Sinful Games (Sinful #2) | 18+

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. It glistened with cleanliness, but it was as though, just like my own tarnished soul, I felt the insatiable need to purify it even more.

Scrubbing it again and again, I could feel the rough texture of the sponge on my fingertips, and gradually, my skin reddened, stinging with each rigorous pass.

The pain, both physical and emotional, merged into one as I continued my relentless 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, the cupboard bearing my weight as I leaned into it, my head drooping down to rest on my shoulders. I let out a deep, weary sigh.

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

I turned to gaze at our living room, where the remnants of the night's chaos lay scattered about.

Cigarette butts and empty glasses strewn all over the table, while magazines featuring sultry, glistening, oiled naked women sensually gazed from their covers, as if taunting with their eyes that seemed to say, "You can look, but you can't touch."

Amid the mess, there 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 and mind. It was a bleak portrait of excess – a world 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 super nice boss Valoria allowed me to set up a small studio in one of the rooms in exchange for working a few extra night shifts when needed.

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

It's a busy life, but it keeps me engaged, and I'm grateful for that because it means I have less time to see my father, unless he specifically asks for my presence.

Like he did 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, all in the hopes that his business would magically thrive.

"You know, men like Igor jealous me for having such a beautiful daughter." My father's words, not mine.

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

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

I had taken up my job at the nursing home primarily because my grandmother had been admitted there two years ago, her body deteriorating due to Parkinson's disease. She could barely walk, speak, or eat anymore.

However, when those rare moments came when she recognized me, her face would light up, her eyes would well up with tears, and her incessantly shaking hands would reach out for mine, holding onto them with a surprising strength.