Page 2 of Ruins
As far as I know, Vartan Sarkisian, head of the Armenian mob, doesn’t have an issue with us. We aren’t friendly, but we aren’t enemies. His men wouldn’t do this unprovoked. I send over the photos and intel to my father’s email, and I finally leave my computer, throw myself on my bed and rest.
***
With a jolt, I am ripped from sleep by the forceful hands of my older brother. His grip is tight and urgent, sending waves of adrenaline coursing through my body. He thrusts a pair of rumpled jeans at me from my closet, his face twisted in determination.
“We have to get ready,” Angelo seethes, his normally smooth voice rough and strained. “We found those fuckers.”
My mind struggles to catch up with his intense energy. “Where arewegoing? Who is Dad sending?”
Angelo’s jaw clenches, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. “Who is hesending? He’s sending us!” He bellows, spittle flying from his lips. “We are spearheading this shit, it’s aboutourmother. You want anyone else avenging her death?”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I run a shaky hand through my hair. “Angelo, I don’t want to do this.”
He shoves me roughly, grabbing the collar of my shirt and lifting me until our faces are inches apart. “You don’twantto?” he scoffs. “You don’t have a choice, little brother.” He pushes me back onto the bed forcefully.
I bounce slightly but steady myself, bracing for a punch that never comes. “I can’t do it, Angelo. I’m not like you.”
He turns away quickly, but then whirls back around to throw a shirt at me before getting in my face again. “Likeme?” He locks his darkened gaze onto mine, his voice filled with venom and self-loathing. “A monster like me, you mean?”
I shake my head and try to speak, but he cuts me off.
“No, you think that don’t you? Because you were sheltered under mommy’s protection while I had to struggle and fight for Dad’s approval.”
He sneers at me. “While you buried your nose in books and hid away with your little trinkets, building foolish gadgets like a child, I was getting my hands dirty and preparing for a battle like this.”
He swings his arms around in a wild gesture. “And this, little brother, is the biggest fight of our lives. So, you’re going to have to pull your head out of the clouds, close your fairy tale books, and get your ass up because tonight will be your first kill.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with tension and the weight of our family’s vendetta.
My heart races even faster, thumping against my chest like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. My breaths come in sharp gasps, each one harder to catch than the last. The room feels smaller; the walls closing in on me as I struggle to breathe.
“Angelo, please,” I plead, my voice trembling with fear and desperation. “I can’t do it.”
“You can!” he shouts, grabbing me by the shoulders, his fingers dig in painfully. “When we spar, you- you get angry and strong. Use whatever you feel then to your advantage now.”
“That’s just adrenaline, Angelo,” I try to reason, but he shakes me forcefully.
“Then use it!” he insists, his eyes blazing with a ferocity I’ve never seen before. “Remember how you felt when you found Mom’s hand in that box? Or think about her being tortured and begging for someone to save her? And no one did! Use that anger,” he grits, pushing me away as my vision blackens around the edges.
As my vision clears, I find myself standing over a sniveling man - the same man from the photos I sent my father.
He is one of the men who took my mother.
In one trembling hand, I hold a sharp knife, while in the other, a pair of plyers clamps down on a severed tongue. My heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it will burst out of my chest. The man before me sobs uncontrollably, blood spilling from his mouth in a constant stream. There's another man tied to a chair being mercilessly pummeled by Angelo.
The sickening sound of knuckles meeting bone echoes in my ears, mixing with Angelo’s heavy breaths. Suddenly, a deafening ringing overtakes all other sounds until it’s the only thing left.
The knife is still in my hand. My fingers won’t let go.
The man isn’t screaming anymore. Blood drips from my grip, warm and thick.
I don’t know if I want to throw up or if I feel nothing at all.
Then—darkness.
When my vision returns, I’m standing in the foyer of my father’s home. The weight of his hand hitting my shoulder feels like a heavy boulder pushing me under waves. My shirt is stiff with dried blood, the metallic tang still clinging to my skin. My muscles ache—how long have I been running on adrenaline?The sudden stillness of the house feels foreign, like I’ve stepped into a place I no longer belong.
“I’m proud of you; we got them,” he says with a beaming smile. “You’ve made names for yourselves, Scythe and Sinner. Your mother would be proud.”
