A/N: Content Warning - graphic violence in this chapter, and will be the only chapter in the whole story to have any. Also something very bad happens to Tifa. It is not sexual in nature.
Tifa feels uncomfortable.
She's in worse pain today. The bruises on her face and wrist are darker. Her head is killing her. She wears clothes that don't belong to her and don't fit her. And she doesn't have her bookbag.
It feels like her whole life is in there, even though all she has are her school books and leotard. Her favorite ballet slippers and pointe shoes. She misses her morning dance class, and she freaks out. She missed her classes yesterday to be with Cloud. Now another day? So close to the end of the semester?
Tifa doesn't feel good, everything hurts. She's already tired from doing so much every day, always trying to keep herself busy. But she didn't sleep well, kept waking up, having to remind herself where she is. Remembering what happened.
It's early in the afternoon when she finds herself with Cloud in the guidance counselor's office. It feels weird being on campus without her things. She wears a pair of pink leggings Aerith let her borrow and one of Cloud's sweatshirts, but as she sits in the chair, she feels the waistband dig in her belly. She pulls on it, tries to ease the tension on her skin as she stretches the elastic. The sweater goes over her arms, covers her hands. It's black and frayed at the edges, says Slipknot in bold white letters across the chest.
The room is grey. The carpet, the walls, even the desk she stares at in front of her, all cold and lifeless. It makes her feel like she's in a prison cell, like she's done something wrong. She hears the ticking of the wall clock counting down to her doom. Her heart races, her eyes dry, words struggle to form on her lips.
"How do you say your name, dear? Zvet-Veta?"
Tifa clears her throat, tries to gather enough saliva to swallow as she leans back against the seat. Her thighs press together and a nervous quaver rattles her knee. "Tsvetelina."
She reads the name plate on the desk, engraved in gold letters. Julia Grover. Tifa wonders what it's like to have a name so easy, what it must feel like not to constantly have to spell out or teach people how to pronounce her name.
"And your last name?"
"Lukhartov."
Miss Grover tries to say her name, all of it. She says it wrong. Her first and last name butchered, and it makes Tifa feel dumb, embarrassed, like she's a freak with a weird name. Her hair is dirty blonde and tied up, her glasses pushed up against her nose. She's thin and pretty, wears a pastel blazer with a matching skirt.
"—You—" Tifa cuts her off almost franticly before she takes in a deep breath to still herself. "You can just call me Tifa." She holds her hands together, lets her stare fall to her lap. Her stomach hurts from how tight these pants are. Nothing's happened yet, but she feels the strong urge to cry.
"Okay, Tifa, no problem." Miss Grover looks from her computer to Tifa, and it's obvious she's trying not to gawk at the dark bruise on her face. Her hair doesn't cover it, and it's pulsing now, like something is trying to crawl out of her skin.
"So, you're here to update your contact information?"
"Yes." Her voice is small, scared. Tifa is being bad, she's doing something wrong. She ran away from home, and she knows she will pay for it. "Please."
With another deep breath, her nose tingles from the scent of a masculine cologne. It wafts to her soothingly, warm and sweet, reminding her of the bed she slept in, of the mouth that kissed her neck. The arms that held her.
She looks to her side, and Cloud is there. He's next to her, slouched on the seat, his knees taking a wide stance apart. Baggy distressed jeans, an oversized sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He thumbs the piercing on his ear as he looks at her, cuts through her with the iciness of his gaze. She sees the sky in his eyes, cradled by curly bronze lashes. The tension eases from his face, and when he leans over to tap her arm, he waits until she gives him her hand.
Their fingers thread together, closing into one fist. His hand is warm against her cold skin, and Tifa doesn't know why such a small, stupid thing makes her feel a sudden rush of happiness. That as long as Cloud is here, holding her hand, nothing bad can happen to her. It feels like they make a pact, that whatever happens, they will go through it together.
But it feels like the worst is yet to come. Tifa is being bad. She isn't listening, He is going to find her and punish her.
She freezes, croaks when she's asked for her new address. Cloud answers for her, noticing the terror in her gaze, the way she struggles to speak. Her throat is so dry, she's cried all the water out of her body last night. When she squeezes his hand, she feels the gentle pressure he returns to her.
"Please—take my dad off." The sharpness of her breath slices through her lungs. She's on her hands and knees trying to scrub him out of existence. Tifa is tired. Her head hurts. "Take him off as my contact."
