Page 7 of Ricochet
“You know what,” she stood up abruptly, knocking the milkshake cup in the process, “screw this. You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong? That’s fine. But I think I at least deserve you to be fucking present here—”
“I am present.”
“No, you’re not. Your body’s here, but your mind is somewhere else. You know where to find me once you decide I am worthy of your time and attention.”
“Ava!” She started walking away, and I pulled myself up, catching up with her. “What the fuck, dude?”
“You’re asking me what the fuck? Are you for real right now?” She turned to me, her angry eyes slicing through me. “First,” she lifted her finger, “you ghost me for two weeks. No texts, no calls, it was like you disappeared. Second,” another finger added, “your whole behavior is very much doom and gloom, which I would understand if I fucking knew what was wrong. And third, you’re completely distracted, when I could really use a friend right now.”
“Ava—”
“No, I’m done. Find me when you start being you again.”
I had nothing to say to her because I knew she was right. I was distracted, I was somewhere else. But as I said, if being a bitch meant she gets to stay safe and ignorant of all this bullshit, then so be it.
“So, that’s it? You’re just gonna stand there and say nothing?”
My eyes were burning from the tears wanting to spill over my cheeks, but this was one sacrifice I would gladly make.
“You’re unbelievable.”
I could see the slight quiver in her chin, but just like me, she swallowed her emotions, and with one last look at me, she left the field. We attracted quite the attention from the teenagers milling around, enjoying the summer day. I wished I was one of them—gushing after boys, deciding what to wear, even gossiping about other people, but I wasn’t.
I was me.
And tonight, I had to survive dinner at Nightingale Hill without killing one of the people I shared blood with.
* * *
“Ekaterina!”
Sitting in front of the mirror and applying makeup, I almost stabbed myself in the eye with the brush, flinching at the sound of my father’s voice. I wasn’t Ophelia to him anymore; I was Ekaterina because, “I had to embrace my true Russian heritage”. I was already stabbing people left and right, what more could he want from me? Should I start chugging vodka morning, afternoon and evening to completely accept my heritage?
Oh, I know. I should probably follow in my mother’s footsteps. A little bit of lithium, a couple of shots, and I would be good to go. Even she stopped calling me Ophelia, using Ekaterina every step of the way.
Couldn’t they let me have at least a small semblance of who I used to be?
A year ago, I readThe Flowers of Evilby Charles Baudelaire, and I was so captivated by it that I kept rereading it over and over again. The way he described his beloved city, the decadence of what was once beautiful, but was now like rotting flesh, destroyed from the inside out, it reminded me of me, of my family, of this world I thought I knew. I thought was beautiful, but was nothing but rotten.
The place I once called home was unrecognizable to me. Even the people I loved were practically strangers. My dreams and hopes disappeared with one single act that night. With the blade of my knife slicing through that man’s throat, it sliced through everything that was me. We all kill pieces of ourselves.
One piece at the time.
One dream per day.
One hope per second.
All of them shattered, lying on the pile of what we once used to be.
“Ekaterina!” His voice sounded angry now, and I didn’t want him to come in here.
“Da, Papa?” Was that a quiver I heard in my voice? Of course, it was. Even a monster had another monster it feared, and I feared him.
“We have to go. The boys have already arrived.”
Boys.
Kieran and Cillian.
