Games of Saints - Chapter #2 - Free To Read

The journey home takes about forty minutes. Mom is sitting in the front seat with Dad, who is once again talking about how terrible his family is. There’s no need for a reason; anything can become one. Didn’t smile? Guilty. Was the voice not friendly enough? Same thing.

My little brother’s hand clutches mine. His tiny fingers grip tightly. I look at Timur. Green eyes, large and wide open; it seems you can see the universe through them, filled with fear. Again.

— Yuliana! — Dad’s growl makes my insides tighten.

— Yes, Dad? — I say quietly.

Fear, our constant companion and friend, clutches my throat like a vice and squeezes. For a long time. Slowly. Even painfully. To prove — I can't cope. I can’t fight back.

— Who was that man you were talking to? — the rough tone doesn’t surprise me.

— Don’t you know him?

— If I knew, would I be asking you? — sarcastic. — Come on, think hard, Yuliana, surprise Daddy with his presence in a woman's head.

Timur shifts uncomfortably. I know he is very, very scared. Dad barely touches him. It's always my mom and me who are at fault, but he loves us, sees everything, and despite his childish mind, understands it all.

I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s always like this when I talk to Dad. It’s as if someone shuts off my oxygen supply and I get lost, become a fool, an awkward person unworthy of anything in this life.

— I don’t know, — I reply meekly.

— What?

— I don’t know, Dad. I saw him for the first time, — I mumble quietly.

The man slams on the brakes. The car stops abruptly, and Timur bumps his forehead into the front seat and begins to whimper softly. Dad gets irritated. He growls at Mom to calm her son down, steps out of the car, walks around it, and opens the door on my side. He grabs my hand and pulls me out onto the street.

— Yuliana, — he carves out tensely, — he gave you something, I saw it.

My heart beats quickly. If it were a beast in captivity, it would now whine pitifully and hide in a crevice where no one could reach it. Never.

It's quiet around. The roads are empty. The summer silence has taken over the city, but it is precisely this that dissonates at this moment and strikes my head with heavy silence.

— A business card, but I...

— Come on! — he roars.

With trembling hands, I take the clutch from the car, and amid Timur's sobs, I pull out Vlad's business card and hand it to Dad. I quickly glance at Mom. Her eyes are no different from Timur’s, just as large and filled with fear. She's turned to her brother, holding his hand, still inside the car.

— An artist, — Volodymyr Dykyi states. — Interesting, why did he give you his business card? — he asks sternly.

— We talked about a painting, — I reply quickly, — he asked how I would paint, and...

— And you thought someone would be interested in the opinion of such a clumsy one as you? — mockingly. — You, Yuliana, can only satisfy your future husband in bed and smile when needed. Take a cue from your mother.

I bite my lip and nod. My eyes are dry. I haven’t cried for a long time when Dad explodes. It used to happen in childhood, but it only got worse, so I quickly realized it wouldn’t help.

— Okay, Dad.

Volodymyr narrows his gaze, looking at me as if I were a bacterium beneath his feet, and with a wave of his hand instructs me to get back in the car. He tosses the business card at me when I reach to close the door and slams it shut himself.

Unnoticed by anyone, I exhale with relief. I hadn’t thought yet about Vlad’s proposal, but…this business card is a lifeboat appearing on the horizon.

Once home, as we all disperse to our respective bedrooms, I look at the business card. It lies on the sink in the bathroom while I wash off my makeup. I’m dying to dial the number embossed in gold on the paper, but I’m scared. To go alone and leave Mom and Timur? Dad will go crazy if I disappear and marry Vlad. Perhaps not because the choice is bad, but because his daughter managed to do something without his involvement. To my father, I have been merely a living doll since birth, which he intends to sell to someone profitably. A toy for someone who will be beneficial to him. A soulless being, which should be grateful to life for being clothed and fed.

I look at myself in the mirror. My green-blue eyes are full of despair. It’s no wonder Vlad proposed salvation; it was worth it to meet. But he knew who I was, knew my name, family circumstances, so…was he watching? Looking for information? I’m not the fool Dad thinks I am, and I know how to analyze situations.