The guidance counselor bites her lip as she stares at the computer, clicking her mouse a few times. Tifa can see the glare of the screen on her glasses. "I see as your emergency contact Boy—Boyan?—"
"He goes by Brian in English," Tifa interjects. "Please take him off. I don't want him on there."
She's typing, fast, fingers splayed over the keyboard, clicking in rhythm to the ticking of the clock. It feels like they are racing against time to delete him from Tifa's life. She has the urge to try to stop it, undo what she's done. She's almost more afraid of what he'll try do to her now that she's gone.
"Who would you like to add as your new contact, dear?"
Tifa doesn't have anyone else. Her mother was an orphan. Her paternal relatives are in Bulgaria and she's never met them. She's had to depend on her dad all her life, he made her completely helpless. She doesn't have anyone—only Cloud. And she risks a glance at him, eyes big and hopeful, as she asks him for permission with the trembling of her gaze.
"You can put me down," he says, only looking at Tifa. He swipes her knuckles as he caresses her hand. And his voice is light, kind. She doesn't worry he will get mad at her, that he'll start yelling and she won't be able to stop it. Sometimes the yelling is the worst part. She would sacrifice a few more blows to the face if she could just make all the yelling stop.
Cloud doesn't yell. Even when he's upset. He won't ever yell at her. Tifa knows it. He is gentle. He loves her. Everything is quiet and happy when she's with him. And yesterday, he gave her a perfect day. They did so many fun things and then, he kissed her. It felt like she was in a movie. Even when it was ruined, when her dad took the perfect day away from her, Cloud fixed it again.
Tifa loves Cloud. She loves him so much. She doesn't want to be a burden, to make his life harder. She feels bad for all this, because this morning, he missed his class, too. He skipped it to be with her, as they woke up together to the sound of his alarm. He was holding her when she opened her eyes, and he kissed her good morning, breathed in her hair.
Tifa likes sleeping in Cloud's bed. She likes waking up next to him. He makes her feel so happy.
"Dear, are you okay?"
Miss Grover is watching her, thin brows low on her forehead, hands clasped together on her desk. Tifa touches her face, feels the warm stickiness of tears on her cheek. She's crying, and she stupidly tries to hide it, rubbing her skin with the sleeve of her sweater. Cloud doesn't let go of her hand.
"I'm fine. Just—" She swallows the mucus that blocks her throat, sniffling and hoping to better compose herself. "—Just make sure nobody tells my dad where I live now, if he asks anyone. Please?"
She's begging. Her eyes are wet, glittering, pleading. Please, protect her.
Cloud is hugging her. They are alone, surrounded by marbled tile and white walls. They linger in the art building, loitering in a deserted hallway. Their coats are thrown to the floor. Everyone is in class. Tifa feels forgotten. She doesn't have her backpack. Her ballet slippers. Suddenly, she feels panic, as Cloud kisses her cheek, swipes his nose to hers in an Eskimo kiss.
"You know you point your toes in your sleep?" he tells her, a smile playing on his lips.
As she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, a blush creeps on her cheeks. "I—I do?"
"Yea. It's real cute."
But her dread is relentless, and she needs to tell him. "Tomorrow—"
The words get lost in his mouth as he kisses her, and Tifa almost forgets what she wanted to say. She closes her eyes, expels a hot breath through flared nostrils. His lips are wet, nipping at hers, and her hands are flat on his chest, grasping his sweatshirt. He's making her feel weird. Her nipples get hard, painful, sensitive. She feels a tight pull low in her belly towards her groin. Heat encases her body, and all of a sudden, she's hot. So hot.
He kisses her slowly, carefully. It's so wet, his mouth slips, makes the kiss sticky and warm. He kisses her like he's protecting her. Like he loves her.
"Cloud—" Tifa remembers what she wants to say.
"Yea?" His arms overlap at her back. He holds her close to him, the hood of his sweatshirt still lifted over his head. Her eyelids are heavy, the curl of her lashes hinder her vision. His mouth delays against her, waiting for her to continue as he rubs circles on her low back.
"Tomorrow—" Tifa wants to cry, her voice is strained. Cloud's eyes open all the way. They are bright and vivid, she can see the specks of green that interrupt cerulean swirls.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
As his palm finds her cheek, Tifa shakes her head, his shirt wrinkling as she curls her fingers. "Tomorrow is the show."
