Disclaimer: Not mine.
A short story about Irina's childhood.
Russian Roulette
/noun/
A potentially lethal game of chance in which participants place a single round in a revolver, spin the cylinder, place the muzzle against their head and pull the trigger.
Russian Roulette.
She hated it.
She had seen so many twits lose their lives at the train tracks, the rendezvous point for the weekly game of Russian Roulette in their small town. She knew that only foolhardy people would dare play such a venturesome entertainment. She had sneered at them all.
Only fools venture where angels dare not tread.
She had lost her father to that stupid game, after he had gotten intoxicated with the vodka that he adored so much.
The vodka that he loved more than he did her.
She wasn't particularly fond of her father. However, he was the only family she had on this Earth.
The truth was that he scared her. She hated him for all of the abuse he put her through.
Irina could handle the torture. She was a tough soul, a survivor. In later years, she would be recruited into the KGB specifically because of the fact that she didn't break easily.
But her mother was as fragile as glass, and she died because of him.
She had witnessed her mother's death. The only reason why she hadn't been killed was because her mother had hidden her in the small broom cupboard. That was the only safe haven inside that miserable, tiny apartment that they called home. It was her only refuge against the pain he inflicted on her with his belt.
Of course, if he used the belt, it would be a good day. It was when he made use of other more excruciating methods that she would start to fear for her life.
Could she even call it a life? Did all of the suffering count as living? All those days she had spent scouring the streets for morsels of uneaten food, begging desperately for something–anything- that could ensure the survival of her mother and herself.
Of course, their survival was never a surety. The man she called 'Papa' took every scrap for himself.
That just made it easier for him to kill her Mama, her Mama that was weak with malnutrition and had become little more than a walking skeleton.
Irina could live on little to no food. She could handle the hunger pangs. She was able to endure the daily bouts of dehydration that left her throat as parched and dry as sandpaper.
She was tough, a survivor. She didn't break easily.
She broke on that day.
She remembered every detail of her mother's death. She had watched through the keyhole of the cupboard. It was as though she was standing right beside her mother, an accomplice to murder.
She had just watched in horror, her tears spilling over her red, blotchy cheeks, staining the torn and tattered piece of clothing that she called a dress. She was rooted to the spot, paralyzed. She couldn't move because she was scared.
She thought that this was the truth.
The truth was that she was immobile because she was weak.
She was weak, weak, weak.
Never again.
She swore to herself that she would get stronger. She would do everything -anything- to become more powerful.
She remembered the words the soldiers used whenever they committed homicide. It was their way of justifying murder.
The only way to get stronger is by killing off the weeds.
Her father was more than a weed. He was a parasite.
She needed to get rid of him.
She had to kill him.
She didn't hesitate. Her father's obsession with Russian Roulette gave her a prime opportunity. He was so drunk, delirious with hallucinations. He never even noticed that she had loaded the gun fully.
He was far too confident. Years of playing, yet escaping unscathed had led him to believe that he was in God's favor. He thought Lady Luck was on his side. He knew that the angels smiled upon him.
He was a fool.
Even she, who was only a mere child, knew that you should never leave anything to chance.
He pulled the trigger. The bullet made contact with his head. Blood splattered everywhere, creating an abstract piece of artwork on all of the furniture.
Irina was drenched in red rain.
And she loved every last drop of it.
A single, solitary tear wet her face.
She didn't think he deserved even that much.
But then, she realized something.
She smiled as more tears spilled from her ice-blue eyes, stinging her skin, and moisturizing her chapped lips. The tears tasted sweet on her tongue, as though it was nectar from Shangri-La.
These were tears of joy.
Russian Roulette.
She hated it.
But she loved it too.
A/N: As always, tell me what you like, what you hate, and what can be improved. Press that review button, people! You know you want to... ;)
I've no idea whether Irina's childhood has been explored before, but if it has, well, humor me and review anyway, kay? Personally, I like this story. It's very different from my usual style of writing.
I just realized that I've been posting something new everyday for the past few days. Oh, well. My two week semester break is over, so I won't be posting anything for a long time. I envy those with summer breaks. ;p
Annyeong, chingus!