Chapter 43
Cecilia
Ican’t sleep, and Mikhail won’t give me any more pills. Developing a dependency is the least of my problems. I just want these thoughts to go away, for my heart to stop hurting.
The crack in the open door fills with a dark silhouette before my husband comes in to check on me again.
He’s wearing a dark grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair in slight disarray.
There’s barely any shine in those green eyes.
Last I saw him being his usual self was the day before he left for Los Angeles, when he took me on my piano and I told him I loved him.
The fact that he’s being forced to go through this mess with me fills me with more guilt. I hate that there’s no way I can shield him from who I am, that he insists he won’t be going anywhere.
If I hurt him too…
“Hungry?” he asks, approaching my bedside.
I shake my head, the disappointment in his gaze too difficult to handle. I can’t fathom the thought of ingesting any food. Nausea keeps whirling inside me whenever I even smell it. Water and lemon is all I’ve been able to consume.
This time, however, Mikhail doesn’t push me again. The buttered toast from this morning is still on my nightstand.
“Come on,” he says, scooping me up gently. “Let’s get you up for a few minutes. We can take a warm shower, and maybe it will help you sleep. Hmm?”
I don’t answer, but I don’t protest either. I let him carry me into the bathroom, basking in the scent emanating from the crook of his neck—still the only place where I can find a little reprieve.
He puts me down on the marble counter before leaving to turn on the shower, my body aching to be held by him again.
Water starts pouring down, filling the room with steam.
I watch him take off his shirt, and then his pants, socks, and briefs, my heart fluttering just a touch at the sight.
When he comes back to me, his dexterous fingers undo the buttons of my flannel, his warm skin brushing mine in the process.
I let him push the blouse off my shoulders, leaving me bare for him.
My breasts hang heavy between us, and he swallows, focused on undressing the rest of me.
When he scoops me up and puts me down on my own two feet, I hold his arm, for a second forgetting how to work with gravity.
I haven’t gotten out of bed in days, other than to pee.
He takes my hand, and I trudge with him under the hot stream, my entire body trembling from the change in temperature.
My lungs contract and expand forcefully for a few seconds before I begin to relax, closing my eyes and facing the pouring water.
It doesn’t erase anything, but it brings attention to my flesh instead of my thoughts. I welcome the distraction.
My husband wraps his strong arms around me, pulling me into his chest. I turn my head to the side, pressing it to his muscles, knowing he’s got me.
“There you are. That’s my good girl,” he murmurs above me. “Does this feel good?”
“A little. Thank you...”
He hums with satisfaction, tightening his hold.
His cock sits hard in between us, resting on my belly, but we just stand here, the water pouring down on us, indulging in each other’s presence.
He’s so good to me, so patient and understanding, completely different than when I first met him.
I bring my arms up, circling his naked waist, realizing how much I love him—even now, when my entire world is collapsing.
It’s the only thing that continues to stay with me.
“How will I ever live with myself again?” I murmur.
A hand caresses my hair. “I will fix this, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about that.”
“How? You can’t change what I am.”
“I can love what you are.”
I shake my head against his chest.
“Yes,” he protests. “Every dark part of you—every mistake, every lie, every regret you have, I can look these things in the eye and love them. I’m not afraid of your darkness, Lastochka. Never will be.”
I listen, but I don’t respond. The more he talks about loving me, the more I begin to cry.
From here, I don’t know how much time passes. He holds me, containing me, kissing the top of my head and murmuring soft words of affirmation. If he weren’t here…if I hadn’t married this man…how the hell would I have gone through this all by myself?
When my tears stop and my body grows exhausted, I peel my face off his chest and look up.
“Thank you for choosing me. Even now, when I don’t deserve it.”
That tilt of his lips I remember too well draws more tears from my eyes, but this time, they’re filled with gratitude. He deserves to smile like this again, even if I never recover from my trauma.
“It’s only ever going to be you, Cecilia.
My only choice. Even at your worst, you’re still the most incredible thing in my life.
” His hand tangles in my hair, pulling softly, a soft kiss landing on my lips.
When he disconnects, I’m left missing him, even if he’s right here next to me. “Turn around. Let me wash your hair.”
I’m back in bed, watching Mikhail leave to get me a smoothie. I still don’t have an appetite, but for him, I’ll try a small sip. I know how worried he has been.