It takes a second for what she's saying to register in his head. "Your dance thing. The one you've been practicing for." He doesn't ask her, he knows. He's been there the whole time with her as she rehearsed.
"It's tomorrow night—" She's panicking. Nothing's happening to her at that moment, but Tifa feels her world crumbling. "And I don't have my things. My leotard, my shoes—"
She struggles to breathe—a tear escapes, but Cloud stops it before it burns her skin. "Maybe we can go somewhere and get you new ones?"
"No—" Tifa shakes her head, and the more she thinks about it, the worse it gets, the more impossible it seems. "They're pointe shoes. I—I won't have time to break them in. I need mine."
She can see Cloud trying to think, his brows pinching together as he holds her still. Tifa doesn't realize she is moving, pushing against him, her hair swishing around her as she grows more desperate and determined. "I have to go get them."
"Okay, Tifa, wait—hang on—"
Cloud grounds her, hands firm on her shoulders, even as she struggles against the panic driving her heart—stammering like she's having a heart attack.
"I need them—and my books. Please."
"Tifa, I'm not letting you go back there now." He's being patient and gentle, and she doesn't deserve it. Not when she's acting like this, when she's led by her tunnel vision. Cloud doesn't raise his voice more than he needs to, he doesn't yell at her. But maybe he should. She's being bad, she's not listening. She wants to go back and get her things.
"I'll get them for you later—" he tries to compromise, but his idea is worse, it's so much worse. "After you make a report at the police station. We'll go get your things."
"No, I need them now." Her voice breaks, and she's trembling, her whole body surrendering to a frantic shiver. "I can't miss this. I can't. Dancing is everything to me."
Her voice echoes in the hall. She hears how pathetic she sounds as her words bounce back to her. But Cloud hugs her, lets her cry on his shirt and lean on his shoulder. He feels warm, and he smells so nice. The same smell she fell asleep and woke up to, but it's stronger, fuller. It seeps into her nose, caresses her senses. She feels that pull in her groin again.
"I know, I know," he tells her softly. "You won't miss it. You'll get to dance tomorrow. And we'll be there to see you."
"Do you promise?" He wouldn't lie to her, she knows it. But she needs the reassurance, because she'll be shattered if she can't dance.
"I promise." He pulls back, gifts her a smile, bares his teeth. They're white and straight, framed by pink lips as his eyes squint. She sees the dust of freckles that dot his nose. They're faint, she can only see them when they're pressed together like this, when the light shines on him just right. His smile is so handsome, his eyes are a deep, vast ocean, trembling waters she wants to sink in. She'll learn to breathe underwater if she could live eternally in his eyes.
"And afterwards, when you've won—" Tifa cracks a smile, shakes her head because she's not as confident that she will win anything. But Cloud is so sure. "—I'll come up to you, tell you how great you are. Hug you in front of everybody."
Her eyes are swollen, the skin beneath them thin and irritated. It hurts to keep crying, but she can't stop herself. It's pitiful, how much of a baby she is. She wants to be strong and brave like mama was. But Tifa never learned how to be.
"Now I need you to promise me—" His voice lowerers as he palms her cheek, making sure she focuses on him. "—that you won't do anything stupid. That you won't go back there."
Tifa bats her lashes, tries to see past the glob of her tears. Everything is blurry and distorted. Her head hurts—pulsing through her skull. She doesn't know how she will cover up the bruise tomorrow. She doesn't want it to show. It makes her more anxious, that everything is ruined. Her dad keeps taking everything away from her.
"Okay," she chokes out.
His expression relaxes, satisfied with her answer. But she notices his brows angle, his lips squirm as he licks his thumb and dips it low on her neck. Tifa feels the tackiness of his touch, like an electric current charging her body to life.
"I left a mark on you," he says. He sounds disappointed in himself.
As he skims the bruise on her neck, she loops her fingers over his wrist. "It's okay. It doesn't hurt."
He insists. "I should've been more careful."
Maybe he fears she will see him like her dad, leaving marks on her body in the wake of his touch. But it's not the same. This is different. He's branded her in a different way. Evidence of the love they share, the pleasure he gave to her when all she knew was pain.
She barely hears herself when she whispers. "I like when you touch me."
They walk out together hand-in-hand. It's not snowing today, but it's cold. The sun is bright and blinding, attacking her with its glare, but it does nothing to combat the chill in the air, the strength of the wind.
