Page 86 of Deceptive Vows
What I just saw him do is what I’d expect a psycho to do.
When I get closer and realize the painting is an unfinished one of a beautiful girl with soft brown hair and bright blue eyes, I’m inclined to agree with my assumption wholeheartedly.
That’s when I stop in my tracks and observe.
Who is she?
She’s someone else, not the ballerina, but the girl is wearing a tutu and has a bright smile on her face.
I think the same artist did the painting.
I’m not sure.
One last smear of blood on his thick fingers goes over her face, removing her smile.
He says something in Russian, as if he’s talking to the girl in the painting, then shakes his head.
“I got them, killed them all, but nothing will bring you back. Not you or Mother,” he says in English this time, and I realize the girl in the painting must be his sister. “There’s nothing I can do, Talia.”
There’s a slur to his words like he’s been drinking, and when he moves to the door, I notice a bottle of wine in the corner.
He picks it up and takes a long swig, finishing the contents. When he’s done, he throws the bottle into the painting. It bounces off the surface and falls on the floor, smashing.
I realize now that’s what I heard downstairs. It was another bottle.
My legs tremble, and I feel that urge to run, run far away. Yet I’m rooted to the floor like vines are holding my feet down.
I take in a slow breath. That’s when he turns and looks at me.
“What are you doing in here, Malyshka?” His voice, harsh and cold, cuts into me. “You were told not to come up here.”
“I’m sorry. I saw blood on the floor and… You’ve been gone since last night.”
“Go back to bed, princess. You don’t want to be around me right now.”
“What happened?” I don’t know if I’m making the mistake of my life by asking questions I shouldn’t be asking, but I’m compelled to nonetheless.
“Nothing that concerns you. Now go. Get out.” He points to the door. More blood drips from his hand.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m always hurt, princess. This is just another day with new pain.” A menacing smile inches across his face. The menace doesn’t reach his eyes, though, like it usually does.
There’s too much pain lurking in the depths for anything to reach them. I know I should listen and get the fuck out, but that pain reaches out to me.
Maybe it’s because I recognize it. I’ve felt it and seen it in myself.
I chance walking up to him and stop a breath away. He stares down at me with those cold eyes, assessing me, and I gaze up at him.
“What room is this?” I ask, trying another angle.
“A shrine.”
That’s exactly what it feels like.
“It’s a shrine for them,” he adds.
Them.