I think that Vlad is also in need of me for something, if he’s willing to take a risk and marry me, and then also rescue Mom and Timur. The question is: for what specifically?

I run a comb through my white hair, with barely noticeable reddish highlights. They are beautifully visible in the sunlight; Dad hates this. He says that only fools have a red tint, the simple-minded, naive ones who life will devour. He has repeatedly reproached Mom for this. Only Timur, like him, has blond hair.

My gaze inevitably falls on the business card. Vlad’s number glimmers before my eyes, taunting me with its digits. The gold embossed on the black is stylish and expensive. Yet there's something…dark? I don’t know how to name it. I can’t grasp the right thread that would lead to the correct thought.

Everything that hints at Vlad's kindness is his surname. The rest is hidden under the cloak of night or something equally dark...

Dressed in a nightgown, I lie down in the wide bed. However, I can’t fall asleep. To be honest, I don’t even remember the last time I could sleep carefree. I lie on my back and scan the dark walls with my gaze. In reality, they are white during the day. Opposite me is a shelf filled with various classic literature. To my left is the bathroom. To my right is a huge closet packed with branded clothes. Behind my head is a window, underneath which is a dressing table. Everything is concise, stylish, but soulless. Just as my father likes it.

The morning of a new day begins as always: water procedures, breakfast, time for study, which I fought for with all my might; however, Dad forced me to switch to home study. After lunch, I complete the assignments given by my university professors. In theory, I should have been studying abroad, attending classes, meeting other students. Volodymyr Dykyi decided otherwise. He didn’t want to give me a sip of freedom. He didn’t want to listen to who I wanted to become. The education I’m receiving is merely for show. I never dreamed of becoming a marketer. In fact, I’m interested in drawing. Under the bed, as proof, I’ve hidden sketches filled with drawings. They, if I’m to be completely honest, are the only thing that pulls me out of constant depression. The lines on the paper, which form people, have become friends. The only ones, sadly.

When the sun goes down, Dad enters the room. He never knocks. And why would he, if he doesn’t respect a person’s personal space? The stern gaze of his green eyes scans the room, looking for any sign of dirt. Finding nothing, he still clenches his jaw as if even that annoys him.

— Good evening, Yuliana.

— Hi, — I say quietly, setting my pen down.

— What are you doing?

— Assignments, — in the same tone.

— I still don’t understand why you need education. — He sits on the bed and adjusts the watch on his wrist. — I have an offer for you. — He doesn’t care about my reaction, as always. — Yesterday, someone found you appealing. Today we agreed on your meeting. I want to emphasize that this meeting is necessary for us. So, I expect you in an hour. Understood? I’ll write down the topics you can discuss with him on a piece of paper; you’ll read it while we drive.

— Is this a date? — I ask, pretending to be indifferent.

A knot of disgust grows in my stomach. Recently, I went on a date with a young man, fortunately, the son of one of Dad’s friends. It was awful. I had to put in effort not to make him like me.

— More like an engagement.

I would choke if I could. My throat is dry. My palms are sweaty. It feels as if a stone has dropped into my stomach. But I hold on. It’s a habit. I sit upright and calmly look at Dad.

— Why?...I just…

— I want to emphasize, Yuliana, that this is necessary for us. Forget about your ambitions. You must do everything for this person to do what I want.

— A fake engagement?

— Ugh! What kind of word is that?! I would say, temporary. You’ll live with him for some time. Get ready. — Dad rises from the bed and walks to the door. — By the way, he likes red.

The man exits. I don’t move. I just sit at the table. My gaze shifts slowly under the bed, searching for what saves me. The sketches are in place. I don’t take them out, no. I stand up and walk to the closet. But in my mind, I draw all the emotions that I am now forced to suppress with all my might. I change clothes. I do as Dad said—I put on a red slip dress. I style my hair in waves. I paint my lips red. I am ready. Ready to be someone’s possession again.