The expressions etched on her face rummaged up memories of that small bird Mama gifted me when I was twelve. Her wide eyes, filled with terror, mirrored the frightened gaze of that helpless creature.
I recalled the sickening thrill coursing through me as I held the small blade, the bird's frantic heartbeat pulsating against my palm.
As the last breath escaped the bird's fragile frame, leaving a void of silence, I felt no remorse, only a twisted satisfaction. Darkness engulfed me, staining my soul with the irreversible shame of my own evil.
Mama soon realised I didn't belong in the sanitised, stagnant world society preached as normal. And though Mama may have mourned the loss of her innocent child, she also recognized the fierce, untamed spirit that burned within me-a flame too wild to be extinguished by the confines of conventionality.
Papa said I was born to reign it. No doubts or questions.
When I confessed to him that the shadows no longer danced in my mind, that the whispers had quieted to a mere murmur, it was a lie as thick as the darkness that once enveloped me. But it was a convenient fabrication, one that diverted his attention away from the intricate corridors of my fractured psyche and towards my mother.
The memory of that little canary still haunts the recesses of my mind. As a twelve-year-old, I failed to grasp the depths at that time, her teary eyes filled with horror of my actions. In my twisted logic, I believed she should have applauded me, and recognized me.
But instead of pride, I was met with revulsion-a gut-wrenching realization that I had become a monster in her eyes. Her horror-stricken gaze pierced through me.
Mama got into an argument with Papa, and it quickly turned ugly. Her voice, usually calm and comforting, was now a storm of rage and pain. No one made Mama cry and got away with it. Papa had to intervene, his presence a cold wave trying to douse the flames. But the damage was done; bitterness lingered long after the shouting stopped.
My godfather, Alexei Volkov, a man whose stern face was etched with the hardness of a thousand unspoken cruelties, scolded me. He decided I needed help, which in his twisted mind meant control. He got me a psychiatrist, a fucking personal therapist whose presence alone made my skin crawl. Infuriating bitch. Her fake concern and rehearsed empathy made me want to skin her alive.
I answered her questions with a detached monotone, my eyes reflecting nothing but emptiness.
But right now, it was not about what type of abnormal, unfitting narcissist my parents thought I was, it was about that Canary-that little, bright, scared bird. Papa still sometimes ask me why I did that. I thought the answer was simple. I wanted to see what lay beneath the bird's skin. I wondered if it was as beautiful as it looked on the outside. Humans, too, but Mama would've had a stroke, so I narrowed my range to only animals.
If I cut her, slice her, skin her, would she still smile? Laugh? Narrow her eyes and be the nuisance she was? The black dots appeared as tiny harbingers of the violence I imagined. I watched her slamming her small fists against the iron gate. As if she could break it. Foolish, dumb American.
"Do you want me to get her?" Kyle asked.
"No," I replied not realising how sinister I sounded.
She swung her tiny legs over the gate, her breath visible in the cold air, and looked down at the snow, innocent and unaware. I smirked. Oh, ptichka...
The expressions on her face reminded me of that canary I once had. But she was far more interesting. She could scream, cry, beg... unlike that bird, which only sang sweetly until I silenced it forever.
I watched as she struggled her efforts almost laughable. Her eyes, wide with a mix of determination and dread, were captivating. The cold wind bit at her skin, turning her cheeks a delicate shade of red contrasting the pure white snow beneath her.
Her innocence, her hope-they were fragile, breakable, just like her.
I imagined the sharp blade in my hand, the way it would slice through her soft flesh, the warmth of her blood spilling out, contrasting against the cold, lifeless snow. Would she still have that defiant look in her eyes?
I focused back on her small frame. Suppress. Suppress, motherfucker.
I repeated the words in my head for the millionth time in the past few minutes because, I swear to Satan, this seemingly bright, normal, innocent, and utterly clueless girl might be more than she appeared.
I wonder if she was this dumb, or trying to act naïve.
"Turn off the electric fence," I ordered, knowing this foolish girl would end up electrocuted and fried to death if she jumped on the wires hidden beneath the snow. I had them installed not long ago.
"Done, sir," Kyle responded, but I ignored him. She jumped down from the wall and fell flat on her face. I nearly scoffed. She raised her head, covered in snow, her lips parting as she spat it out. I couldn't help but imagine the sound she'd make if I were to skin her delicate skin. The thought of her gasping in agony sent a shiver of twisted pleasure through me.
The last thought was my favourite. She looked around, face red, and so were her neck and ears.
To my amusement, she pushed herself up and dusted the snow off her filthy jacket. Her head whipped and she flipped back her hair feigning as if she didn't just jump the wall and kiss the ground. My finger twitched and so did my jaw.
Just like a little bird, flapping her wings in vain, she was oblivious to the predator watching her. The snow clung to her face as she struggled to rise, eyes wide with panic. I imagined the sound of her flesh tearing, her screams echoing in the cold air. Her suffering would be beautiful. She was more than she seemed, but in my hands, she'd be nothing more than that Canary I skinned alive.
For beneath the skin, we are all the same-beasts with desires, and hearts that ache. And I know, there was no redemption even for monsters like me
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