Page 109 of The Ripper

I wiped away my tears and didn’t bother to answer, nor did I turn around to see who had just entered.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I tried to sound cold, tried to sound like her, but my voice came out like a screech, because I was no longer that person.

Get it together, Arella.

But Arella had no business in this place.

“I thought you were still asleep,” Julio’s voice made me turn around.

The tears suddenly stopped, and my eyes flashed with anger.

“I wasn’t asleep, asshole,” I countered. “You fucking drugged me.”

I threw the nearest object at his head, which happened to be an old porcelain doll that sat on my dresser, but the bastard easily dodged it and he started to laugh when the doll’s head knocked on the door and fell broken on the floor, the shards scattering on the carpet, but my tantrum didn’t stop there.

One by one, I threw all the dolls from the dresser right into his stupid face, as if they were knives.

I wished they were knives.

“You don’t want to throw that one,” he raised his eyes defensively, making me stop in mid-air with the doll in my hand. “That used to be your favorite,” his voice softened, then he took a step forward.

I looked at the doll with bitterness on my tongue, remembering it had been a gift from my mom for my tenth birthday. I didn’t notice when he came a little too close and gently grabbed my arm, because I was too busy fighting back the tears as nostalgia took over me, coldly hugging me as I stroked my fingers over the doll’s curly hair.

I turned away from him and sat the doll back on the dresser as memories came flooding back, spreading through my brain like a crawling plant. I remembered her smile, how she walked, how she read my bedtime stories in that sweet, soft tone of voice, and how no matter how angry she was, she never yelled at me or my brother.

“I don’t play with dolls anymore,” I mumbled.

“I know, you play with Russian gangsters now,” he said as I looked out the window, and I could hear the mockery in his voice.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I rolled my eyes and looked at him in time to see him sitting two boxes and a bag on my bed.

It was hard to believe how close we’d been and how much of a stranger he was to me now. Julio was only two years older than me, the person I looked up to as a teenager, my protector and my best friend. He used to get me out of trouble and he was the one who made sure everyone in high school knew who I was, and knew not to mess with me.

We were inseparable from the moment I was born, and when mom died, our bond was torn, because she was the one who taught us to fight for each other, not against each other. She taught us how important blood was, and how, no matter what, family had to stick together.

We made a mockery of her teachings after her death.

“It’s not,” he returned my glare. “I don’t approve of your taste in men as it is questionable at best, but who you go to bed with at night doesn’t concern me,” he continued.

“Then why did you agree to his plan and kidnap me?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Because while I couldn’t give two flying fucks about your love life, I do care about you. I know it’s hard, but you have to forgive him, sis, it’s the only way you can let go of the past, and probably the only thing that could convince him to let you go back.”

As I took in his words, I sat down on the bed and hugged my knees to my chest, then looked at him for what felt like hours. I hated the fact that I’d missed him, and although he was now one of our father’s loyal pawns, he was still — somewhat — the same Julio.

We had both mourned our mother’s death in different ways.

My brother had been the quiet one, the one who brought flowers to her grave every day and only cried when no one was looking.

I was the exact opposite. Loud, destructive, aggressive and completely out of control, and since I had no one else to take my frustration and anger out on, I blamed my father for everything.

I wondered what Grimm would have thought of me if he met me then.

“She’s dead because of him,” I whispered as my eyes fell on the frame on the nightstand, our family photo.

“Fuck that. He’s not the one who pulled the trigger,” he tried to reason with me.

“It might as well have been him,” I shook my head.

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