look at you, Lenochka," he whistles, his eyes roving down her body with interest, "who knew you were packing a punch," he continues, one hand going for her breast.
I don't know exactly when I move, but before Misha can touch Elena, I wrap my hand around his neck, squeezing painfully.
We might be years apart in age, but I've long surpassed him, both in height and body mass.
His feet aren't touching the ground as I tighten my hold, looking him in the eyes and enjoying the fear reflected. His lids move rapidly, and he tries to blink away the terror I know is coursing through his body.
"What have I told you about those wandering hands, Misha?" I ask him, as I lean in, my face millimeters away from his. "Don't tell me you don't remember what I told you?"
I watch the emotions play on his face—terror, outrage, arrogance. Even with my fingers suffocating the life out of him he dares to have a smug expression on his face.
"Fuck you, freak," he spits, his saliva hitting my cheek.
I close my eyes for a second, willing myself to calm down. I'm not surprised at his pathetic attempts. After all, when has Misha done anything noteworthy?
Bringing my other hand up, I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
"You seem to have forgotten. Don't worry, I have not," I give him my most brilliant smile as my finger traces his features, settling just above his eye.
"Freak," he scoffs, fake bravado on his face, "you can't do anything to me. Father will kill you before he lets you harm a..."
He trails off, his words becoming a scream as my fingers dig into his eye socket. I grasp his eye and I pull. It doesn't take long for it to pop right out of the orbit.
The girls are screaming in horror behind me, scurrying away.
I only have eyes for my dear brother. Pun intended. My lips quirk up as I pull on his eyeball. I push forward, my fingers curling inside his orbit, digging in, his screams music to my ears.
I'd done this plenty of times before, so I know what to expect when my fingertips meet bone. I just have to break the sphenoid and I'll have easy access to his brain.
Just as I'm about to give him what he deserves, I hear another screech in my ear. I do my best to ignore it, but her voice breaks through my defenses.
"You promised, brother. You promised you'd never kill family," she speaks, her form materializing next to me. She wraps her ghostly hand around my arm, urging me to let go.
My eyes widen as I watch her... so little, so powerless. She's dressed in the same bloody rags, her entire body a mess of cuts and wounds, her own eye hanging out of its socket.
My entire body starts trembling, and I let go. Misha crumbles to the ground and I take a step back.
"No," I whisper to myself.
She's not real. She's never real.
You'd think that years of seeing one's dead sister would make it easier on the eyes. But every time I see her small, feeble body racked with pain I just lose it.
I try to regulate my breath, almost losing sight of what's happening around me. How father's guards are storming in, taking Misha away to give him medical assistance.
Or how someone jabs a needle in my skin, the entire world starting to sway with me.
"Not again," is the last thing I say as I pass out.
I come around much later and I realize I'm in my room. A cold rag is on my forehead, and small hands are tending to me.
I don't think. I just react, grabbing the arm of the intruder. A small gasp escapes her lips, and I realize I'm staring at my sister.
Katya.
"What are you doing here?" I croak, looking around for any guards.
Her lips are trembling as her eyes move between me and my painful hold. I quickly release her, expecting her to move.
She doesn't.
"Thank you," she starts, a little unsure, "for what you did back there. Misha is always picking on Elena and..." she trails off, looking away, suddenly embarrassed.
"What?" I ask, my voice a bit brusque.
"He makes her uncomfortable," she eventually says. "He always tries to corner her alone, and I can't always be with her. Maybe now..."
"He won't bother her again. I'll make sure of it," I declare.
I don't know where this came from, but as she smiles at me, I find myself happy at my decision to intervene.
"Thank you," she says again, surprising me anew when she leans forward to kiss my cheek.
I'm staring at her, dazed. She... touched me.
Everyone is afraid to even come close to me, and yet she, of her own volition, touched me.
My eyes must give away my bewilderment, bec
ause she confesses, "you're not so bad, you know."
Standing up, she leaves the room. And I'm still pondering her words... and her kindness towards me.
"Motherfucker! What do you think you're doing?" Bianca yells at me from behind.
I turn my head slightly towards her, holding up a piece of meat. "Barbecue?" I ask jokingly.
Well, she doesn't take it very well, because she quickly takes out her pistol, pointing it towards me and shooting.
The bullet whizzes past my ear in a deafening sound, lodging itself firmly in the head of the man next to me.
I don't react, although Vanya, sitting right by me, quickly places her palms over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.
"Now, that was just mean." I pout at her, half annoyed.
"Dude, you've been skinning him alive. For hours! What's wrong with you?" She shakes her head at me, coming around to glance at my work of art.
"It was supposed to be a quick job. In and out. And to think I'm usually the troublemaker." She mutters under her breath, scrunching up her nose in disgust when she leans in to look at what's left of the man.
Yes, it should have been a quick job. But once I'd realized who our target was—an Armenian human trafficker in charge of some questionable trafficking rings in Maine. My interest had been piqued. It's not often that we're sent after human traffickers. Might be because my father is the one choosing our targets, and he doesn't want me to get too hot headed on a job, since he knows I'd vowed to make Vanya's killer pay.
But just like this skinless fellow in front of me, I don't know much about the circumstances of Vanya's death.
My memory of the years before I'd returned to my family is fuzzy. I've only managed to piece together some things. Like the fact that Vanya and I had been abducted when we were three and we'd been held captive by some sort of madman for almost five years. Although my father and his associates have relentlessly looked for us, it was only by chance that the Italians got to us first.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 8