Page 3 of The Crimson Lily
Maksim forces his eyes into mine. He stares deeply into my soul, making me forget everything that’s revolving around us. I can feel his mind plunging into my brain and spreading like venomous tentacles. What kind of power is that? He squeezes to make it hurt, but it doesn’t. I’m too terrified to feel anything.
When he releases me, I can see a thousand stars sparkling around me. I’m stunned, petrified. I need a moment to recollect my thoughts. Maksim says Russian words to Olga, but she dismisses him with a flick of the hand. Once I can hold my head straight again, I look back into Maksim’s eyes.
“The file—” is all I can say before his fist meets my stomach.
I feel a sharp pain that quickly dissolves into my coughs. It could have been worse. That man didn’t give it his everything. I should be glad.
“The combination of the safe, Liliana,” Olga’s voice rings between my ears. “Or I’ll ask Maksim to go harder on you.”
Before a second punch, the image of that same dagger of glass flashes before my eyes. I don’t know exactly what this means, but it’s that same memory again, the one I saw just today before these threeBratvaassholes barged into my apartment.
Hang on a second…Bratva? Yet another realization, one that confirms my Russian mafia conjecture. That’s where this lady and these dudes are from. Yes! Oh my…And the dagger of glass. I swear this is all connected. I’m certain of that. This is all part of the same scheme.
Before Maksim can reload his fist, I shout my lungs out: “The glass dagger? That’s what you’re looking for?”
I see Olga straighten her body in the corner of my eye. That’s it. I have her attention now.
“I have the information you need!” I scream. I look into Maksim’s eyes again. “Please, don’t hit me again!”
Weirdly enough, I’m too scared to feel pain. The adrenaline is rushing through me, but I’m glad to see this tall man loosening his fist. That relief comes with an extreme wave of nausea. There’s no blood in my mouth, but it’s like I can taste it, and it’s disgusting. I spit on the brown carpet—no blood, but that sick feeling isn’t gone. As I desperately try to get rid of it, another image flashes in my mind.
I’m opening a strange box, and I’m placing the dagger inside it.
I know exactly what this means, and I know how this, in this moment, can help me.
“I can’t just give you the combination of the safe,” I shout and expel another chunk of spit. “I need to be the one to open it.” My first bluff.
Because that’s something I realized as I spoke. I know exactly what safe they mean. I know they mean the intricate puzzle box that keeps the dagger of glass secure. And I also know I’m the only one with the key to open it, somewhere buried deep in my memory, and it’s just a matter of time before I get to wield that key again.
“Well,” Olga jerks. She sounds like she’s doing her best to keep her composure and not lose patience with me. I feel bad for her for a brief second. “It will be hard for you to open it. You see, the safe is long gone.”
“Where is it?” I impulsively ask, not thinking of the potential repercussions of my prying, but I have to keep her talking.
“Shouldn’t you know?” Olga checks, genuinely perplexed. “Your boss took it all the way across the ocean.”
Good, I’m not getting a fist. That’s all I care about right now. But it doesn’t end here. They want me to open that safe? I’ll open that damn safe!
“Tell me where!” I shout, carelessly, impetuously. Anything other than another fist to my stomach. “Tell me where and I’ll get it open!”
I’m bluffing my guts out. I have no freaking idea how to open that stupid safe. However, deep down, I know that I know. I can see myself now, holding the dagger in my hands, and I’m sure. I want to look at Olga, but as I turn my head, I realize it’s too heavy to move. The daze is actually much worse than I thought. It’s taking me over. It must be a combination of anxiety pillsand panic. The world is spinning around me. I roll my head and look up to the ceiling, which is clouded with the haze of a very, very lousy headache. I can finally feel the pain—the pressure underneath my skull. I close my eyes and let myself sink deep into the mist of unconsciousness.
2
Last night’s events awakened something in me. A part of me that was buried deep within and wanted to scratch its way out. An ache for the unknown, for adventures and thrill. So what? I’m a little crazy inside. Who isn’t? As my dreams merge and flow in the twists and turns of my past, I realize the dagger of glass must be of extremely high value. I don’t know how or why I know—but I’ll let that slide for now. More than anything else, I want to get that freaking dagger, find out why the hell I’m mixed up in all this, and eventually hand it to the freaking Bratva. The idea makes my heart race. It ignites a taste for puzzles and mysteries that have always been with me.
When I open my eyes, I’m face down on the brown carpet, and the light of a new day shines into the room. I spent the whole night on the floor. My pajama top is pulled up higher than my ass, and my body is sprawled. This view isn’t particularly graceful.
I lift myself up, planting my hands on the ground and pushing as hard as I can. I see traces of my own nosebleed splattered around the carpet. I really have to get that cleaned. I go to my kitchen, the smallest room in the apartment after the bathroom, grab two wet sponges soaked in soap, and get thescrubbing going. The foam that forms as I fiercely rub the carpet is this undying crimson color. The blood doesn’t really bother me. I’m more focused on brainstorming what the color of my next carpet will be and thinking that crimson doesn’t actually look so bad.
Once I deem it neat enough, I get ready for a shower. My dried tears make my eyes itch, and the blood crackles under my nose make it look worse than it actually is. As I touch my cheek, I feel a slight sting, like the imprint of a fading bruise. I stagger to the bathroom, numb, turn on the water, and cast a glance at the mirror.
Darn it. That bastard yesterday actually left a bruise, exactly where his thumb held my cheek in place. It’s relatively small—the Bratva hasn’t gone hard on me just yet—but my lips are swollen like they’ve been stung by murder hornets. I wasn’t punched in the face, thank God, so I probably got that from my fall to the ground. It doesn’t hurt though, so maybe there’s something wrong with me. I should feel some sort of pain, but I’m perfectly fine, so I’ll blame it on the adrenaline that’s still rushing through me.
After a long shower, during which I wash off my bloody nose, I check myself again. Nothing left to see but that thumb imprint that contrasts with my pale skin—nothing a little foundation can’t fix. I don’t really want people to look and think I got into some sort of trouble. Oh wait, I did. And why is still a big mystery to me.
My lips have returned to normal, but a headache still lingers in my skull. Just like I’ve seen in movies, I pop into the kitchen to get an ice pack from the freezer. I shall spend the morning in front of Netflix with ice pressed on my left cheek. The lousy headache improves after a few sci-fi episodes. As I begin to recover a few of my other senses now that the migraine is gone, all the events of last night come rushing through my mind. I’vebeen tied up, interrogated, questioned for something of which I barely have any memories. I begin to feel this disoriented anger taking over, and the fear grips me again. I desperately want to call someone so I can feel better, safer, but I have absolutely no one to call, no one to go to, no one to tell. So I start pacing in front of the TV, reminiscing, ruminating. My headache doesn’t bother me anymore, but I want to hide. I want to cover my eyes and forget about last night. I opt for the solution to sink into my bed and never come out.
It’s the beep of an alarm that wakes me up. No—not an alarm. A repetitive loop of five amplifying ticks of an old mobile device. Like those nineties’ phones bigger than a pocket. It surprises me that, in that instant, I remember the nineties, or at least a little part of them. June 6, 1999, the first birthday I can remember—the day my parents died.