Hair damp on my shoulders and smelling of my usual shampoo, I feel a little grounded.
Not because anything has resolved in my mind, but because I took a break from all the chaos swarming there, if only for a few minutes.
As soon as Mikhail closes the door behind him, though, everything comes knocking back, anxiety tingling down my limbs.
I pull my knees into myself, whimpering at the horrible images flashing before my eyes.
I don’t want this anymore. I want it to stop.
But it will never stop. This is my life now.
Tossing to the other side, I pick up my phone from the nightstand and open my contacts, thumb scrolling fast for Ms. Donatello’s number. I know she can’t fix me this time around, but I need her. I want her to try.
The phone rings twice in tandem with my heartbeat. Then, the call connects, and I hold my breath.
“Cecilia?”
“H-Hi,” I croak out. “I…um…I’m sorry for not calling you sooner. I didn’t know where we stood after the wedding and everything…”
“You’re crying. What’s wrong, cara?”
“Everything’s wrong. Everything…”
I sob, and the line goes quiet as I try to get a hold of myself.
“You remembered,” she says in that calm voice of hers.
She knows. Of course she knows. All those discussions about my nightmares, all the times she asked me to tell her if I’m still having them, she was trying to protect me from learning the truth.
“I’m so s-sorry.” My throat chokes on pain—thick and cruel. “I don’t understand. I l-loved her…”
“Oh, Cecilia…” She sighs, the sound of traffic coming through from her line. “I tried so hard to keep you from finding out. What happened that night was a terrible mistake. You were just a child.”
A mistake? How could that have been a mistake? A mistake is missing a key at the piano or messing up a chorus. But taking my parent’s life…that’s no accident. It cannot be.
“I tried to end it…” I confess. “I don’t know what else to do. I deserve to be in prison or in a mental facility. What is wrong with me? Do you know? Can you tell me?”
“Nothing! Nothing is wrong with you, cara. It’s just…
” She pauses. “A child shouldn’t grow up around guns and criminals.
A lot was happening in your father’s business around that time, and you became overwhelmed by all the stress your parents carried.
You snapped. You didn’t know how to handle all those strong emotions. No child does.”
Her words feel like an embrace from death—it’s warm and inviting, but it still doesn’t negate the facts. And the facts are, I got a hold of a knife and plunged it into the person I loved the most. Because I snapped. If what she’s saying is true, what will happen the next time I’m overwhelmed again?
“I s-snapped?”
“You did, cara. Oh lord, I’m so sorry you are going through this…”
I shake my head. “I should visit my shrink or talk to my father. See what they think happened as well…”
“You can if you want, but…some truths don’t help us heal. What good would it do you to relive that awful past?”
I nod, digging my nails into my palm. The mere thought of admitting what I did to other people is enough to make me agree.
It makes sense now that my father stopped loving me—that he became a stranger soon after my mother’s death.
I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for him to see me every day in that house, to pretend I was still his daughter.
“Why did you stay with me all those years?” I whisper.
“What kind of a friend would I have been to your mother if I had abandoned her only child when she needed me the most? I’m not scared of you, Cecilia, never have been. Not even when I found you after the fact. You were just a child, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for your father’s negligence.”
My chest tightens at her soft words, and something—maybe my self-preservation instincts—pulls me into her comforting version of the event. Maybe it wasn’t all my fault. Maybe being a child living with criminals does do something to your psyche.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t function…” I croak out.
“You have to. Terrible things happen every day, and that’s life. Find something good to hold on to, and understand it wasn’t your fault.”
As if it were that simple…
I close my eyes, nodding, clinging to her words like God himself is speaking to me.
We go on for a few more minutes, and she makes me promise to call her whenever I need to talk again. Then, my husband returns, and I’m glad I don’t have time to retreat into myself. Distracting myself, I realize, feels slightly better than staying in my head.
“You don’t have to drink this, but fuck, Lastochka, I’m willing to do anything for you to take a few sips,” Mikhail says, handing me a fruit smoothie.
I look up at him, seeing the concern displayed all over his handsome face, and take it. When I smell the pineapple and banana, I don’t feel nauseous like before. So, I bring the glass to my lips and take a few sips…until the glass ends up being half empty.