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present tense but a flashback.
✦continuation of an event in chapter 13 <3✦
There's a crackle from my ear piece, distracting me from the bully in my head. My head perks up in confusion, no one should be contacting me right now.
The smooth voice of a Russian travels down my ear making my fingers tingle and my breath hitch.
"Privet? ty kopiruyesh'?" (Hello? Do you copy?)
✦✦✦
"Privet? ty kopiruyesh'?" (Hello? Do you copy?)
The organ trapped inside my ribcage tightens at the sound of his voice. My jaw drops slightly as my eyes dart towards the door, where Thomas is. He's still there, shit. With a shake of my head, I ignore his questioning gaze.
It's nothing, I mouth.
He rolls his eyes and walks out, making me curl my fist. I really can't figure out if I hate him or love him more. The confusion he brings with how he treats me– with respect like I'm someone important, but then it changes so quickly as if I'm dirt on his shoe.
I quickly focus back on the person somehow talking in my ear.
"Hello?" I answer. "Privet?"
I'm guessing privet is hello with whatever language he's speaking– maybe Russian, I think.
I lean forward in my seat when the line goes silent. I hear light murmurs. For some reason, I feel relieved that they haven't put it down.
I hear the same guy growl, "Ey, verni mne yego, Feliks." (Hey–give me it back, Feliks)
Another guy–feliks, I'm guessing replies with a scoff, "Chto? Znachit, ty mozhesh' pogovorit' s kakoy-nibud' sluchaynoy devushkoy?"(what? So you can talk to some random girl?)
"Otvali." (Fuck off)
"Shlyukha."(Whore)
"Suka." (Bitch)
Are they arguing?
"Helloooo," I call out, "if you guys don't start speaking in English then I'm going to assume you're calling me a hairy monkey."
"Give. It." the guy who is not Feliks says in the background, ignoring me. There's a shuffle then he speaks again, this time to me, "Hello? Are you still there?"
His voice runs down my spine, uncomfortably. My belly– there are things flying around in there.
"Yes I am but I'm afraid I've started to wither and die with how long you took," I say, with sarcasm in my tone.
"Yeah, sorry about that Feliks was..." he trails off arguing with Feliks in the background.
"Were you speaking Russian?" I ask, curiously.
"Da," he says.
"Da," I repeat, "I'm going to assume that's a yes. So what's your name and why'd you call me?"
The ringing part is a lie since it's an earpiece I'm wearing but that would be harder to explain.
"I rang by accident– apologies for disturbing you if I have," he says.
I raise a brow at his manners. His voice has a rough edge which contrasts with his soft words.
"Oh no you haven't, don't worry," I say with a shrug, "If it was an accident, does that mean you're going to hang up?"
Please say no, a hidden voice in my head says. I immediately recoil at the voice. Or a fucking stupid voice. I don't even know why I thought that. He can hang up whenever he wants for all I care.
"Do you want me to?"
No– can this voice in my head disrespectfully fuck off?
"I don't care," I say, with an unintentional bite in my voice, "Your name. What is it?" I demand, like I care.
"Tell me yours first," he says.
I roll my eyes. Can't he answer a simple question for god sake? Why is he making this harder? I don't even know why I'm even bothering with this.
"I don't tell strangers my name," I reply.
If he's Russian and I intercepted his communications by accident this is no coincidence. If these people are who I think they are, my name is the last thing I'm saying in case they ever are able to trace the call to the Italians. Then boom. Identity blown.
"You sound really posh, you know that? Are you some sort of princess I should know about?"
I try to control the smile that nearly breaks free on my face. Why did that almost just happen?
"Who, me? No, I'm not a princess, I've just got a British accent and it's barely posh."
"No, but you say your t's. I thought British people just miss them out."
"Well, I guess I'm well-spoken." I trace my kneecap with my nail.
"Like a princess," he teases, "who's the English one? Kate, right?"
I frown. "Bold of you to assume I'm white."
I hear someone in the background bark a laugh.
"I wasn't saying you looked like her," he states a valid argument.
"Good because she's way fucking older than me," I reply, a bit more aggressive than I'd like but I don't care. If he gets pissed off at that then he clearly has a short fuse like everyone around here.
"How old are you?" he questions, ignoring my tone.
I hesitate. "Seventeen. You?"
"Eighteen."
"Does that mean you're going to university or in it right now?" I ask, not knowing why I'm continuing this conversation longer than I have to since I know the answer.
Men in the mafia don't do university degrees when they have a multi-million– almost billion–dollar business involving weapons and drugs.
The momentary silence gives me all the confirmation I need, making my blood chill slightly. Fuck. I shouldn't be doing this right now. If they find out... my mind blocks out the possible consequences before I can panic, a numbness falling over me.
"Maybe, " he replies, "what about you?"
What about you?
It's such a simple question, but I feel so taken aback by it. I don't even know if I want to last long enough for that. Not when life is like this. Not when I have to close my eyes every time I feel trapped and believe everything is my fault. I should've just stayed at home like a regular person and not been an attention-seeking whiny whore.
Once you're in, it's almost impossible to escape.
"I don't know," I answer, cursing myself at the lost tone in my voice.
"What's wrong?"
My back straightens. He can only hear my voice yet he just saw right through me. There's a tight lump in my throat.
"Fucking nothing," I say, defensively.
