Prologue #3
If Savina is lucky, I’ll give her a merciful death…
even if she might not deserve it. She is Donato Cipriano’s daughter, after all, and perhaps just as evil and corrupt as her father.
That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of when something happens that surprises the hell out of me and has my heart skipping a beat inside of my chest.
Savina begins to sing in the shower.
Her voice drifts into the room, soft and unguarded, curling around every corner like it belongs there.
It’s raw, low and tender in places, brighter in others, and threaded with something that catches under my ribs and pulls firmly.
I don’t recognize the lyrics, but the song sounds strangely familiar to me somehow.
Savina is singing for herself. This version of her doesn’t know I’m here, listening intently and hanging on to every single note like a lifeline.
She sounds better than any of the singers on the radio.
She sings with a deep emotion I’ve never heard before, and I can feel my heart picking up in pace as I realize she reminds me of a little nightingale.
In my native tongue, I would call her privighetoare mic?.
I can remember their beautiful songs filling my ears as I walked in the forest with my mother, holding her hand and beaming up at her because that was before I knew about violence, about death.
Everything about Savina makes me think of home.
A simpler time, before I became what I ultimately become.
Savina’s voice is so sweet and smooth, it begins to calm me down like nothing ever has before.
Slowly, I begin to relax, my tense muscles becoming slack.
Even my breathing slows down. It’s almost like I’m in some sort of trance as the singing continues.
Her voice is so pretty, it begins pulling me to another place.
One where I’m not who I am and she’s not who she is…
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Standing abruptly, I try to force the feelings out of my mind and body. I refuse to feel anything, especially anything towards this girl, who I’m about to murder.
I need to focus.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
Raising my hand, I slap my cheek. Hard. And then again and again until I taste blood in my mouth.
Having learned that trick from my father, I use it quite often.
Sometimes you just need pain to refocus your thoughts.
I always had trouble focusing when I was younger, so he would just beat the shit out of me until I began to understand that not focusing would only lead to grueling, devastating pain. And I hate to admit it, but it worked.
Sitting back down on the bed and forcing myself to tune her out, I look around the room.
Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can see how nearly every inch of the room is drenched in pinks and purples, crowded with every fluffy thing imaginable.
It’s like a soft, deliberate shield, as if the stuffed animals are meant to guard her from her father’s harsh, corrupt world.
My fist grips the knife harder in my hand.
At least they’re allowing Savina to live a good childhood, I guess.
My father started training me when I was five years old.
I never had what was considered a normal upbringing.
Against my mother’s wishes, my father turned me into a killer by the age of seven.
I guess that was a big part of the reason why she left us.
It didn’t take her long to find drugs to drown out the memories of us, and then she wound up dead in a ditch on the side of the road not long after.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I think to myself, What the hell is getting into me right now?
And then I realize it has to be Savina’s melancholy song dredging up all my past memories and making me feel shit I don’t want to feel.
I’m the best when it comes to repressing and denying any sort of emotion.
And so, if Savina is making me feel like this already, then what would our marriage be like?
Oh God, would we talk about our feelings over dinner after she asks how my day was? Fuck that.
I shake my head, throwing those thoughts right out. No, I can’t ever marry someone like her. It would never work. She’s too good, too innocent.
Suddenly, the singing stops in the next room and is replaced by a quiet sob.
I can practically smell her tears from here.
She cries and cries, her grief never-ending.
Perhaps she’s crying over the thought of marrying me.
And for some reason, that pisses me off.
I’ll never forget her blurting out her protest when her father disclosed that she would be marrying me and not my brother.
I saw the hopefulness in Savina’s gaze when it landed on Pavel first. And then it was like a switch flipped when she saw me. It was almost like she was looking through me; ripping open each and every one of my scars and discovering all of my secrets.
A million thoughts swirl through my mind all at once. Is she more attracted to my brother? Is she scared of me? Am I ugly? What’s wrong with me?
The last question gives me pause when I glance down to the knife in my hand. I’m literally here to kill her and I’m asking myself what’s wrong with me?
I chuckle darkly.
When I hear the water suddenly shut off, I know I have to quickly weigh my options. I could kill Savina now and put her out of her obvious misery. Or I could let her live, go through with the wedding, and make her life a living, breathing hell.
Once we’re married, she will be mine. Mine to do with what I please. My property. I could bend her until she finally breaks. My pretty, little nightingale.
I silently make my choice as my newfound obsession for her tightens its grip, and the darkness inside of me surges to the surface.
I guess my mother was right. I am a fucking monster.
And that’s why, without second-guessing my decision, I sneak back out of her window and take off into the night, leaving Savina to live a sad, pathetic life in peace until we’re married.
“You will be mine, privighetoare mic?,” I whisper into the shadows.