Page 102 of Savage Saint
"She chose me," my father said simply.
Jerzy's face twisted with rage. "And that was her mistake."
The gunshot was deafening in our small living room. My father crumpled to the floor. My mother screamed, lunging toward him, but Jerzy caught her by the hair.
"You could have had everything with me," he hissed. "Instead, you chose him and his pathetic little life."
"I would choose him a thousand times over," my mother spat, defiant even with tears streaming down her face. Her voice didn't waver, even as Jerzy's fingers tightened in her hair, even as her husband's blood seeped across our worn floorboards.
I must have made a sound then, a whimper, a cry, something primal and terrified, because Jerzy's head snapped toward the cupboard where I was hiding. His pale blue eyes, so like my own, narrowed as he yanked the door open and found me curled into a ball, trembling like a trapped animal.
"Ah, the little one," he said, his voice softening to something almost gentle, though the malice underneath sent shivers down my spine. "Come here,kochanie. Uncle Jerzy will take care of you now." The endearment felt like poison on his lips, a mockery of affection that made my stomach churn.
When I didn't move, frozen in terror, he reached in with hands that reeked of whiskey and gunpowder and dragged me out by my arm. I kicked and screamed, my small legs flailing uselessly against his bulk as I called for my mother. The two men held her on her knees, her nightgown stained with my father's blood, her face a mask of desperate anguish.
Her tears were streaming down her face as she begged Jerzy for mercy, not for herself, but for me. "Please, not my daughter. Take me, kill me, but spare her. She's innocent," she pleaded, her voice breaking.
Jerzy's grip tightened painfully on my jaw, forcing my head to turn toward my mother. His other hand raised the gun, pressing the cold metal against her forehead. "Watch closely, little one," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and sour. "This is what happens to women who make the wrong choice."
I struggled wildly, but he held me firmly as he pointed the gun at her. He made me watch as he pulled the trigger and shot her. The sound was deafening, and something warm and wet spattered across my face.
"This is what whores deserve," he said, spitting in the place where her body fell on the floor, blood pooling beneath her, mingling with my father's.
Jerzy's eyes were empty, devoid of remorse as he surveyed the scene, my father lying motionless beside her, my mother's fingers just inches from touching his.
The stench of alcohol wafted over my face as Jerzy lifted me, tucking me against his chest like a perverse parody of comfort. I kicked and struggled, my small fists pounding against him, even as I saw them lying still on the floor, blood beneath them both, their eyes open and unseeing.
The second gunshot still echoed through the house, a sound that would haunt my nightmares.
"Burn it," Jerzy ordered his men, his voice cold and methodical. "Burn it all. Nothing remains of this life."
He carried me outside, his grip painfully tight as I struggled. I watched over his shoulder as flames engulfed the only home I'd ever known, taking with it any evidence of the life I'd had before.
"You're mine now," Jerzy whispered against my hair. "And I'm going to make you into something magnificent."
I heave again, but there's nothing left to throw up. The cold tile against my forehead does nothing to cool the burning rage building inside me. Jerzy killed them. Executed them in front of me. Took me. Shaped me into his weapon. His prized possession.
All because my mother chose my father over him.
The training started almost immediately. Endless hours of combat drills, language lessons, and weapons training. Punishment for any show of weakness, for tears, for hesitation, for asking about my parents.
How young was I when I made my first kill? Seven? Nine? The memory comes in fragments: a man tied to a chair, Jerzy's hand on my shoulder, a knife that felt too big in my small hand.
"Prove you're worthy of the name Kowalczyk," Jerzy had said. "Prove you're mine."
The man had begged. I had cried. Jerzy had slapped me hard enough to split my lip.
"Tears are weakness. Mercy is failure. Do it now or I'll make you watch while I do much worse."
I'd done it. Quick, clean, just as I'd been taught. Jerzy had looked at me with that expression he always wore, half disgust, half fascination, before nodding once.
"Good girl."
I wasn't a good girl. I was a child. A traumatised, brainwashed child who just wanted the pain to stop.
The few times I'd asked about my mother, he'd beaten me until I begged him to stop.
"She was a whore," he'd spit. "She was nothing. That's all you need to know."
