4 hours ago
[[continued from A Little Broken]]
Her mother lived in the shittiest part of town, and it was not a long walk from the church. Oriena paid gopniks to watch her door, make sure she stayed out of trouble, keep her safe from herself. Nadezhda just thought they were nice young neighbourhood men, despite the baggy pants and tattoos on their necks and hands. When she arrived she let herself in the apartment without knocking – there was rarely any point announcing herself. It was gloomy inside despite the cold afternoon sun, the curtains drawn until Ori tugged them aside. Her gaze wandered over the evidence of her mother’s strange obsessions without much feeling. The woman herself was kneeling in the dark of the living room, muttering to herself.
Nadezhda didn’t react right away to the light, though her gaze did rise, fixed on something unseen. The rosary was tight in her grip, the skin of her hands chapped and sore. Exhausted and soul-weary, Ori sat on the sofa to wait it out, running her hands over her head. Her muscles ached from the church floor, but it was the lingering weight of the ijiraq’s possession which muted her. She longed for the hot steam of a shower to scour memory away. But for now she simply sat with the one thing in this world that mattered to her above everything.
A hand eventually clutched at her knee, signalling her mother’s awareness of her presence. Ori let her hands drop from her face, wary for what Nadezhda would surface. She saw demons as often as she mourned for Ori’s soul, had done ever since the Sickness assailed her as a teenager, though none of the injuries were ever inflicted intentionally, physical or mental. Today her eyes were glazed and distant as she smoothed the hair from Oriena’s cheeks, wiping at imaginary tears. The rosary bit between them, but Ori didn’t flinch.
“Darling girl, darling girl,” she said over and over.
Oriena was dry-eyed, but the whites were all red. From the self-abuse of her own recklessness, from the tears she must have cried unknowing in the ijiraq’s grasp. She didn’t speak. It wasn’t like Nadezhda was really here. After a moment her head dipped, coming to rest on her mother’s shoulder.
Nadezhda sobbed enough for both of them.
She cleaned the house before she took the scalding shower. Made some food and watched her mother eat. Then she soothed Nadezhda into her bed and tucked her in.
When she was back on the street she shoved the earbuds in and turned up the volume. This wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where it was safe for a woman to run alone, even in daylight, but Ori almost hoped for the challenge. Today the rhythm of pounding the pavement wasn’t going to be enough, and she already knew where her direction would take her. She’d not been to this particular gym in months, not since her fight with Luka over their sister’s funeral. By the look in his eye when his fist connected with her cheekbone she knew he’d not be goaded twice. It didn’t stop her spoiling for the fight though. And besides that, this has been her haunt since she found the crumpled flyer at nine years old. Long before she knew she had a brother at all.
Usually she’d just call Nox to meet her, because he was the only one she could actually rely on not to hold back or ask questions even when he burned with them, but he was in America. Ori didn’t inquire over the details, and she never contacted him when she knew he was away. So the disquiet of her mood was entirely her own to navigate. She didn’t probe herself too deeply, didn’t even name the emotions swimming around inside her chest. She only intended to excise them – push herself until she was in too much pain or exhaustion to keep feeling them.
Ori shouldered her way in the door, pasted with old and peeling posters. Inside was acrid with salt and sweat, the smack of gloves, the bark of instructors. Her gaze searched for Luka despite herself, but she couldn’t see him here. Maybe he hadn’t come back either. For some reason that only sharpened whatever she was feeling. No one she recognised here was likely to spar with her, not with the flat glint in her eye right now. Dumping her bag, she headed to the mats to warm up, then claim a punchingbag upon which to let out some steam.
Her mother lived in the shittiest part of town, and it was not a long walk from the church. Oriena paid gopniks to watch her door, make sure she stayed out of trouble, keep her safe from herself. Nadezhda just thought they were nice young neighbourhood men, despite the baggy pants and tattoos on their necks and hands. When she arrived she let herself in the apartment without knocking – there was rarely any point announcing herself. It was gloomy inside despite the cold afternoon sun, the curtains drawn until Ori tugged them aside. Her gaze wandered over the evidence of her mother’s strange obsessions without much feeling. The woman herself was kneeling in the dark of the living room, muttering to herself.
Nadezhda didn’t react right away to the light, though her gaze did rise, fixed on something unseen. The rosary was tight in her grip, the skin of her hands chapped and sore. Exhausted and soul-weary, Ori sat on the sofa to wait it out, running her hands over her head. Her muscles ached from the church floor, but it was the lingering weight of the ijiraq’s possession which muted her. She longed for the hot steam of a shower to scour memory away. But for now she simply sat with the one thing in this world that mattered to her above everything.
A hand eventually clutched at her knee, signalling her mother’s awareness of her presence. Ori let her hands drop from her face, wary for what Nadezhda would surface. She saw demons as often as she mourned for Ori’s soul, had done ever since the Sickness assailed her as a teenager, though none of the injuries were ever inflicted intentionally, physical or mental. Today her eyes were glazed and distant as she smoothed the hair from Oriena’s cheeks, wiping at imaginary tears. The rosary bit between them, but Ori didn’t flinch.
“Darling girl, darling girl,” she said over and over.
Oriena was dry-eyed, but the whites were all red. From the self-abuse of her own recklessness, from the tears she must have cried unknowing in the ijiraq’s grasp. She didn’t speak. It wasn’t like Nadezhda was really here. After a moment her head dipped, coming to rest on her mother’s shoulder.
Nadezhda sobbed enough for both of them.
She cleaned the house before she took the scalding shower. Made some food and watched her mother eat. Then she soothed Nadezhda into her bed and tucked her in.
When she was back on the street she shoved the earbuds in and turned up the volume. This wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood where it was safe for a woman to run alone, even in daylight, but Ori almost hoped for the challenge. Today the rhythm of pounding the pavement wasn’t going to be enough, and she already knew where her direction would take her. She’d not been to this particular gym in months, not since her fight with Luka over their sister’s funeral. By the look in his eye when his fist connected with her cheekbone she knew he’d not be goaded twice. It didn’t stop her spoiling for the fight though. And besides that, this has been her haunt since she found the crumpled flyer at nine years old. Long before she knew she had a brother at all.
Usually she’d just call Nox to meet her, because he was the only one she could actually rely on not to hold back or ask questions even when he burned with them, but he was in America. Ori didn’t inquire over the details, and she never contacted him when she knew he was away. So the disquiet of her mood was entirely her own to navigate. She didn’t probe herself too deeply, didn’t even name the emotions swimming around inside her chest. She only intended to excise them – push herself until she was in too much pain or exhaustion to keep feeling them.
Ori shouldered her way in the door, pasted with old and peeling posters. Inside was acrid with salt and sweat, the smack of gloves, the bark of instructors. Her gaze searched for Luka despite herself, but she couldn’t see him here. Maybe he hadn’t come back either. For some reason that only sharpened whatever she was feeling. No one she recognised here was likely to spar with her, not with the flat glint in her eye right now. Dumping her bag, she headed to the mats to warm up, then claim a punchingbag upon which to let out some steam.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)
