Page 9 of The Cute Psycho

The bodysuit is split into three events—before, during, and after.

On my chest, right under my navel, a wooden chest with intricate designs sits half-opened—Pandora's box. Black inked smoke erupts from the confines of the chest, slowly turning into skulls, each painted with an expression of malice, despair, and desolation—evil unleashed upon this earth.

The corrupt spirits take up most of the space on my chest, their rotten faces reaching my shoulder blades and dissolving into a calming mist. From my shoulders to my wrists, Buddhist runes run all along my arms—all meant to contain the evil, keep it from spreading like a disease.

In a similar fashion, my back is a mosaic of warriors in different fighting stances, all tasked with the protection of the box. Alternatively,they are also meant to offer a buffer between the forces of evil and the outside world, should the box be unwittingly opened. Vanya had come up with that small detail.

"Sometimes, little cracks become holes of astounding magnitudes," she'd said, hinting at the possibility that no matter how hard one may trynotto open the box, it will snap open regardless. So she'd suggested a safety mechanism. Something to keep thebadfrom spilling out.

"The warriors will protect you, but they will also protect the world—from you," she'd thoughtfully commented, taking a pen and outlining her idea on paper.

Her words had struck a chord in me. She knows me so well she's aware that there's a high chance I may snap at some point in the future.

Then the last piece—the legs—portrays what will happen when the last remnant of good will be vanquished. The descent into Tartarus. The place where evil makes its playground, and the last stop.

The final destination.

But should everything else fail, the wretched spirits unleashed from Pandora's box would not only venture into hell by themselves. No, they'd drag any innocent soul they could find.

And that... should be avoided at all costs.

"I can't believe it doesn't hurt," Vanya notes as the needle goes deeper into my arm.

"It hurts sooo much!" I pretend to complain, winking at her.

The tattoo artist raises his gaze, looking between me and Vanya, his eyebrows knitting together before he shrugs, his attention back at his work.

"He's weird," Vanya complains, getting up from her chair and stretching a little around the room.

"Vanya!" I let my voice boom a little, worried she might be up to some type of mischief. She can do whatever she wants, but only after my tattoo is done.

"Chill, I won't do anything," she sighs, her shoulders slumping as she comes back.

"Good. If you behave, I might put in a word with Father to let you get your own," I mention, and her face immediately lights up.

"Promise?" She's quick to interject, and I shake my head in amusement.

"Promise," I chuckle.

Vanya's body has similar markings to mine, and I know she's self-conscious about them, too. Worse than me, there's a scar bisecting her right eye. Over time, it's healed, so that now there's only a faint line above and below her lashes.

Still, she's at an age where her appearance is very important to her. While I'd promised I would talk to our father on her behalf, it will not be easy, since she's not allowed to interact with me in any way.

Even now, I'm scared that the tattoo artist will tell Father about her presence here. But when Vanya gets something in her head, there's nothing I can do about it. I couldn't tell her no when she'd asked to come with me.

When can I say no to her?

She's the only one I have. The only person I can freely talk to.

Over time, things have only gotten worse. I've managed to get my impulses under control, and I've tried my best to assume a more friendly disposition. All in the hopes that people wouldn't run away from me.

It hadn't helped.

Now, more than ever, people seem to be more terrified of me when I try to smile or crack a joke. For all my efforts to assimilate with other people, I've become even more ostracized.

There's Marcello, but he's different. Although we do get along, I can tell he hates what he does. He does his part of the job, but his eyes are dead inside when that happens.

He's not like me... He doesn't get the thrill of cutting inside of the human body, the fascination with what hides inside—a million unanswered questions, yet the answers are staring us right in the face.

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