Games of Saints - Free To Read

The evening could have been better if it weren't for my father's presence behind me. He might be just a few meters away, but I can still feel him. On some physical level. I don’t want this, but the constant fear doesn’t let me forget... he is watching.

I examine the painting hanging on the wall. It evokes nothing. It’s yet another exhibition that Dad was invited to, but everyone has to come. Mom is next to him, as is my little brother. Only I have stepped away. I’ve moved as far away as I can, because being in the same room with him is hard. It is enough that we live under the same roof, suffering from his tyranny. It pains me that at home Dad torments us morally, while in front of others he behaves as if he is an angel that has come down from heaven. Everyone thinks Dad is kind, but in reality, a monster hides behind the smile.

I glance again at the canvas. The strokes of paint by an unfamiliar artist are sharp, rough, as if this person is hiding a storm in their soul. However, the girl depicted looks strong. The combination of red, black, blue, white, and yellow evokes unease. As if it should be different, but no... the painting pushes towards something dark.

— Do you like it?

A male voice makes me flinch. I wasn’t expecting anyone to approach me. I slowly turn my head to the stranger. I carefully study his face. They say about such people — a cold mountain. Delicate features, piercing deep blue eyes, dark but not black hair. Tall. Broad shoulders. The suit fits perfectly. In his gaze, there is a subtle interest and something like a smirk.

— No, — I answer honestly.

— Why? — he tilts his head to the side and takes a sip of champagne.

I linger on the golden bubbles. Only then do I respond:

— I don’t like such things.

— What painting would you make? — the man's voice flows like honey. It touches the skin with hints of something resembling jasmine, making me shiver, even the hairs on my arms stand up.

I run my hands over the fabric of my short black dress, adjust my purse, take another look at the painting, then say:

— A girl in the middle of a forest. The trees are dark, but sunlight breaks through the crowns. Somewhere there, the blue sky is visible. She is delicate, graceful, but at the same time strong and full of determination. In her hands, a bouquet of wildflowers. The dress is light, like… m-m-m… gossamer.

— What emotions would your painting evoke? — he takes a sip of champagne. He looks indulgently, as if he is an adult enjoying the silly actions of a child.

— Joy. Calmness. — I shrug. — Nothing negative.

— And does this one evoke negativity?

I look again at the painting. The dark, saturated colors really do evoke something bad. They pull from the depths of my soul frightening wounds, pain I would prefer to forget.

— Yes.

— Tell me, the girl who wants joy and calmness, do you want to have all of this?

Somewhat stunned, I look at the stranger. A hurricane dances in his blue eyes. He is only calm on the outside, but inside, his emotions are completely different. And at this moment, the man does not hide it.

— Why do you think there is no calmness in my life? — I ask dryly.

He leans slightly closer to me. His voice drops low and rumbling, sending shivers through my body:

— You are Juliana Dyka, and I know who your father is.

I frightenedly glance into the man’s eyes. I quickly turn to Dad, but he is busy talking. Mom is standing with him, a smile on her lips, her white hair, like mine, arranged in an elaborate hairstyle. My little brother is holding onto Mom’s hand, enduring this event. He knows what will happen later if he misbehaves.

— What do you know? — my voice sounds hoarse.

— You, your brother, your mother are under his influence. Afraid. Always obedient, so Daddy doesn’t get angry. Under his oppression. Under his power. In a cage of gold.

The man states all this firmly, evenly, as dry facts laid out on paper.

— Why do you…

He doesn’t let me finish. A dangerous smile brushes his lips.

— I can free you from this, and then your mother and brother. Do you want?

Perhaps my gaze is much more eloquent than silence, for the man, satisfied, looks into my eyes. A crooked smile draws barely noticeable lines by his lips. It adds charm.

— How? — I whisper barely audibly.

I can’t believe this is happening to me. Here. At the reception, while Dad is behind me. I can’t believe I’m even talking about this with a stranger I’m seeing for the first time.

— Marry me, Juliana, and you will be free.

A business card finds its way into my fingers. The man almost immediately leaves me alone as I examine the letters and numbers on the dark background. The golden font stands out against the black. I read the stranger’s name: “Vlad Svyatyi” and a phone number.

My breath quickens. Fear slices into my bones with something subconscious. I hide the card in my purse and turn back to the painting. Suddenly, my gaze catches the artist’s signature. To my surprise, it is Vlad Svyatyi.