73. Octavia
What does it mean to become a monster?
These days, arbitrary terms like right and wrong smear together like parallel swatches of paint. I suppose redeemable people regret their misdeeds. They kneel in pews and beg the stars. They erase the sweet taste of vindication from their tongues and move forward with their lives.
Vasiliy watches me the entire ride home. Ever since we stepped out of that mansion, some part of his body has always been in contact with mine. Now he sits and waits for the numbness to fall over me. For my mind to catch up with my hands’ sins.
And with good reason. It wasn’t so long ago that he coaxed a different girl back from the cliff’s edge. I press my fingers into his skin, carefully avoiding those bright blue eyes. They will see right through. He’ll realize the woman he fell in love with is gone, and in her place is this.
When we pull up to the Siderov gates, he squeezes my wrist. The rest of the vans follow ours to the roundabout, where blonde hair flows in the wind. My door swings open, and I step into the night.
Aunt Juliet shifts nervously in the center of a large contingent of guards.
Her typically powdered cheeks are puffy and damp, and she chews on her manicured nails while she watches me step out.
I’m not surprised that someone sent for her to return to the compound.
It took a while to sort through the bodies and calculate how many we’d lost.
“Is he…are they…?” She rushes over, eyes pinching at the blood soaking my hands and dress. An answer is on the tip of my tongue when the next van’s door opens, and Alex climbs out, supporting a dazed Kirill.
She cries, stumbling past me.
I watch the reunion for a while—the motherly touches that imprint his flesh into her hands. A silent mix of agony and relief fights for dominance on Alex’s face. Kirill’s lips shift with quiet reassurances, even as he flinches at the moon’s bright light.
My head goes light. Hands snake my waist before I can slip down to the grass.
I stay in his arms until I’ve stolen enough strength to stand on my own.
When Juliet’s searching gaze finds Kirill’s bloody hand, I turn, walking inside with my silent shadow.
A loud wail follows me. I don’t allow myself to flinch at the sound.
I climb the steps. My hand skims the bannister at the top, and I cut down the hall to the far door.
Dad’s office is empty when we enter. Mom’s journals still lie splayed open across the floor where I’d left them behind. A copy of the blueprints is pressed to the desk with empty glasses and abandoned bottles.
I still haven’t moved his book from the arm of the reading chair.
It’s been forgotten, just like the chess pieces frozen in formations across the board.
I sit gently, careful not to sully the book with the blood on my hands.
Vasiliy hovers in the doorway with a watchful eye, but I pay him no heed as I lean forward to examine the board.
I’m not sure how long I sit. My hands dry, and the substance flakes off.
Vasiliy leaves and returns four times, bringing back a different item with every reappearance.
A cup of hot tea. A warm towel for the filth on my hands and face.
Fluffy blankets for my legs and shoulders.
The final item is the most appreciated: a book on chess that I rage-bought after suffering my first defeat.
I crack the spine over my thigh and think.
When I finally lean forward, the morning light is streaking through the blinds, and the cardinals’ whistles pierce the air. I play both sides. Black first, then white. It takes exactly fourteen moves before the bishop knocks the king.