Tifa wears Aerith's puffy pink coat. She's never worn a coat so pretty before. She likes Aerith's clothes, has fun dressing up even though they are tight on her. Tifa thinks Aerith is so beautiful, like a doll. She's her friend, her mom, her sister. She's so many things to her.
"Can I go to my math class?"
She looks up at Cloud, stopping them in the middle of the quad. His hand is still tangled with hers, hidden in the warmth of his coat pocket. It feels strange as she continues to seek his permission, as if now Cloud is her new keeper instead of her dad. He twists his brows at the question, seems to be thinking of a way to answer her.
"It's okay if you miss one class." He bumps his elbow against her playfully. "I do it all the time."
"Finals are coming," she argues. Students pass them by, and it makes her feel safer, that she's in a crowd, not alone. Witnesses everywhere—her dad wouldn't dare do anything to her with so many people around.
Cloud doesn't want her to go to class. But he doesn't want to tell her what to do. He's patient with her, and she wonders if she will be too much, if his tolerance will eventually wither. She is so easy to yell at. "Maybe you wanna go home, show Aerith your dance for tomorrow night?"
Tifa feels herself getting emotional again. "I just really wanna go." She pauses. "Please."
He rakes his fingers through his hair. He's pulled down his hood, the cold painting his ears red. "You'll follow okay without your books?"
"There's a boy in class, he's nice to me. I think he'll share his book with me."
Cloud nods, but the pressure in his face suggests he's not convinced on the idea. He squeezes her hand from inside his pocket. "I just don't want you to overdo it."
"I won't." She prepares for her next statement when she takes a deep breath, the cold air burning her chest. "And after, we can go to the police station."
He walks her to the building, holding her hands as they stand outside. The sun saturates his flaxen hair, his brows the same color but shifted darker. And his eyes are jewels perched on his face, she wants to pluck them off his body and keep them close to her heart.
"I'll wait for you in the library. I'll be back before your class is over."
Tifa nods as they stand close, hands pressed together, united in prayer. It feels like they are at the altar exchanging their vows. Her heart skips, fluttering in her chest. Tifa is in love, and her heart is singing—a trembling vibrato that spills over her body.
"Hey." He lets go of her hands, cups her face. She's shrouded in his warmth, melting the moment he smiles at her. "I love you."
Students move past them, wearing coats, carrying bookbags, steam rising from their coffee cups, talking on their cell phones. But they don't exist. Only Tifa and Cloud. She fights the urge to cry again as the glassiness in her eyes blurs her vision. Her heart swells, grows too big to fit in her chest. Her happiness collides into her despair. She needs him more than she needs to breathe to live.
"I love you, too," she says, her eyes fluttering close when he kisses her.
Tifa goes to class, and everyone stares. They don't say anything or ask if she's okay. They don't try to help her. She doesn't have her backpack. Only her coin pouch and her mace with her keys. And the boy who's nice to her, the one she wants to ask if she can look off his textbook, he's not there today.
Class begins, she sits in the back of the small lecture hall. But she panics, she doesn't know what to do. Nobody else ever talks to her in this class, and she's afraid to ask for help. She needs Cloud, or Aerith—someone.
Her head is pulsing, it hurts to even touch it. She is ten minutes into class. She doesn't have a book, or her homework. She doesn't have anything, not even a pencil. People are whispering about her. She hears them as they talk about the quiet girl, someone beat her up. Why are they talking about her so loud?
Tifa leaves. She has to find Cloud. He was right, she should have listened to him. She just wanted to be normal, to go to school and be a regular person. But she feels like a freak. Bruised and beaten. She has a weird name. A memory of the girls who cut her hair the first day of school rushes back to her. Girls she thought wanted to be her friends. And a sense of dreads devours her.
Tifa feels hopeless, scared. Alone. She needs Cloud. She knows where he is. He can take her to her new home. A piece of her says everything will be alright. As long as she has her new family, she will make it through this dark patch. As long as she and Cloud love each other, she can endure all the bad in the world.
But she's scared and panicked, and right now, she's alone. The quad is near abandoned. What if her dad found her? What if Cloud was here? Would he hurt him?
She doesn't want Cloud to go to her apartment to get her stuff. She doesn't know if the police will arrest her dad right away when they report him. What if it takes a few days? Maybe they need more evidence? She needs her stuff tonight. She has to dance. It's the only thing that makes her feel like her life is worth something, brings her meaning. Without it, she is nothing. And she's worked so hard on her routine. She wants Cloud to see her, to come up to her afterwards and hug her like he promised.
