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“Wrong. You knew. Didn’t you?” I chuckle as the motherfucker runs away from me.

Giving him a one-minute head start, I set my legs in motion, chasing him across the open land, a huge baseball bat clutched in my hands as I close the distance between us.

It takes me less than a minute to catch up to him, all thanks to the running I do for fun.

He was wailing already, but the sound twisted into an unrecognisable roar when my footsteps hit the ground behind him.

He turns—big mistake—and I swing my bat so hard I feel his nose crack under the impact and he collapses with a loud thud.

“You knew. Did you not?” I growl, standing over him. “I’m sorry.” He sobs. “P-please.”

“Of course you are.” I chuckle, sitting in a squat. “Now you’ll remember not to touch anyone without their consent, or not, cause, wait let me tell you a secret.” I pause, an unhinged glint in my eyes.

I grab a handful of his ugly blonde hair—nothing like my solnyshko’s—and snicker in his ear. “You’re gonna die.”

My hands grip his hair as I yank his head and bang it against the ground, once, twice, thrice, all the bones in his face pulverising.

I don’t stop until there’s no sound of begging and whimpering or of life coming from him.

Fucking pest, fuck.

Morality is nowhere near my radar as my principles just told me to eliminate anything that poses a threat to my woman.

I take one last glance at him, waiting for the remorse to hit me, yet it never comes.

A father’s son through and through. I don’t regret taking a life and turn around.

Time to bring my malyshka home.

TEN

Elara

It’s been four days of solitude.

And every hour feels like a punishment.

I’ve taken three showers a day, trying to wash off six years of pain, shame, and memories that refuse to leave me alone.

One moment, one incident brought it all back. All it took was a single unwanted touch to remind me of how broken I am, deluding myself into thinking everything’s okay.

How do you quiet a mind that won’t stop reliving its own horror?

How do you scream for help when you don’t wanna be heard?

With what will do I tell myself it’s going to be alright?

I can barely keep my eyes open, and although I haven’t seen my face in the mirror these past few days, I know for a fact how red and swollen my eyes are.

I haven’t stopped crying because every time I cut myself, it hurts. It must, I need the pain.

I sleep only after patching myself up, as if that might sniff the burning rage inside me. It never does, because the nightmares come anyway, dragging me back in the very darkness I’m trying to escape.

Half my day is spent fighting the urge, the other half is spent surrendering to it.

Please.

Go away. I don’t want to think anymore. I want my mind to stop existing.