Page 8 of Sinful Games

So, it’s simply not fucking worth it, even if she is a stunning green-eyed beauty named Caia Mankiev.

Chapter

Three

“In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”

?Robert Frost

Caia

I rinsed my cup with a forceful determination, channeling the frustrations and disappointments of my horrendous day and night into every stroke.

The cup gleamed with cleanliness, but just like my tarnished soul, I felt an insatiable need to purify it even more. Scrubbing it again and again, I felt the rough texture of the sponge on my fingertips, and gradually, my skin reddened and stung with each rigorous pass.

The pain, both physical and emotional, merged as I continued myrelentless task.

At some point, I winced when the scrubbing became too harsh, realizing that my own pain mirrored the relentless toil of trying to cleanse something that might never be truly pure.

I stopped abruptly, leaning my weight against the cupboard, my head drooping to rest on my shoulders. I let out a deep, weary sigh.

The cup was clean, but I remained tangled in the mess of my own life, unable to scrub away the stains that marred my soul.

Turning to gaze at the living room, the remnants of the night's chaos lay scattered about. Cigarette butts and empty glasses were strewn across the table, while magazines featuring sultry, oiled women taunted from their covers, their eyes saying, "You can look, but you can’t touch."

Amid the mess were scattered bills and a powdery residue mixed with dust.

I despised this apartment, loathed how it had become an unwelcome mirror reflecting my father's life. It was a bleak portrait of excess – dominated by sex, drugs, and alcohol.

I rarely come here anymore, thanks to my university studies and my part-time job at the nursing home, where my incredibly kind boss, who has become more like a sister to me now, Valoria, allowed me to set up a small studio in one of the rooms in exchange for working extra night shifts when needed.

My days were packed with essays, attending to elderly residents—changing dozens of adult diapers—and squeezing in some much-needed sleep.

It was a busy life, but it kept me engaged and grateful for the distraction, keeping me away from my father, unless he specifically asked for me.

Like hedid tonight.

A sudden headache erupted, and I instinctively rubbed my temples in frustration.

I hated what he did tonight, parading me around like some showy peacock, hoping his business would magically thrive.

"You know, men like Igor envy me for having such a beautiful daughter," my father’s words echoed in my head.

Bile rose in my throat as I recalled the last time he pulled a stunt like that, and I had to…

"Spasibofor tonight, Caia," my father interrupted my thoughts from his seat in front of the TV. "How’s your babushka?"

I had taken the job at the nursing home primarily because my grandmother had been admitted there two years ago, her body deteriorating from Parkinson's disease.

She could barely walk, speak, or eat anymore.

Yet, when she did recognize me, her face would light up, tears welling in her eyes, her shaking hands reaching out for mine with surprising strength.

I always spend an hour with her every night after coming back from university and freshening up, chatting about my day, my studies in photography and art, or even sharing Russian folklore tales.

Most of the time, she'd just sit there in silence, eyes fixed on the window, her small frame nearly vanishing in her chair.

These moments bring a bit of light into her world and mine, even though she was often lost in her own thoughts, just like me.

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