Trigger warning!
This chapter will include mentions of blood and death as well as some other stuff, so please don't read this unless you truly believe you can.
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"Go to hell!" Anastasia screams, her head falling to the side when his calloused hand meets her cheek. "Where is she?" he repeats, his voice slurred together and a burp leaving his lips soon after. "Not here," she means simply, watching his hand as it once again swings for her.
It's nothing she doesn't know, nothing she hasn't experienced before. And yet she can't help the hiss rolling off her tongue when his fist makes contact with her stomach.
When people say you get used to it, they lie. Maybe you learn to blend them out, maybe you build a higher tolerance but the pain doesn't just go away. You can't just get used to it.
And maybe you do learn to live with it, maybe you do learn to turn the pain into normality but that doesn't mean you have grown used to it, it just means you have been in pain for long enough to know how to turn it into something else. May it be sadness, aggression and tears or may it look completely different.
It doesn't matter because it's still the pain, it's still the game. Just different players.
Anastasia has never been good at games, has always hated them and the idea of them. She never had family nights where they played Charade or Jenga. The only time she truly played was with Antonina and that girl sure as hell knows how to cheat. You play toy brokers ludo with her and she rolls a six but needs a five, she'll just count the field she is on as one. You play cards with her, you can be sure she knows your hand better than you do yourself.
Yet, at the moment, she feels as though she has turned into the master of her father's game.
Her body stumbles backwards as his fist once again connects with her abdomen, his other one following suit and the same question leaving his lips alongside some spit. "Where is she?"
Grabbing a hold of the table behind her to catch herself, Anastasia's fingers touch the blade of the knife laying on it. Right, she was making food. Moving them to the handle, she yells in a pain as a sharp, stinging pain floods through her leg.
"Don't even try," her father spits, wiping his bloody hand on her shirt. Gliding to the ground, Anastasia can feel the adrenaline spread through her veins, the pain slowly fading in the background. It's there, it will always be there yet the adrenaline is too strong to let it be present.
Watching her father turns his back to her, she grits her teeth together as she forces herself on her feet, foot. Her eyes once again fall onto the knife and her eyes squeeze shut for a moment while her fingers wrap themselves around the handle.
This isn't right, this isn't good, this isn't... what isn't it?
Her father is just about to leave the kitchen when her body lounges forwards, her hand grabbing a hold of his shoulder to support herself while the other one rams the knife in his back; his body freezing immediately.
Pulling it out, her eyes watch in shock as his shirt turns red before he slowly turns to her, his eyes dark but his movements slow.
"This... was a mistake," he grunts, his hands balling into fists.
Focusing on him instead of her leg, she pushes the knife into his stomach, her wrist hurting a bit from the strength it took.
Her father sinks to his knees, his eyes fluttering open and close and his hands holding the wound on his belly.
"I'm sorry, Nina," she whispers, her own body falling until she finds herself sitting with her back against a wall. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she repeats, her eyes actually pooling with tears as she finally drops the knife in her hand to pull her knees up to her chest. Well, one of her knees.
What did she do? Why did she...? How could she...?
Shaking her head, her face resting on her hands for a second, she glances around all the blood before her eyes fall onto the body of her father. He can't stay here. He needs to go. He...
Forcing herself up, she attempts to roll him out of the room before eventually settling for grabbing his hands and pulling him outside, the pain in her leg getting worse with every second.
This won't ever go away, will it?
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Her mind is running wild as she scrubs the kitchen, the blood never seems to disappear and yet the water is as clear as it has been the five times before. She can't stop cleaning. The dirty feeling inside of her prevents her from even thinking of it.
"Get off! Get off! Get off!" she mutters, over and over again, her fingers holding onto the cloth as though her life depends on it.
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Cleaning up. Everything must be tidied up and stored away.
Anastasia has rearranged the knife in the block at least a thousand times, not remembering how they were placed.
How were they placed? It has to be perfect. It has to be clean. It has to be tidy.
Glancing down at the dried, bloody footprints left by her, her chest rises and sinks a little fast. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
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Tears stream down her face as her body leans defeated against the wall.
She didn't win the game? How could she have ever won against its maker?
Anastasia stepped into his trap.
His ghost will be hunting her down for the rest of eternity, the memories of him will plague her mind like no else and the guilt will drag her even deeper than she has fallen already.
She lost.
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So... a flashback to what happened. Vaguely.
What did you think?
And how do you think is this going to evolve?
Anyway, I hope you're all doing great and if not, I hope you will feel better soon!
Have a great weekend! And thank you all for reading this story!