Tifa is in the phone booth. She's not sure how she got here, she was on her way to the library. But now she's getting change from her coin pouch, calling her dad's work. He should be there for a few more hours—she needs to make sure.
The outside world is fogged when she looks out, the sun setting and tinting the sky orange, and she sees the mist of her breath as she huddles into herself and dials. Actively regretting her choices as she does them, but she needs her things. She doesn't want Cloud to get hurt. All this drama she's brought into his life all because he knows her. It's not fair. He doesn't deserve it.
"Midgar Project Management," says a voice over the phone.
Tifa hesitates, contemplates hanging up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Milena—" Her voice is wavering. "Hello. This is Tsveta."
The lady's voice changes. Less professional, more pleasant, personal. She starts speaking to her in Bulgarian. "Tsvetelina, how are you?"
Tifa clears her throat. "I'm okay. I'm sorry to bother you. I just wanted to check if my dad is there working?"
It's weird of her to ask. But she's scared—maybe he stayed home, drunk himself into oblivion, and he's there waiting for her.
"Yes, he's here. Do you want me to get him for you?"
"No!" Tifa nearly deafens herself as she shouts. She's so frantic, she doesn't even try to dial it back, the phone shaking in her hand. "It's okay. I was just checking. Thank you, Milena."
She doesn't wait for the receptionist to respond, quickly hanging up. Her thoughts are jumbled, she can't think straight. The pain in her head is unbearable. Aerith gave her some aspirin earlier, and the little effect it had has worn off. Everything hurts. She didn't realize how she had tensed every muscle in her body last night as her dad assaulted her. She needs to find Cloud—No, she doesn't want him to get hurt—
It will take her a half hour to get there by train, to quickly grab her things. She'd be late getting back, Cloud will be upset. But she'll have her backpack. He won't get hurt. She can't have anything bad happen to Cloud. She doesn't know how she can live if something happens to him.
So, Tifa does something stupid. She breaks her promise.
~oOo~
Tifa used to think life was better before mama died. That her dad was nicer.
But he yelled at mama, too. Even when she got sick. He was always like this. He's an angry person, wants to control those weaker than him with his anger. He controls Tifa with the fear that he will touch her.
She sits on a seat in the train. It is starting to fill up with the early evening traffic. Tifa keeps to herself, looks to her lap, stares at the puffy pink sleeves of Aerith's coat. She feels like she's betrayed Cloud. She broke her promise. She's a bad person. Everything she does is wrong, like she can't do anything right. She can't even keep her promise to the person she loves more than anything in the world.
An internal battle against herself. Because she still has time—she can change her mind. She can get on the opposite train, or find another payphone. Call the house, tell Aerith where she is so Cloud can find her. Get everyone she cares about involved in her drama, getting wrapped up in the consequences of her stupid choices.
She just wants to be happy. But she doesn't want to bring everyone down with her.
The apartment is empty when she steps inside. She leaves the door unlocked, she'll be quick—she's in her room, her backpack is right there by the door. That's all she needs, everything is right in there. Her sneakers squeal against the hardwood floor as she slings the backpack over her shoulder. She did it. Everything will be okay. She can go back to campus now, find Cloud—she'll call from the payphone at the train station so he won't worry. It'll be okay. Now he won't get hurt.
Tifa hears the front door open violently. She doesn't have her keys with the pepper spray—she dropped them at the dresser by the door by force of habit. Nothing, she has nothing.
"Tsveta?"
He shouts—she hears him stumble. Tifa drops her bookbag—she's choking on air, she can't breathe, her breaths slice into her lungs and they stay trapped there. She's so stupid. She can't believe how stupid she is. There's nowhere for her to go, she doesn't have her mace to protect her. He knows she's here. He's going to find her.
She broke her promise to Cloud—he'll never forgive her.
Time doesn't stand still. It happens so fast, driven by the frantic pounding of her heart. So fast, she doesn't know what's happening. Her heartbeat clogs her ears, she feels the reverb in her throat. Ticking in her chest. The room spins, her head is throbbing.
There's nowhere to go. She can't even get to the phone. His footsteps get closer, each step amplified by the echo of his slurred words. She can hear the swoosh of the bottle he drinks from. He's already drunk so fast—
"Where are you?"
