𝖡𝖤𝖳𝖱𝖠𝖸𝖠𝖫 𝖲𝖤𝖱𝖨𝖤𝖲 #1
She pressed the knife deeper to my throat. I could feel the sting and blood beginning to trickle down my neck.
"I gave you a chance to leave and never come back, why didn't you take it?"
I looked into those deep gre...
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ARES RUSSO
Screams of terror and screams of life. Surrounding my undeveloped ears, shattering my already sensitive heart.
The atmosphere was tense. My father sat silently watching my mother go through pain and agony trying to birth me. My grandmother was a bystander, watching over her daughter in-law.
My parents were married through force. It was arranged and even though she fell in love with him, it didn't excuse his actions towards her. She tried many times to leave but it was as if all forces of the universe were pulling them back together. Inevitably creating her demise that was slowly revived the night I was born. I was to become her antidote in the poisonous world she lived in but the minute he saw she was pregnant, he tainted the only sunshine she thought she had.
I was a forced child, mother didn't wish to birth me in his home but he wouldn't let her birth me away from him. He is my father. A man of integrity and pride. The night I was born changed everything in our home. My mother has this burning hatred for my father and every night she would make sure he knew. I would stand behind the tall pillars and listen in. When she was done, she would visit my room and tuck me in.
She stroked my hair and told me she loves me. The only one who did.
Over time the more she looked at me the more she cried. I was tied down to the night I was born, it was my fault for not waiting. That night was one to remember. The screams, the fighting, the blood, all of it. She wouldn't tuck me in, she would sit on the balcony, a bottle of wine in her hand and a somber expression on her face.
She regrets everything. I couldn't blame her, my father wasn't the ideal husband. He trained me to be like him, to kill with precision. To not trust anyone and hold my head high. I let him control the physical things, but mentally I wasn't brooding and cold.
My mother used to tell me to never be mean and cold, to never detach from my emotions and to always be kind and welcoming. Hence, I've always been an optimistic and friendly. If you haven't given me a reason to me mad or mean to you, I will be nice to you, as I am with everyone.
So I let papa control how I shoot, how I kill, what I say when torturing the hopeless men. But after all that is done, I would lay on my bed and replay their blood curling screams and horrifying bruises in my mind. My mom watched me cry myself to sleep and softly told me that she was proud of me. Papa never once uttered those words. He never told me he was proud of how far I've come as a nine year old. The screams of terrors as the bullets lacerated through their skin. The deep cuts I would do just so father can see how "heartless" or "ready" I truly was to become the Phoenix.
Mama was devastated to hear that at age nineteen, I had become Phoenix. I knew she resented what I had become but she could never resent me. Or at least I think so.
