The Prophecy Series: Pinespoint

IVY

I was filled with self-disappointment. Disappointed in my circumstances. Disappointed in the choices I’d made in life.

I’d made a heap of errors. Not out of desire. No, I did it to make my father happy, but I didn’t realize then that they would turn out to be errors. All I wanted was for him to be proud of me. All I wanted was for him to see me.

I trudged into the bathroom, regret consuming me. Once inside, I slid down to the floor, my back against the shut door. I opened the cabinet and retrieved my blades. My little secret…my sweet escape.

I removed my sweater and pants before setting the Altoids mint tin case beside me. I exhaled and took a deep breath, preparing myself.

I picked up the small tin and extracted a tiny blade, one of three I stored in there. There was a folded piece of paper, a reminder of the last time I was truly happy. It was college, before I was engaged. I brought it to my right arm slowly—gently—as I was already trembling.

One, two, three, four.

I sighed in satisfaction as the fresh wound bled. I knew how to cut without causing serious harm. I took a deep breath before bringing the blade to my right leg.

One, two, three.

I released another sigh and let the blade fall to the floor, my head leaning back against the door. Sweet relief washed over me. Gradually.

I hadn’t self-harmed in a while…not since Hawaii, but the impending phone call with my mother had me on edge. I was grateful that she at least gave me a heads up this time. But still, I was nervous.

The relief helped me regain some control. It transported me back to a place of comfort. Odd and justified. I knew how to be cautious, and if something did happen, it wasn’t like I was leaving anyone behind.

Though, I had made a promise to my mother…it was a cruel move on her part, and I resented her for it, but seeing her weep over my fragile body in the hospital bed was enough for me to say anything to help her regain her composure.

I despised when people were emotional, and my mother was never the emotional type.

“Promise me, Ivanna,” she implored, gripping my shoulders and gently shaking me. I nearly blacked out from the sudden movement.

“Promise me you will fight. Promise me you won’t give up,” she had pleaded.

“I promise,” I murmured softly. My voice was barely audible, but she had heard.

I never wanted that. I wanted to die right there in that bed. Hell, I wanted to die in that damned penthouse…but mother had shown up unexpectedly and found me nearly lifeless on the bedroom floor. She saved my life, but it wasn’t worth saving. I wish I had died.

The day I was discharged from the hospital, I recall my father’s face. It was etched with sorrow. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed, but I knew he was troubled. My mother had told me his anger was directed at Maxim, not me. But his feelings were unvoiced, as they always were. My father was perpetually aloof, only speaking to me when absolutely necessary.

After a week of bedrest at home, he finally entered my room with my mother. He placed the divorce papers before me, and I signed them. We all remained silent, and to say I was stunned would be an understatement. I hadn’t seen that coming. I had anticipated him sending me back to my monstrous husband once I was fully recovered. But in that moment, he surprised me by treating me like a daughter, not a business asset.

The following day, I joined my parents for dinner in the dining room. Once the meal was over, my father announced that the divorce was final and he wanted me to relocate out of state.

“Ivanna, darling, this is wonderful news!” my mother exclaimed after a few moments of my silence. I wasn’t sure what kind of response they were expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“Finnie will assist you with packing, and I’ll prepare the jet. You’ll depart tomorrow morning. Choose a destination, and I’ll handle the rest,” my father said before planting a kiss on my mother’s cheek and exiting the room.

“This is exactly what you need!” my mother enthused.

I was aware that there was more to the story, and I also knew that it would be my last night in San Francisco. I had a hunch that this was somehow tied to the deal my father had struck with Maxim or Father Pavlov. But I never inquired. Just like I never questioned why the police never interrogated me about the incident. Even the doctors and nurses kept mum.

My father and Maxim’s father were lifelong friends. My marriage to Maxim had been arranged while I was still in my mother’s womb. My mother insisted it was a Russian tradition, and I should be proud that my father had chosen such a distinguished family for me to marry into.

Maxim’s father, who insisted I address him as Father Pavlov—what all his children called him despite him not being a priest or religious in any way—was kind and gentle. Nothing like his son. I wasn’t sure where Maxim had inherited his rage from, but I knew it couldn’t possibly be from his father.

Indeed, Master Pavlov…after Maxim and I wed, he demanded that I refer to him as Master Pavlov in the presence of anyone who wasn’t family. He required all the people he considered his property to call him that. Yes, property. He claimed I was an object and nothing more. Before our wedding, he was kind to me. Always considerate. But after we left the wedding reception, something changed. It was immediate. I thought he was joking when he instructed me to call him Master Pavlov and was promptly met with a slap across the face.

The rules were introduced shortly after we entered the confines of his home.

1. No talking back.

2. No speaking without permission.

3. Don’t look at any man without permission.

4. No touching him.

5. Don’t leave the house without permission.

The list continued…and continued. When he was done, I made the audacious mistake of asking if he was serious. He removed his belt and whipped me with the buckle end. I wept and wept, which only made him strike harder and longer. I was a crumpled mess on the floor, still in my wedding dress. He left the house after he was done and didn’t return until morning. I was in so much pain I hadn’t moved from where he had left me.

He brought me upstairs when he returned with another woman and forced me to watch as he had sex with her. I cried and cried because she looked like she was in pain and had tried to resist. He killed her. Without even blinking an eye.

“If you don’t obey my rules, you’ll end up just like her,” he said, gesturing to the lifeless woman sprawled naked on the bed.

He never touched me in a sexual way, and I never touched him. But, he made me watch every time he had sex with a woman, and each time they left crying from his brutality.

I shook my head and suppressed the memories as I mustered the strength to clean and bandage my wounds. I wiped the blood from the floor and curled up in bed, sobbing.