Wires of Holy Water
Prolog
Alexandria Josephine Dobrev is no stranger to sin. Even though her father – an orthodox Jew – taught her that there are things that are unforgivable she once sneaked into the library to continue reading a book her father considered as blaspheme. They caught her asleep in one of the chairs with Dante's Divine Comedy between her hands. There was solitude in her mother's touch and forgiveness in her father's gaze. She never disappointed anyone of them ever again.
But then there was a bullet between her father's eyes and a heavily bleeding wound in her mother's chest. The hiding place under her bed seemed perfect in her 13-year old eyes. There was black smog covering her eyes making it impossible to breathe properly. Her mind was numb and her fingertips were tingling. Maybe she had gone to sleep. She was so exhausted after all.
The next thing she knew she was in a car with her uncle. He was talking on the telephone, speaking a foreign language she couldn't understand. The needle in her arm promised painlessness and euphoria.
The high itself was bliss and for the first time in days she forgot her dead parents and her bleeding baby sister. Part of her thought she'd knew hell. She'd experienced it the second she came face to face with death. But her captivators were proofing her wrong. She learned at the early age of 13 that there is always the possibility of more. More blood. More pain. More drugs. More of everything. None of them seemed to notice that at some point too much was just too much.
Her mind drifted into unconsciousness. She was aware of the ship and men touching her, but nothing mattered because the heroine made her forget the things they did to her.
They were taking her somewhere, going to do something, and she was too exhausted to fight with them despite the tiny flicker of rationalism flying through her mind. Scream. Beg. Run away. She could do that, tell them. At least she could try. Fight like hell. That's what her brother once told her. Before he went to Iraq. Before he was blown to bits by a grenade. Destiny was a funny thing.
Sometimes she could still see his face. But everything left was the rotten flag somewhere in her past.
After she lost her believe in god there was a hole in the ground. It was so dark she could barely make out her the surface above of her. Most of the times there was the sound of drunken howling men but when they fell silent she almost lost herself in her own haggard breathing. There were nights it all became too much so she started digging her nails into the hard wooden floor. They were breaking. Blood was flowing. Crimson red burning alabaster-like skin.
It was dark the night she ran away. The rain made it always impossible for her to see ahead. She was stumbling and falling over her own feet. She was outside now, skirted along the waiting sidewalk with college students coming home for Christmas, laughing and light and also ready to go back – she remembered, sort of, but really that was not what she wanted to think about. But still, she sighed, stretching and then sitting on one of the benches, one leg over the other as she tried to ignore the fact that she was tired and she couldn't be tired or they would get her. Questioning her. Doing things to her.
The questions.
It was a passive retort, but they lingered, always there. It was nothing new, the constant surge of things she rather not remembered.
She sighed.
Nikita busted into her life like a dark savior. It didn't take her quite as long as she expected to trust her.
It was the ground, that falling sensation was over, and the pit of her stomach was still shifting and spinning when she was trying not to think about it and move on. But she was just tired, no less sullen than before, but it felt different. This was backwards and there was really nothing to stop her.
She didn't want to think about it.
Or maybe she did. Maybe, she did and she was over pushing the idea of anything. She really couldn't explain it, even to herself; because really how do you say I'm going to kill these bastards to yourself when you once have been a good Jewish girl.
It didn't matter.
She wasn't asking questions. It wasn't one. But her voice was trembling and it was breaking Nikitas heart, that there were still such moments. Moments in which she wasn't sure. Even the small ones.
She just wanted to clear her thoughts, grab perspective, and shift onto other things, senseless things like when she was going to get other things fixed.
But perspective did come, a quick glance over someone's shoulder and into the mirror framing the wall behind her. She glanced away. And then back. Away. Back. It was playing this game with herself; there were signs of exhaustion included the brush of her lids against her cheeks, the way her hair swept and stuck against her face. She knew she was still trapped in her own nightmare and while she was staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror she asked herself what the hell is wrong with me?