Page 16 of Born into Blood

He gives me a small grin. “I’ll remind you that you said that one day.”

“Go for it. It’ll never not be true.” I turn to leave before saying over my shoulder, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that math assignment. We can tackle that one tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I tried to work on it earlier and just gave myself a headache.” He sighs in frustration. “The numbers keep fucking changing and they don’t make any sense. I’m never going to pass my math class. I probably won’t even be able to graduate.” He roughly scrubs a hand through his hair. “It makes me feel like a fucking idiot.”

“Hey,” I tell him, setting the dishes aside and coming to stand in front of him. “Look at me, Damien.”

I wait until he looks up at me. I’m a few inches taller, but he’s already pushing six-one and still growing. Grasping his shoulders, I meet his eyes and say, “You are not stupid, and I better not ever hear you say that shit again. Dyslexia has nothing to do with intelligence, and I’d argue that it just makes you a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us because you have to find ways to work around it. You think someone’s smarter than you because they can read faster than you? That’s bullshit, and you know it. You remember every damn thing you see and hear, and that’s why you ace every single one of your oral exams.”

Damien rolls his eyes at me while the corner of his mouth lifts up in a small grin. “You don’t need to give me a pep talk.”

“It’s not a pep talk. It’s the goddamn truth, and you better not ever forget it.”

“Okay, okay.” He gives a soft laugh when I pull him in for a hug and ruffle his hair. I don’t care how much it annoys him or how big he’s getting. He’s still my kid brother, and that’s never going to fucking change.

When I’m sure he’s okay, I drop off the dishes in the kitchen and then head upstairs. I pass the room that Uncle Lev had converted into a home gym when they all lived here and step into the room that I’d claimed as mine when Damien and I decided we’d rather have a bit of space. After a quick shower I collapse on my bed, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep, but I’m haunted by the image of a blue-eyed girl who’d looked so damn lonely while she ate her supper and kicked her black sneaker to a beat that only she could hear.

Chapter 3

Lara

“Mom, it’s fine,” I try to tell her, but she insists on peeking out the window for another twenty minutes, scanning the street below us for who the fuck knows what. We’re on the fourth floor and it’s after midnight, so it’s not like she can see much, but she insists on doing it all the same.

“Someone might have followed you,” she mutters, never taking her eyes off the street below us.

“No one followed me.” With a sigh, I give up and sink into the couch, pulling the soft blanket that’s folded beside me onto my lap. “I just went to work and then came home. No one saw me, no one followed me. I didn’t see anything suspicious.”

My voice is monotone when I go through the speech that I give every time I come home and she’s having a bad night. My mom has ups and downs, good days and bad days, and the last couple of years feel like they’ve been one bad day after another. She was forced to quit her job several months ago after an unfortunate episode that involved her freaking out because someone with the last name Melnikov came in to get their teeth cleaned. She’d accused the poor man, who had to have been pushing eighty, of being a part of the Russian mafia and had insisted he’d killed my dad. Having to go down there to pick her up and explain to everyone why they didn’t need to call the police was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

Just one more reason why I need to do everything I can to keep this new job. Rent and paying all the bills are my responsibilities now, and I can’t fuck this up.

My mom continues to mutter to herself while I wrap my arms around my legs and slip one finger under the sleeve of my shirt to run along the scars that are hidden beneath the fabric. My mom never raised a hand to me again after the incident when I was little, but she didn’t need to. I took over the job myself. I started cutting when I was twelve. I’d felt completely alone. Isolated and confused, knowing that something was off with my mom but having no idea what it could be. All I knew was that something was wrong and that I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone about it. I’d bottled everything up, refusing to let it out, but all that had done was make me a prisoner. I was trapped with all these feelings and emotions and so much anger and sadness, and I was sick to death of feeling it. I wanted free of it, and one day I took a razor to my skin. It was a small cut, nothing that would seriously hurt me, but when I’d felt the sting, I’d cried in relief because it made me feel something, anything, other than the pain I was already feeling. The painful sting of the cuts gave me something to focus on, something that didn’t involve my mom. This was mine. It was the only secret I had that didn’t feel like a burden. It felt liberating to be in full control of something.

It took me several years to realize how unhealthy it was, and it took me several more before I could fully break the habit. By then, my arms were a ruin of scars, and now I’m stuck wearing long-sleeve shirts for the rest of my life. It’s hard to be invisible if your body invites questions and makes people stare.

Sometimes the urge to cut again is strong, but so far I’ve resisted. Biting my lip, I keep running my finger over the small, raised lines on my arm, refusing to run into the bathroom and grab the small razor that I have hidden in my makeup bag. Instead, I wait until my mom finishes her nocturnal watch and comes to sit beside me on the couch. Without a word, I offer her half of the blanket while she starts the movie I’d promised her earlier I’d watch with her tonight.

I’ve seen it hundreds of times by now, but it’s her favorite, and I can’t tell her no when it makes her so happy. When the lush music begins, I settle back, getting comfy while Doctor Zhivago starts its opening credits. My mom whispers over the music, telling me yet again about how amazing my dad was and how she named me after the woman in the movie to celebrate my Russian heritage.

I tune her out, my mind instantly going back to the diner and the way Luka had smiled down at me with a glint of amusement in his green eyes. I fall asleep thinking about him only to slip into a dream about him, and he’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up, stiff-necked and curled up on the couch with the blanket tucked around me and my mom on the other end. We’d both crashed during the movie, and the pain in my neck and shoulders from the awkward angle I’d been sleeping in has me deeply regretting it.

Sitting up, I give a stretch and forcibly push Luka from my mind. With my mom still softly snoring, I pull the blanket up around her and then make my way into the bathroom to get cleaned up. After a shower, I pull on my favorite, comfy sweatshirt and a pair of cotton shorts before heading straight for the coffeemaker. I’ve just made a couple of omelets and poured my second cup of coffee when my mom comes walking in to join me.

“Morning, sweetie.” She kisses my cheek and gives me a grateful smile when I hand her a plate and pour her a mug.

We each take a barstool at the counter and dig in. I discreetly eye my mom while I eat, wondering if today is going to be a good day. I’m cautiously optimistic, but then I see her glance at the window she’d been looking out of last night. Her mouth tightens, and my gut clenches. I know today is going to be a bad one.

“I think I should put the foil back up.”

“Mom, you don’t need to do that,” I quickly say, setting my fork down and trying to reason with her. She’d gone through a phase a few years ago where she’d insisted on covering every damn window with foil. It had felt like we were living in a cave, and I’ve never hated anything as much as that feeling. I refuse to go back to that.

“No one is watching us, Mom,” I try again. “I would know. I’m the one who leaves to go to work and to get groceries. I would know if someone were following me, and no one is.”

She seems unconvinced, so I keep going.

“Remember how dark and awful it was to have the windows covered? Besides, don’t you think that draws even more attention? If someone were to look up at our building, the apartment with all the windows covered in foil would be painfully obvious. It would look like someone was trying to hide. Isn’t it better to blend in?”

She chews her thumbnail and thinks about what I’m saying. I let out a relieved breath when she finally gives a soft nod of her head. “You’re probably right.”

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