“I thought that was a given,” she says in her sing song voice. “My mother’s been helping me sew my dress for a month now. It is kind of suspicious Mr. Zielinski gave me that weekend off, though, now that I think about it.”
“Misui,” I pull her body close to mine. I can smell the vanilla in her hair, the fruity chapstick on her lips.
“I don’t want to know,” she says.
“Why are you so smart?” I put my lips just a centimeter from hers, feeling the air rush from her mouth. She quickly dips away and reaches in her pocket, popping a mint in her mouth. It’s never ending, this cat and mouse game, and for whatever reason, I don’t mind it at all. I live for it. It only feeds my fire.
“Misui…” I look at her and shake my head, taking one step closer. She bites her lip and smiles. I know she wants me. How could she not? I’ve got it all, the money, the power, the family, the looks. I’ve got everything she could possibly need to spend the rest of her life in complete bliss. She’d never have to work another day of her life. She could be my trophy, my princess, mine forever.
“Serafin!” she shouts, her eyes growing wide as saucers.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, little mouse,” I say, shaking my head.
“No, Serafin! Behind you!” she shrieks. I don’t have time to look over my shoulder before a set of hands are gripped around my neck. I jam my elbows into whoever it is, dig my boot right into their shin, but they don’t let up.
“Run!” I hiss.
“I’m calling the cops!” she says. “Let him go! I am calling the cops right now.”
Everything is going blurry as the air leaves my body. The grip around my throat loosens.
“What does she know?” a gruff voice shouts in my ear.
“She is nobody. A peasant. A whore,” I say. The words cut my mouth. They are lies. She is everybody and everything. The classiest most perfect woman in the entire world. I don’t look over my shoulder to see her expression. I can’t. My sweet little mouse needs protected at all costs. She doesn’t deserve to feel the suffering of my father’s decisions. This isn’t random, of that I’m certain.
As the brick makes contact with the side of my skull, I realize what I’ve should’ve known all along. I never deserved her love. I fall to the pavement, the acidic taste of blood flooding my mouth. My ears are ringing so loud, I can’t tell up from down. I can’t hear her screams anymore. I am mortified she had to witness this, that she had to see the man I really am, the man she suspected me of being this whole time.
My face begins to burn as the man hovering over me dumps something in my eye. White hot pain sears through me. I can’t see. I can’t move. My body is in total shock.
Their laughter fades, and I try to pick myself up from the cold pavement, but I can’t move. I try to crawl away, but the squealing of tires grows nearer, and I feel every bone in my leg shatter as the car runs over me.
“Serafin,” she sobs, her voice beckoning me forward. I don’t know if it’s truly her, or if it’s my brain hallucinating, releasing all those chemicals one does right before they die. “I love you. The police are coming. Hang in there.”
“Get away from me,” I choke out, my words choppy. “Get as far away from me as you can. I never want to see you again.”
Not on this earth, and not in hell, where I am certainly bound for. The sound of sirens lull me to rest, as my body gives in to the comfort of unconsciousness.
2
Mia:
Twelve years later
“You gotta come out of there sometime, Mia.” My best friend and roommate Janka stands in the doorway of my bedroom with a bottle of vodka in her hand. I can tell by the way she’s twirling her long black hair between her fingers and the sing song tone of her voice, she’s already had a little to drink.
I stub out my cigarette and immediately light up another one. I take my paint brush and load it up with blue oil paint from my pallet, slapping it onto the canvas with dramatic flair. This thing has so many layers it probably weighs more than I do, but something about it feels incomplete.
I don’t know if it’s missing a light source or a shadow, or what’s wrong with it, and in this moment, I seriously regret not paying more attention in art school.
“It stinks like a Petrol station in here,” she says as she slinks across the room on drunken legs and yanks on my window, a burst of winter air hitting me right in the face.
“Paint thinner,” I say, motioning to the bucket of solvent.
“You’re gonna blow yourself up!” she shouts, grabbing the cigarette from my hand and running out into the living room. I shrug and set down my paintbrush, taking a step back so I can see the entire picture as a whole.
Blowing myself up might not be the worst option right now.
I’m a divorced loser with no steady job. Janka and I get money, but it’s definitely not in a way I’m proud of.
When I could still afford her, my therapist suggested I work out my feelings through picking up painting again, but the only thing I seem to be making is a bigger mess out of my life.
I clench my paintbrush between my teeth and fix my ponytail.
“What’s it supposed to be?” Janka asks.
I shrug and cock my head, examining the blue and gray piece of abstract art I’ve been cranking away at day and night for the last three weeks. “A metaphor?” I ask.
“Makes sense,” she says, wrapping her arm around my