"Have I done something wrong? I thought you wanted to talk but I–"
"No don't go," the words accidentally slip out and I curse myself, "I mean, I don't mind talking to you."
"You don't mind, huh?" there's a smile in his voice– a breath catches in my throat.
I touch my lips, feeling a small smile. I almost frown. Did talking to a stranger just make me smile?
"Shut up," I mumble, playing with my sleeve, "anyways to answer your question, I'll probably be some boring stay-at-home mom or a stupid housewife."
"Mhm."
I scowl. "What does that mean?"
"Something tells me you don't want to do that," he says, nonchalantly. This is by far the most random conversation I've ever had with a stranger.
"And you know that how Mr apparently-knows-everything-about-me?"
"You used the words 'boring' and 'stupid' which would be offensive to women who do stay home and are housewives," he says, pointedly. I roll my eyes. I don't like him. "Why don't you be a do–"
"What's your name?" I ask again.
"Yours first, princess," he counters.
I gag. "That is horrible, you're making my ears bleed," I lie. I do not understand why the fuck my cheeks are heating traitorously.
"So what about a doctor?" he asks.
I pause.
My parents would love that. I'm not their favourite right now, despite being their only damn daughter, because I'm a year behind in school. I look down at my hands. Saving lives? How could I save lives when all I've known is how to take them? My hands are so tainted it feels... wrong.
"I'm going to take the silence as a... actually I don't know. What are you thinking?"
"I can't do it," I shake my head.
"Why? Are you too dumb for it?" he asks and my jaw drops. "Don't worry, I'd be too."
"Speak for yourself," I snort. "I'm not good with people so it's probably not the best choice."
"You're good with me, what's the difference?"
"Yeah, and you sound awfully annoying enough for me. Any more I'll have a mental break," I joke.
"Bullshit," he calls me out, "I think you're scared."
I scoff, offended. "I'm not scared."
I hear shouting on his end, then it's silent. Has it been cut off?
Shit– wait– does that mean–
I hear a loud bang, almost making me jump. My pulse skitters and I forget to breathe. What the fuck was that?
Fuck. No, no, no– I don't want to go back to reality right now. My chest rises and falls quickly as I grab a gun and check my knife is strapped against my leg. Clenching my jaw and fists, I force out every emotion from my mind that is everywhere.
It feels heavy– my heart. My heart feels heavy with every existing thought I have. I want to be thoughtless, motionless, breathless. Without burden. To not be a burden.
I'm not scared, I repeat to myself in my head. "This doesn't feel fucking real," I say aloud to myself. I quickly look around to make sure no one heard that.
My earpiece crackles again.
"Are you alright?" he asks, concern in his voice. Stop fucking asking that. Please. "You're breathing really fast–"
"Do you ever feel like life isn't real?" Like you're dissociating. "Like it's just a simulation we've all been placed in? I lied before– I'm fucking terrified and–"
"Hey, hey, hey," he interrupts me, his voice like a splash of cold water against my skin. "You're alright, okay princess?"
"Stop calling me princess," I breathe.
"Well, when you won't tell me your name I have to call you something and I think Princess is perfect for you," he teases. "Unless you become a doctor, then I'll call you that."
"Devi," I blurt, damning myself. "My name is Devi."
"Devi," he repeats, practically tasting the damn name. I can practically hear him smile. He continues "Well Devi–"
I frown, "aren't you going to tell me yours?"
"Nah," he replies, making me scowl.
Before I can retort with anything the noise gets louder, irking me more. This fear– everything– it never happens, I don't know why I'm panicking. Blinking rapidly, I try to push the panic to the back of my head. My heart is about to explode in my throat. I need to go but I don't want to. Any second Thomas might barge through those doors and–
"Look Devi," the guy interrupts my train of thought, "when life is feeling too impossible to be real I like to tell myself that it's all real as real can be. Life can only be as real as you make it. Living as someone you are not is the equivalent of locking yourself away and depriving yourself of the life you deserve. So of course, it won't feel real–who would want that to be real? So, life, it's, real as real can be. It's whatever you can make of it."
Real as real can be.
I release a breathy laugh. "That's so cheesy." I'll remember it for life.
He chuckles, and it makes my neck tingle. "If you have anything better then please do share, Devi."
I smile, "I have nothing."
"Nu davay zhe," I hear someone in the background say. (Come on)
"Konechno, konechno. Day mne minutu," he replies to them. (Sure. Sure. give me a minute)
"Do you have to go?" I ask, quietly.
"Yeah," he replies.
"Oh."
I turn it off, not saying anything else. I won't give him any satisfaction by saying goodbye, because saying goodbye means he actually matters.
My hand rests on the door handle, about to turn it– but I stop.
Maybe I should have said goodbye.
I don't like the way it deflates me. I don't want to say goodbye. I obviously don't want to carry on talking to him and I never am going to again probably, thank god. He's annoying. Sounds like a spoiled, self-entitled, unfiltered boy. I bet he's called every girl princess. The nickname should be banned for how vile it is. I'm not a baby. And I can decide for myself if I actually like the idea of being a housewife or not. He definitely wasn't right. Being a doctor sounds horrible, obviously.
I breathe out a laugh. I love to lie to myself. I am my own victim. So how am I supposed to get justice? It's incomprehensible. Unreal.
His words ring through my head– perhaps steadying me more than I ever thought they could.
Real as real can be.
//
cute?
I have been itching to write this from the start.