Lorraine Lebedev

Grief has a way of removing you from the world.

It comes in little waves, at first they are calming and sometimes they are overwhelming.

It's been three days since she died. After that evening, I immediately went home and locked myself in my room.

Once in a while the maids would check up on me, even Dante. But what I found funny is that I haven't spoken to my father.

We've both been grieving in different ways.

He's been cold and distant and I've been depressed or somehow lost.

I'm surprised I haven't seen him shed a single tear, they smuggled each other with so much love, so seeing him acting like he was not bothered or that she literally wasn't the love of his life confused me.

It was strange even for him.

I sat on an arms chair and glazed out the window, a light blanket of snow covered the ground, and armed guards walked around the yard fulfilling their duty. I was all alone, father just left a few hours ago to God knows where.

I haven't visited Katina in the hospital. I couldn't bring myself too.

Sometimes her memory can make me sad. When I was young, below the age of 10, mother would always tuck me into bed, some mothers would read stories to their daughters about princes, princesses and true love, others would sing their daughters to bed but her my mother would always read me the same poem over and over again until I grew tired of it. Sometimes I would complain to her about why she repeats the same poem. She would always tell me that it was her favorite poem and represented the love she had for me.

It went like this, Come to me in your summer time, when our laughter is as the daisies in the grass. Come to me in your winter time, when you feel as if ice freezes your heart and blood. For I am your shelter, your guardian, your forever home... always with an open door, the key always in your pocket, and a love that is always yours.

At that age I never understood the deep meaning of the poem but now I do. "For I am your shelter, your guardian, your forever home"

Forever home? Funny how I don't feel like I have a home. I have no one.

The wish for her to be here fills me with such rage and bitterness that I think I will explode. One day I will grieve for her, but first I would have to accept he is really gone.

A gentle knock on the door pulled me out of my trans, I did not have the energy to know who it was.

"Ms. Lebedeva, I came to inform you that your food will get cold." The woman's soft voice spoke through the barrier of the wooden door.

My gaze still fixed outside the window, silence filled the room.

I did not want to eat, I didn't have the appetite.

I don't want to get up. I don't want to move at all.

The woman sighed loudly and I heard her walk away, her steps fading.

I pulled my legs closer to my chest, resting my head on my clamped legs, I closed my eyes and pictured my mother's warmth, keeping me safe from the world.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Wake up, train, eat, sleep, which was routine for the past three days.

I haven't seen my father, only heard his voice or whenever I passed his office the door was closed with a few of his men inside as they talked business.

Each time I trained I thought about the person who was responsible for my mother's death, whoever he was.

I pictured myself torturing them, making sure their death is slow and agonizing.

I pictured myself skinning their flesh, their agonizing screams blessing my ears, how the blood pours out of their flesh, I wanted them to pay so fucking bad.

Taking away the one thing that kept me sane.

I did not want to admit it but I was slowly becoming the female version of my father.

The day I killed and injured dozens of people, the day where my mother died, a part of me died as a while.

I have always been a giver, warm and loving. Even as a child I never cried, seeking to make others happy. Often people sought me in times of trouble and I gave all I had - my whole heart and showered love upon them. By age six adults leant on me, told me of their woes and I was their spark of light.

Now that she was taken from me, my love, my reason to live

I never felt more empty in mind, body or soul, never so bereft of any comfort. I have never felt so worthless or disposable, never so wretched and cold. For hours I would have no emotion, only an urge to move fast; then all at once I'd be on the floor, shaking with grief and rage that bled from my bones.

After training I was hungry so I decided to make myself something. On my way downstairs I paused in front of my father's office with the door closed as usual.

I wanted to ask him something, two important questions actually and I'm guessing now is the perfect time.

I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

"I told you not to bother me unless it's important Dante." he yelled, his cold voice sending shivers down my spine.

"Father it's me." I let out. "Come in," his voice was calmer than before.

I pushed the door open and stepped in, the smell of cigarettes and liquor burned my nose. I found him sitting in his arms chair next to the fireplace, a Cuban cigar between his lips, his hair ruffled up and tie loosened around his neck with a few of his buttons undone revealing his pepper salt chest hair.

An unknown emotion flashed in his eyes before it was hidden with guilt and emptiness.

I have never seen him like this, his cold emotionless side. He looked so far from me like he saw me as-as I don't have the right for it.

Father doesn't look like he was grieving over his dead wife. Is he even sad that mother died at all?

"How are you Lorraine?" he asked, curiosity lingering in his voice. "I want to talk to you." I demanded, shutting the door behind me.

He took a pull of the cigar, his chest sinking in and he blew out the gray smoke, his shoulders fell out of relaxation.

My uncles and father love smoking, whenever they had pool night I never knew why these men found out about the thought of damaging their lungs.

"Sit." he declared.

I hesitated at first because of his tone, he never spoke to me in that way, like he sees me as one of his men.

I brushed the weird feeling under the rug and sank in the chair in front of him.

"When is her funeral?" I asked, cutting straight to the case.

He took his glass of brandy, gulped it down and set it back on the table with his thick cigar resting at the corner of his lips.

His cold eyes met mine, slightly squinting his eyes, father pulled out the cigar from his lips. "There will be no funeral for your mother," he said.

My eyes widened, my body at the edge of the seat. "What?! Why?" I asked surprisingly. "Because I say so." He argued back.

I stared at him bluntly, confused as to why we won't have a decent send off for my mother.

"What about her-"

"She is already buried." He blurted out.

a vortex of anger swirled inside me.

Why would he bury her without me?

Why didn't he talk to me first?

Why does he think it's okay to like this towards me?!

I wanted to lash out on him, fight him to why he buried my mother behind my back. I AM old enough to have a saying about this and she is my mother.

I took a deep breath and swallowed the bitterness and anger I'm starting to have towards him.

He watched me carefully, taking another puff from the cigar.

"I want revenge."

He paused, he gawked at me with his intense emotionless expression.

"I have take my training very seriously and I'm very good with knifes, I can have Dante by my side to-"

"Enough Lorraine." Father seethed bitterly. I blinked back. "You will not seek revenge, you are young and do not have experience mind you, you're a girl not a man. You have no clue how the world works and seeking revenge over your mother's death is a waste of time. She is gone."

I watched him in disbelief, his words sinking in.

Waste of time?

So my mother died in vain.

Fury tore through me. I didn't want to look at him for another second.

I stood and stormed out of his office leaving him with silence fearing I'll say something I will regret.

I will show him, I will show everyone who sees me as a weak girl.

If he won't help, I'll just ask someone who will.

Raphaël.

All I had to do was find out where he was being held and escape with him.

I will not allow my mothers death to be in vain.

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