Chapter 6
The Predator
The expressions etched on her face rummaged up memories of that small bird Mama gifted me when I was twelve. Her wide eyes, filled with terror, mirrored the frightened gaze of that helpless creature.
I recalled the sickening thrill coursing through me as I held the small blade, the bird’s frantic heartbeat pulsing against my palm.
And I had felt nothing. No guilt. No regret. Just a deep, insatiable satisfaction that settled in my bones, a hunger that never quite left.
Mama knew then—knew I wasn’t meant for the dull, sanitized world the rest of them lived in. And maybe, for a time, she mourned the sweet, innocent child she’d thought she had. But in the end, she saw the truth. She saw the monster lurking beneath my skin.
I wasn’t born to be good. I was born to ruin.
Papa said I was born to reign. No doubts or questions.
When I confessed to him that the shadows no longer danced in my mind, that the whispers had quieted to a mere murmur, it was a lie as thick as the darkness that once enveloped me.
But it was a convenient fabrication, one that diverted his attention away from the intricate corridors of my fractured psyche and towards my mother.
Mama got into an argument with Papa, and it quickly turned ugly. Her voice, usually calm and comforting, was now a storm of rage and pain. No one made Mama cry and got away with it. Papa had to intervene; his presence was a cold wave trying to douse the flames. But the damage was done.
My father, Alexei Volkov, a man whose stern face was etched with the hardness of a thousand unspoken cruelties, scolded me.
He decided I needed help, which in his twisted mind meant control.
He got me a psychiatrist, a fucking personal therapist whose presence alone made my skin crawl.
Infuriating bitch. Her fake concern and rehearsed empathy made me want to skin her alive.
I answered her questions in a detached monotone, my eyes reflecting nothing but emptiness.
But right now, it was not about what type of abnormal, unfitting narcissist my parents thought I was; it was about that canary—that little, bright, scared bird.
Papa still sometimes asks me why I did that.
I thought the answer was simple. I wanted to see what lay beneath the bird’s skin.
I wondered if it was as beautiful as it looked on the outside.
Humans, too, but Mama would’ve had a stroke, so I narrowed my range to only some.
If I cut her, slice her, skin her, would she still smile? Laugh? Narrow her eyes and be the nuisance she was? The black dots appeared as tiny harbingers of the violence I imagined. I watched her slamming her small fists against the iron gate. As if she could break it. Foolish, dumb American.
“Do you want me to get her?” Kyle asked.
“No,” I replied, not realising how sinister I sounded.
She swung her tiny legs over the gate, her breath visible in the cold air, and looked down at the snow, innocent and unaware. I smirked. Oh, Ptichka...
The expression on her face reminded me of that canary I once had. But she was far more interesting. She could scream, cry, beg... unlike that bird, which only sang sweetly until I silenced it forever.
I watched as she struggled, her efforts almost laughable. Her eyes, wide with a mix of determination and dread, were captivating. The cold wind bit at her skin, turning her cheeks a delicate shade of red, contrasting with the pure white snow beneath her.
Her innocence, her hope—they were fragile, breakable, just like her.
I imagined the sharp blade in my hand, the way it would slice through her soft flesh, the warmth of her blood spilling out, contrasting against the cold, lifeless snow. Would she still have that defiant look in her eyes?
I focused back on her small frame. Suppress. Suppress, motherfucker.
I repeated the words in my head for the millionth time in the past few minutes because, I swear to Satan, this seemingly bright, normal, innocent, and utterly clueless girl might be more than she appeared.
I wonder if she was this dumb, or trying to act na?ve.
“Turn off the electric fence,” I ordered, knowing this foolish girl would end up electrocuted and fried to death if she jumped on the wires hidden beneath the snow. I had them installed not long ago.
“Done, sir,” Kyle responded, but I ignored him. She jumped down from the wall and fell flat on her face. I nearly scoffed. Her head, covered in white, came up first. She looked around, face red, and spat the snow from her parted lips.
To my amusement, she pushed herself up and dusted the snow off her filthy jacket, then flipped back her hair, pretending as if she hadn’t just jumped the wall and kissed the ground. My finger twitched, and so did my jaw.
Just like a little bird, flapping her wings in vain, she was oblivious to the predator watching her.
Her suffering would be beautiful. She was more than she seemed, but in my hands, she’d be nothing more than that canary I’d skinned alive.
For beneath the skin, we were all the same—beasts with desires and hearts that ache. And I knew there was no redemption even for monsters like me.