Page 8 of The Cute Psycho

Who would have guessed that someone like me would end up having principles? But they are the only thing that keeps me from succumbing to a pure animalistic rage.

"Do you want to go there too?" Vanya comes to my side, laying a hand on my shoulder.

Staring out the window and into the garden, I can only nod as I watch Katya and Elena run around, playing with a kite. Their laughs are so foreign, but at the same time so fascinating, that I can't help but look on—as an outsider.

Vanya is the only one crafty enough to sneak in to visit me. But she's also the only one who truly knows me—the only one that seesme. We've been together since the very beginning. It would have been strange if shehadn'tsought me out.

Katya and Elena, though, are too young to understand why they aren't allowed to interact with their older brother. I've exchanged a fewwords with them in passing, but I've never been part of their little world.

And I want to.

Why, I can't say. I know I'm not like other kids my age. I know there's something wrong with me. But when I see them smiling without a care in the world, I wish, just for one moment, to be normal too. To play with others and enjoy their company. Because as it stands, I'm either feared or tolerated.

Never desired.

"I'd never leave you, brother." Vanya's arms sneak across my waist as she lays her head on my shoulder. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," I reply, almost absentmindedly.

Because she's the only one who cares about me, who sees more than a freak or a killing machine.

She seesme.

"Forever," she whispers, her little finger wrapping around mine in a solemn promise.

"Forever," I vow.

3

VLAD

AGE FIFTEEN

Staring down at the tattoo artist, I watch as he traces the contour of his design on my arm, the needle of the gun penetrating my skin in what should have been a mildly painful jab. Given my already deteriorated pain receptors, the only thing I can feel is a ticklish sensation as he moves the gun across my skin.

"It's so pretty!" Vanya gushes from my side, craning her neck to get a better look at the emerging design.

I grunt in agreement.

In just a short week, I'd gone from bare skin to almost full body armor. I'd long wanted to erase the ugliness of my skin and bathe it in something meaningful, yet pleasing to the eyes.

Misha's preferred nickname for me—freak—isn't just related to my less than normal behavior, but also to the marks that run across my body. So many cuts, he'd called me a Frankensteinian abomination when he'd seen me without my shirt off.

Cuts and ridges of healed flesh run all around my torso, arms, and legs. Although my back had not been spared, my chest is the worst, with a thick scar running from my sternum to my belly button. Like atree, it branches out in smaller lines, some more prominent, others shallow.

My face is the only unblemished thing—a wonder.

To avoid people's questioning eyes, as well as the condemnation or pity in their expressions, I'd decided to cover everything up in ink.

Although I'd wanted to do this for a while, the tattoo artist had advised against doing it before I reached puberty, since the designs might get distorted with my growth spurt. And so the moment I'd seen a change in my body, I'd made the appointment.

It's been a week since we'd started the process, and it had taken a lot of convincing that I could take the successive pain. Luckily, he's one of the Bratva's go-to artists and he must have heard about my not-so-stellar reputation, because the minute I'd looked a little contrite, he'd ended up accepting the job.

Vanya's been at my side throughout, marveling at the designs and trying to convince me to let her get her own. Of course, that would never happen, since our father would have my balls if anything happened to his little girl.

So far, the tattooist had finished my legs, chest, and back, as well as my right arm. The left arm is the only one still needing some more ink.

I'd spent sleepless nights with Vanya choosing the designs, and we'd discussed at length the cohesion of the entire picture. She, more than anyone else, knows what it means to me.

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