Tifa braces herself, picks up her backpack. Maybe she can get past him, go to the door, grab her keys and leave. He doesn't sound as angry as he was last night. Maybe he feels bad. Maybe when he sees the bruise on her head, he will let her leave. And as she steps into the living room, she confronts him.
The moment he sees her, his face creases with hatred. Lines press on his forehead, crow's feet crinkled around his eyes. He looks at her like he's disowned her, with a loathing that stabs her heart as he twists the knife. His mustache is wet, his eyes glazed over. Holding a bottle of vodka, the dining table supports his weight as he leans and stumbles against it. The harsh stench of alcohol is strong, penetrating the air even as she stands feet away from him.
The apartment is tidy and clean—Tifa always cleans every weekend. A wedding picture of her parents hangs on the wall behind him. There's a photo of her as a baby framed by the door. It looks like a happy family lives here. But Tifa doesn't feel happy. She's scared, angry, miserable. Only a short while ago she felt so happy, as Cloud held her face and told her he loved her. Her heart was so full, but now it's hollow, slamming against her ribs in fear. She has to get out of here.
"You left me," he says. His tie is loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His teeth glisten with the residue of liquor.
"I'm leaving." She's firm, though her voice breaks in her declaration. Her brows furrow as she tries to move past him. "I'm leaving you, tatko. I'm not coming back."
He seizes her wrist, the same one he took last night. Pain sears through her as squeezes, his fingers falling into place against the bruises he left behind. It hurts so bad, but he's apathetic to her cries. The skin pulses, her bone tingles. She jerks her arm to break free, but it makes no difference.
"Milena told me you called. You were looking for me—"
"No—" She's so stupid. She shouldn't have done that. This is her fault. This is happening because she wasn't smarter.
"Where did you go last night? Who were you with?"
His anger bleeds through his voice, trembling with a fury that terrifies her. He's angrier than he was the night before. And she won't answer him. She refuses to tell him anything about Cloud.
"You were with that boy! You're fucking that boy!"
When he throws her down, her tailbone slams against the floorboards. It rattles her body, taken in a tremor, the heels of her sneakers scraping the floor as she scrambles to safety. Tear flooding her face, Tifa tries to crawl away, but he's on the floor with her, cradling her face, reeking of liquor as he heaves hot breaths against her neck.
"You hide yourself from me. You hide from your tatko—"
Her eyes squeeze shut so she doesn't have to look into his depraved eyes. She feels him graze her cheeks with a rough affection that bleeds with animosity, his touch calloused and rough. She pulls her knees pull to her chest to shield herself from him.
"Tatko, stop!"
"You whore yourself to a boy but hide yourself from me!"
She shakes her head, feels her tears splatter off her face. She's dying—she wants to remove herself from her body so she isn't conscious while this happens to her.
"Who is he, Tsveta? Tell me who he is!"
"No!" The moment she speaks, he hits her. In the same spot, with the back of his hand. His ring is cold as it cuts into her skin. She cries harder from the pain, from the shock of the force, and he strikes her again, slapping her across the face. Her neck snaps, feeling the sharp strain from her ear to her shoulder.
The floor creaks. And he slams her head against it. "Kurva!"
He's screaming so loud, his voice boisterous and bouncing off the walls. He calls her names—in English, Bulgarian. But then he's holding her, hugging her against him, nurturing her bleeding face.
"You look like her. Just like her."
With a shaky thumb, he grazes her swollen lip. Traces the split of her mouth oozing blood, and he smears it, paints her chin crimson. Stares at her with glassy eyes, breathing down her neck. He looks like a monster putting his claim on her. Her sweat sears her from within her coat, the sleeves pasted to her arms. The backpack is on the floor, the contents spilled out.
"Like the day I met her. Svetlana—"
Tifa spits in his face, watching the wetness splash on his nose as he shuts his eyes. She scrambles backward on the floor, sees her pointe shoes poking out of her bag. She reaches for them.
"I'll kill him, Svetlana. I'll kill him for touching you!"
She hates it when he calls her by her mama's name—how is he so drunk? Has he been drinking at work? Tifa thinks he is never really sober, always some level of intoxicated. But right now, he's obliterated, delusional. He staggers up from the floor, goes to the cabinet by the TV. She doesn't know what he's doing.
"You're going to take me to him, and I'm going to kill him!"
Tifa grabs her ballet slippers, sees her keys at the table by the door. She's stammering, can barely walk straight. The room is spinning, but she forces herself forward. She won't give up, a better life is waiting for her on the other side.
