Carlotta Angela Vasiliev is a 17 year old girl living with her adoptive Russian mafia family of 4 brothers and father. Ever since she was a child, she's had no sense of belonging, abused by the Swedish mafia in her youth, her Russian saviours are th...
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Car's hands are running all over my back, tracing my scars and burns.
I relax into her hold more though, getting used to gentle touches on my back as opposed to the violent ones.
It feels... nice to be touched like this.
I'm staring down at her, not able to tear my eyes away from my girlfriend's beautiful face, the city lights accentuating her sharp jawline and cheekbones.
"Will you show me?" She asks me softly, dragging her doe-like eyes up to meet mine, in an innocent stare I cannot even try to deny.
What my girl wants, she gets.
I sigh, and take a step back from her, making her face fall into a small frown thinking she's been rejected, but I turn around to face the city lights and reach up to pull off my hoodie.
She makes me feel safe, I can do this. For her.
I begin to pull up my hoodie slowly, so fucking scared at how Car's going to react to me.
I feel the material slide along my bare back as it inches higher, and higher, until it finally slips off my head, leaving me bare chested on my balcony.
I close my eyes, letting some of my vulnerability show when my back is turned, and wait for some kind of reaction.
When I don't hear anything, I start to panic.
She's left.
She's not behind me anymore.
She's gone.
My panicked thoughts quickly dissipate though, when I suddenly feel a warm hand on my back, tracing my scars once again.
My back arches slightly at her touch, for once enjoying someone's gentle contact.
"Gigi..." She whispers, her voice full of despair, "How- how could your father do this to you?" She asks, her voice full of morbid shock and confusion.
I don't respond, genuinely not having an answer for that.
I will never fully understand why my father did what he did to his own son, but according to the rules of the nature-nurture debate, I'm not surprised everyone thinks I'm just like him, if not worse.
"They're crosses. The scars," Car clarifies, trying to make sense of the mess on my back, "They're crosses. And the burns, from cigarettes." She states, not asking but rather confirming to herself what she's seeing, looking for clarification.
I take another deep sigh, prepared to tell her the story. I trust her with my life, and she deserves to know something so important about me.
Something so permanently etched into my skin.
I turn to face her, her patient eyes looking up at me.
"My parents were very religious." I begin, "My biological mother died right after I was born. My father shot her in the head, not wanting to take the risk of people knowing he got one of the maids pregnant with his first son, his heir. I grew up with my father as my only role model til I was 3, my father then having met my step-mother. She quickly fell pregnant with Apollo. We had a pretty detached childhood, Apollo and I rode it out together, sticking up for one another when our father wasn't around.
