35

[REBECCA]
Beside me, Lynda burst into squeals of laughter. “Oh my God! This is hilarious!” She turned towards me, still chuckling. “You have to admit, this one was pretty funny.”
I shrugged, half-hearted, and redirected my attention to the movie playing on the screen. We had settled down to watch “Hangover 2,” a film that was far too crude for my taste.
Yet, amidst my reservations, I found myself succumbing to fits of laughter when a character discovered he had unknowingly slept with a man, mistaking him for a woman. The shocking revelation sent shivers down my spine, partly due to the excessive nudity on display.
After a while, Lynda hit pause on the movie and shifted her focus towards me. “Okay, what do you want to watch? It’s clear you’re not enjoying this. Come on, pick something funny, and we’ll watch it,” she suggested.
Ever since the nightmare that haunted me last night and the unsettling encounter with Artemy this morning, I had been feeling down and withdrawn. A perpetual sense of fear had taken hold of me, leaving me constantly on edge.
Lynda noticed my melancholy and took it upon herself to brighten my day. And in some instances, she succeeded, managing to elicit laughter despite my somber state. She went to great lengths, embarrassing herself in the process, just to coax a smile out of me. I couldn’t help but feel grateful for her efforts.
“It’s getting late,” I began, mustering a smile. “I think we should call it a night. I’m exhausted.”
Lynda pouted, leaning against the arm of the couch. “But I barely made you laugh,” she protested.
“And that’s where you’re mistaken. You made me laugh at least five times, and that’s remarkable in my book. You made my day better, Lynda,” I said softly, placing my hand on her knee and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Are you going to talk to me?” she responded, her tone gentle and inviting.
I wanted to. I wanted to confide in her, to share my burdens. It was tempting, but the fear that gripped me held me back, preventing me from taking that leap.
So, I shook my head sadly and averted my gaze. “It’s okay,” Lynda murmured, wrapping her arms around me. “You can tell me when you’re ready.”
Returning her embrace, I nodded and leaned back. A smile crept across her face, and I couldn’t help but reciprocate the gesture.
We both got up and made our way to the kitchen. Lynda flicked on the lights and rummaged through the refrigerator, retrieving the poutine Nona had made for dessert.
“You want some?” Lynda asked, closing the refrigerator door.
I shook my head, and she shrugged, taking a spoonful and absentmindedly munching on it. “Let’s go,” she mumbled.
Lynda and I were on the verge of bidding each other goodnight when the sound of a door opening caught our attention. We turned simultaneously and locked eyes on Artemy emerging from the gym.
My eyes widened, and my body went rigid as he stepped into the light, freezing me in place.
Artemy appeared before me, but something was off. He wasn’t dressed in his usual suit; instead, he wore a disheveled black linen shirt, half-unbuttoned with rolled-up sleeves. Yet, that wasn’t what caught my attention.
He looked like a complete wreck-a bloody mess. Cuts marred his face, and his cheeks were swollen. His left eye showed signs of swelling too, while his lips were bleeding. He limped, his body slumping forward, as if burdened by pain.
Lynda couldn’t help but gasp, shocked by Artemy’s appearance.
Lost in his own thoughts, he clung to the banister and painstakingly climbed the stairs, his legs dragging. Pain etched his face, and his posture reflected his suffering.
Befuddled, I furrowed my brow in confusion and turned to Lynda, but she was no longer fixated on Artemy. Instead, her gaze was fixed upon the gym door.
“I dread to think how the others look,” she whispered, her eyes widening. Almost as soon as the words escaped her lips, the door swung open, revealing them.
This time, it was my turn to gasp. Their condition was even worse. Lynda hurried forward, and I quickly followed suit.
“What happened?” she asked, her horror evident in her voice.
“Fuck,” Brayden groaned, wearily running a hand over his face, only to wince in pain upon contact.
“Herman is dead,” Avim responded, his voice cold and deadly.
At his words, the breath was knocked out of me, as if I’d been struck in the stomach. My mind spun, and my vision blurred slightly. I blinked and gasped, placing a hand on my neck, rubbing it up and down.
“What?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
“Herman is dead,” Avim repeated, closing his eyes with a tired sigh.
My father had passed away.