"Where are you going?"
Tatko has his gun. Svelte and glistening silver, polished like fine jewelry. He holds it like he's ready to shoot. And Tifa stops, her hand outstretched to grab her keys. The pepper spray won't protect her. She doesn't know if he's really crazy enough to shoot her.
She weeps softly, desperately, feels the burn of tears tarnish her face. The darkness of the evening seeps through the window, draping her in a solemn shadow. "Please just let me go," she begs. "Please, tatko. Please."
He's in front of her in an instant, towering over her, ramming her against the door. "I'm going with you. You're taking me to him—"
"Please, stop!"
He holds the trigger, and Tifa pushes him, desperate to get his shadow off her body. She can't stand the smell of his breath, the blistering heat she feels as he hovers over her. "We're going, Svetlana!"
Tifa drops her pointe shoes, grasps his elbows, shoving him back, but he's stronger than her. She's against the door, she can't move. But she still fights back. She won't let go, he's not leaving with her.
"Take me to him—"
"I won't! I won't! I love him!" She's in physical agony. Pain slices into her spine, her legs want to give out as her knees buckle. Her face is raw and bleeding and each caress from the air scalds her skin. But she holds on, she has to hold on.
"He's ruined you! You're ruined!"
"Tatko, please!"
They're making so much noise, she hopes the neighbors call the police. But this isn't the first time, and the police never come. All she did was kiss Cloud, and they told her dad on her—whoever they were. They don't know the damage they've done. She just wants to be with Cloud. She needs him—she shouldn't have left.
When Cloud kissed her in his bed—when they fell asleep and he was holding her. When she woke up in his arms, basked in his smell as the sunlight beamed towards them in shimmering rays. When he held both her hands in the quad—Tifa imagined what it would be like if they were married. If Aerith became her sister and Zack her brother. If she woke up every day feeling that way—like life could be happy.
They struggle. She tries to break free. He won't stop screaming, refusing to let go of the gun. The sole light in front of the door embraces them in a haunting spotlight as the rest of the apartment is cloaked in darkness. In this harrowing duel they partake—she fights for her life.
"I'll kill myself instead! I'll do it if you leave. Is that what you want?"
"I don't care!" He doesn't like that. His rage spirals as he pushes her harder, but Tifa pushes back. She doesn't want to die, she doesn't want her life to end here. She'll be with Cloud. Screw the threats her father makes. Let him kill himself, her life will be easier.
Her nails dig in his elbows through the fabric of his shirt, gnashing her teeth as she squeezes every muscle in her body to ground herself. Adrenaline drives her to find the strength to shove him off her. But she forgets to let go of his arms, and he's still so close to her, his face twisted in a livid desperation.
And the gun goes off.
Tifa feels her heartbeat. It's slow, unnerving. It's all she hears, the only thing she feels. Just the steady, boisterous pulse. It tells her she is still alive. But that something is very wrong. Because she feels nothing, sees the vision in front of her, but her eyes are lifeless.
"Tsveta?" Her tatko shakes her. "Tsveta!"
She pants, each sharp breath icing her lungs. Numbness creeps to her fingers. Her pulse echoes in her eardrums, a drumbeat, a countdown, she doesn't know. Tatko is hysterically pulling off her jacket, lifting the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. The air smells of blood, and somehow, she can taste its bitterness on her tongue. Coppery and metallic, the stench is so strong, it coats her mouth.
"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—"
Tatko is crying, the gun dropping with a loud clang. His face is soddened, tears seeping in his pores, his brows crumbling in agony at the sight of her. Tifa tries to look, but she stumbles. There's blood behind her, splattered on the wall, dripping along the framed photo of her as a baby and pooling on the floor. It smells so strong, she chokes on the fumes. What is happening—? She doesn't know. She panics in her delirium as her gaze pans down slowly. Her eyes grow wide, stretching over her face.
Her arm hangs on by threads at her elbow. Flesh and bone exposed, blood oozing down her skin. Thick crimson globs—she tries to wiggle her fingers, but she can't. She can't move, just stares and pants. She can't even scream, her voice rasps as she tries to release a cry for help into the void—but she can't. There's no pain—just blood and strings of flesh.
She doesn't remember much after that moment before she succumbs to the darkness. And when she does wake up again, her whole life has changed. For better and for worse. So much better and so much worse.
Tifa doesn't dance tomorrow.