On that bloody day twenty years ago, he looked like a man to me. But it occurs to me with a sudden start that he couldn’t have been any older than I am now. His eyes were a soft, clear blue. His hair was brown, with streaks of something closer to blond. Jaw sharp as a razor, chin strong and proud.
Even as a child, I remember thinking, He looks like a prince from a fairytale.
That was back when I read fairytales. Back when I believed in them.
In some ways, that made it harder to process. And so much harder to understand. When evil looks like evil, it’s easier to spot. Easier to run from. Easier to despise.
But when evil doesn’t look like evil… what do you do then?
You look for other things. You look for reminders that the angel approaching you is in fact a devil.
I might have walked right into Kian O’Sullivan’s arms if it hadn’t been for the blood splattered all over him.
My father’s blood.
I hold onto that. The way Kian reeked of blood and gore. The way he seemed completely unaffected by all the corpses he had to step over to get to me.
I can’t see the young couple on the road anymore, but I can hear their dying laughter as it fades away. When was the last time I’d laughed—about anything?
It’s been a long fucking time.
* * *
I slip back into the house and turn on a few lights as I move through it. It’s a one-story, two-bedroom ranch. The smallest home we’ve ever lived in. Drago insisted that he could have bought a bigger place, but he wanted to “fly under the radar.” Too bad I stopped believing his spin the day he dragged me out of hell. But that’s another story.
The money is dwindling. A combination of two things: Drago’s excessive spending in the early years of our forced exile and the fact that his so-called “business deals” are really just desperate attempts to try and reverse our fortunes.
Drago gets stupid when he gets desperate.
He also gets angry. Really, really angry.
I’ve got the scars to prove it.
I’m just stepping out of the shower when I hear the door slam. It seems to vibrate through the house. I sigh deeply and slip on my underwear.
I always make sure to keep the bathroom door locked. It makes me uncomfortable when Drago walks in on me—a creepy habit he’d fallen into a few years ago.
I grab the black matching bra and put it on. Automatically, my eyes go to the square mirror in front of the sink.
I look at myself with a critical eye. My legs are hard and well-toned from all the running. I used to think that if my body was strong enough, it might erase the scars etched on my skin. Trauma from my weaker days.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to realize that weakness comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes, it can even masquerade as strength.
“Renata! Where the fuck are you?”
I put on my favorite pair of blue jeans and a short white t-shirt that I’ve had since I was a teenager. I leave my thick brown hair loose as I head back into the main body of the house.
It’s meant to be open plan, though out here in the boonies of Long Island, that mostly means that all the living spaces are mashed in together with little to differentiate them. A half-wall cleaves out the kitchen, but everything else is a confused jumble.
Drago is hunched in front of the fridge, his back to me. I don’t have to see his face to know he’s pissed off.
There can only be one reason for that kind of reaction.
“How’d it go?” I ask, making sure to keep a wide berth between us.
“How do you fucking think?” he growls, slamming the fridge door so hard I hear something break inside.
“Careful,” I warn before I can stop myself. “We can’t afford to buy a new one.”