Misery. Tragedy. Guilt. The twins weren't always that sadistic form of pasty apathy. Dyana was a happy girl once... and Dimitri once felt things beyond the nearness for his sister. Of course, this was quite a time ago.
Earlier in the Rikov's lives, their mother was involved, caring. Chamile loved her children and never let the conflicts of the bedroom disturb her children's lives, though, not for very long. When the twins were only eight, Mrs. Rikov was found bedding another man and later paid the price of adultery with her life at the hands of her husband. Mikhail was never charged, as the head of the Rikov household was considered a good man with morals who loved his wife, not to mention Mik was well-respected. The wicked secret both followed him to his grave and forced it's nasty curse on his children's lives.
The age of fourteen is an impressionable one on the life of a boy in the 1900's. Dimitri worked with his father an awful lot during this stage in his life, barely having time for socializing and the like, readying himself to become a man and follow in his father's footsteps under the wing of a major company that sold a trusted brand of footwear. The Rikov's had been the designer, but it was sold off later on. Mikhail and Dimitri were good friend's with a few people, but namely, Jonathan McKarley, a promising Scot straight from the immigrant ships. Several times, Jon was invited to the Rikov household and thus introduced to the youngest Rikov, the woman of the house and Mitri's twin sister, Dyana. No, it wasn't love at first sight, far from it. Jon was a clumsy fool, dropping this and that and causing a fluster of anger from the teenage girl who just so happened to be the designated one to clean it up; such was the life of the only woman of the house. It took a while, but they were able to talk and get to know one another. Compassion blossomed from friendship and eventually, love formed.
There was a problem, though. Jonathan was in his late twenties and Dyana only fifteen by then. Passion fought beneath a mask of acquaintance until Nikolaev Lukin, a wealthy man with a dominant nature, came into play. Nik was the owner of a well-known bank in New York, a tall man, though not exactly a looker. Mr. Lukin, after only a few measly months of half-asked trying to get to know the Rikov Girl and being allowed to dine with the Rikovs (having met Jon, of course), he was asking Mikhail behind his daughter's back for her hand in marriage: despite the fact that Dyana barely spoke to Nik and Mitri had beaten the man to a bloody pulp a few times. Mikhail agreed without the girl's consent, pleased by wealth alone that his daughter would be well taken care of. After all, the same had been arranged for his own wife.
Dyana was outraged and plead with her father, eventually revealing her affair (innocent though it was) with Jon and claiming her affections for him forthright, only to be scorned and tossed aside. She had no say in this and Jon wanted to save her, gathering monetary sustenance and sending her a letter when the plans were made, a happy surprise and a request for her hand. Ill fortune was to strike the love-struck couple as the letter was sorrowfully intercepted by her father. Mikhail was infuriated and, in a fit of anger, plotted against the two, answering to the call of the letter himself and coming to meet him, heat in hand. Jon was shot... point blank... while waiting for his love, a cigarette in hand outside the local train station. Only Mitri knew about Jon's death, though only Mikhail knew who'd done it. Murder without a sinner to point an accusing finger at a second time.
The wedding was set, the plans made. Dyana had waited; Jon had failed her. People had been invited and the preparations made for the honeymoon. Neither her brother nor her father told her of their coworker's death, thus, knowledge of the blame could never be placed, necessary hatred never claimed on Mik's behalf. Mitri was allowed to see his sister the night of her wedding... they were both seventeen and it had been snowing that day in late January. A conversation bloomed between the two, quiet as it always had been. The understanding and compassion of the two for each other was always miraculous, though nothing was so wondrous about the plans they were making.
Small heat was packed into the luggage when Dyana was sent on her honeymoon, a premonition to preconceived events that brought on anxiety of the worst kind; the guilty type. As was planned by the twins, on February 2, in the early hours of darkened dawn, the two were ready, silent, waiting.
Dimitri was settled in bed, rocky greens staring at the clock, waiting for the strike of one thirty. Hand struck the necessary number and a single chime fell from the old clock to signal actions needed, slipping his hand beneath the bed, withdrawing a lengthy segment of lead piping. Dimitri slid those fingers around the heavy bludgeon, soft footsteps following the length of the hallway, fingers pushed through the space between door left ajar and it's frame, pushing it aside for slender body to slip through in habitual tranquility. Mik slept on his side, the curve of hip that jutted through the fall of sheets and blankets advanced upon and cold lead was head high. Mitri shook his father's shoulder, stirring him. A groan uttered, slipping between pale lips, chin turning to look at his son. Dimitri's face was obscured by the sudden swing of black piping into his father's head, repeated thunks reverberating louder in the blonde's ears than they did in the room, swinging repeatedly... Mik never moved an inch.
Dyana had been holding her husband's affections off well, feigning womanly curses until she could no more. The pistol had also been kept in her bed, just under the mattress and she'd had a more difficult time about carrying out the premeditated actions. She'd been waiting just as her brother had, watching the clock before hands had found their way around her sides, pulling her over. A soft plea was issued, keeping his hands from traveling down too far, though fingers stretched and curled around breasts firmly, harsh male anatomy digging into her backside before she tried to get up. A protest, just a little longer, from Nik as larger body held her in place, little hands trying their best to free petite frame from his grasp. Torso writhed, hands dipped, anger brought on by realization of her lie before she was shoved downward, being forced to her back, tears staining soft face before knee found him in his groin. Nik fell away and Dyana scrambled up, gun snatched from its safehold and held in shaky hands long enough for barrel to be aimed, finger to curl and gunshot to end the momentary misery of her husband before it dropped to the floor...
Mitri had stood, quiet, ears attuned to the new silence around him, the stench of death and ill-conception in the air thick as the crimson that was flooding the bed slowly. What to do? Mitri hadn't planned how he would cover this up and the thought of Alcatraz wasn't exactly appealing. Without thought, the piping was dropped, the body heaved upwards; the Rikov son was stronger than his lean form permitted guess. Rocky green gaze had fallen on the window, two stories up...
Police were asking questions now, Mrs. Rikov Lukin was suspected of murder even though the handle of heat was pressed firm into the hold of Nik's hand, finger curled around the trigger, held in place by its protective ring. Body had never been moved, the twist of wrist as if fell from bloodied face occupying the pistol directed at his face.
There was also the question of why the man, crumpled and mangled in a rosebush beneath his window, had a skull so shattered and beaten that Mik was barely recognizable. The twins held silent, true, stuck in a courtroom where no one would believe the two had killed their own family. No.. it was a terrible accident... and the twins were stuck together again.
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