With a trembling hand, I covered my mouth, desperately trying to hold back the tears. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Tears clouded my vision, and I shut my eyes tightly, hoping to make them disappear.
“Artemy is taking it pretty badly. Hell, I’m not handling it well either! This was supposed to be our revenge,” Brayden hissed in frustration.
“Oh dear,” Lynda whispered beside me. “He’s not doing well, is he?”
“Pretty bad,” Leon affirmed.
Leaning against the wall, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their faces etched with unmistakable anger.
Lynda broke the silence, her voice cutting through the tension. “You should go clean up. Artemy can’t afford to have you lose control too,” she suggested.
“I should go,” I whispered. My heart raced against my chest, urging me to escape. I couldn’t let them witness my breakdown.
I nodded at Lynda and swiftly made my exit before they could respond. As I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it, sinking down to the floor. Pulling my knees close, I rested my head upon them, attempting to steady my breath.
Unshed tears burned in my eyes, and the sound of my quiet gasps filled the dark, silent room. Tears shouldn’t have fallen for my father, the man who had handed me over to a monster, willfully ignoring my suffering. Yet, I couldn’t halt the flow.
My chest constricted with pain, and the tears streamed down my cheeks unhindered. I wept for him and the torment he had inflicted upon me. I wept for the love I could have experienced but was denied because of him. Ultimately, I wept for myself. He had stolen my peace, my freedom, my everything. Although I should have despised him, all I felt was sorrow. I felt hollow, weak, and empty.
Eventually, I found myself in bed, gazing into the distance. Only the soft glow of the lamp on my nightstand illuminated the room. I couldn’t determine how long I remained like that, unable to close my eyes. Thoughts of my father and Raffaele filled my mind, and I dreaded the nightmares that awaited me.
Turning restlessly in bed, I tried in vain to find a comfortable position. Nothing worked. Letting out a weary sigh, I rubbed my face in frustration and sat up. My thoughts drifted to Artemy, instantly tensing my body. I understood his anger and pain. This was Artemy’s retaliation for what my father had done.
He was enduring a greater struggle than me. Witnessing his pain tore at my heart. To see a man like Artemy crumble before my eyes was painful, heart-wrenching. Strangely, I felt compelled to offer solace.
Perhaps it was sympathy or guilt, I couldn’t say for sure. Amidst my own anguish, I empathized with his. My heart broke for this man, who was my adversary. The irony was not lost on me-a Cavalieri wanting to bring comfort to an Loskutov.
My mind was a tangled mess, and I yearned for a moment of silence. Closing my eyes, the image of my grand piano flashed vividly behind my eyelids. Instantly, my eyes snapped open.
That was it.
The piano.
Despite knowing that we were forbidden from entering the room, the tranquility of everyone’s slumber tempted me to consider a clandestine visit. Swiftly slipping off the bed, I tiptoed towards the door, my movements as quiet as a whisper. Peering cautiously left and right down the hallway, I ensured that it was vacant before venturing out.
Advancing softly, I approached the adjacent room when my progress abruptly halted. Illuminated lights spilled from within, accompanied by a slightly ajar door. Intrigued, I leaned forward, stealing a glimpse inside.
My heart skipped a beat.
Artemy sat on the couch, his gaze fixated upon the piano nestled in the corner. A glass clutched in his hand, he stared intently, as if transfixed by the instrument. Gradually, he lifted the glass to his lips, draining its contents in one gulp.
He appeared utterly worn out.
A profound heaviness settled upon me, and my heart raced within my chest. Tentatively, I contemplated retreating from the scene, but before I could make my escape, his voice pierced the air.
“I know you’re there.”
I froze, my eyes widening in surprise. My hand instinctively pressed against my chest as I nervously bit my lip.
Should I depart quietly? My thoughts and emotions waged a fierce battle within me.
In the end, I slowly widened the door and stepped inside, hesitating at the entrance. Artemy did not divert his gaze towards me but remained focused on the piano.
Anxious, I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. After several minutes of silence, he finally broke it with his gravelly voice.
“Do you come in here often?” he inquired, his tone rough and unyielding. A shiver ran down my spine, and I shook my head hastily. Realizing he couldn’t see me, I whispered, “No.”
Once again, silence enveloped the room.