sierra kolysov // d2 // fin

SIERRA KOLYSOV

Nimble, calloused fingers dropped the tablet as soon as she saw the man take his piggish gaze off of her. Sierra Kolysov held his gaze when he looked back, injecting her cerulean eyes with spurious flirtation. She grinned inwardly as drank. It was only a matter of time before his speech started to slur, his words stumbling over each other in a clumsy mess. He stared at her relentlessly as he sloppily put the rest of the drug through his lips. Slowly, the keen lust in his expression glazed over.

Sierra had kept her eyes on the man all night, waiting for him to get enough drinks for her to take him out. Unfortunately, he had quite the tolerability. Miss Kolyov never was patient. She didn't like wasting her time with lost causes and stupid, hopeful dreams. The material things, those mattered. She only trailed things she could see, and if gold and silver needed a waiting room, she didn't have any second thoughts about cutting the line. It was easy enough. She took the pill out of her purse; the same purse she planned on putting all of that man's things in.

The girl spoke sweet lies from sweet lips, letting her warm breath swell calmingly into his ears. He followed every direction she whispered, if a bit sluggish. Nevertheless, they ended up in an alleyway a few blocks down after a few minutes of guidance. Her voice was a pitcher pouring out cream, soothing him as she took his valuables. "Sweet dreams, darling," she drawled, fishing for a wallet in his pocket. She had already unstrapped his watch and slipped off the absurd amount of jewelry he was wearing, deeming that the rest of what he wore was effectively worthless. After it was over, her purse was full of profits and her mind was full of contemplations.

Sierra toyed with the broken glass in her hands, pursing her lips as she looked at the man, slumped and sitting against the rugged brick wall. She could easily kill him, his snores highlighting his defenselessness to her. But what was the point? Sierra was gifted with generic attractiveness. Sure, she was beautiful, but so were so many others. Girls who looked just like her wandered around clubs nightly. She never got a thrill like others in the gang did; killing was just killing. Blood spilt across the floor didn't exactly get the blood in her veins shooting. Deciding against it, she threw the glass shard onto the cracked concrete. Besides, why risk getting blood on such a nice dress? The only reason she would need to kill the man was if he would recognize her in the morning. But between the haze of alcohol and drugs, she felt safe. If need be, she could just dye her blonde hair black, maybe cover up her freckles, and be safe. She waltzed out of the alley, ready to present her findings to Uncle Flynn.

Uncle Flynn was strange in every way. Sierra had seen him as mysterious, and a bit suspicious ( not that she would ever dream of saying that to him, of course ). She remembered clearly the day when he came for her, cradling a wailing baby and scanning the crowds of kids with those steely eyes. A boy, his name Matthew, had died that morning from starvation, and just a week earlier, a two year old died out of neglect. Sierra survived unhealthily in the orphanage that smelled like a barn, although her skin clung to her bones and her muscles barely existed. The little girl, a couple weeks over twelve, was minding her own business. She didn't see her ancient nanny pointing at her, didn't feel the weight of Flynn's eyes. Kolyov never was a very good observer. She had always tended to lose herself, shutting out her environment as a way of calming. Growing up in the slums wasn't easy, and it is probably correct in saying that most of the kids ignored fragments of things they didn't want to see. The memories were enough to traumatize any child. Sierra shuts everything back in her mind, too scared and disturbed by what lay in her distant pass. Despite the charming facade she liked to mold over her face, there was always something haunting her.

Sierra never played well with the other kids at the orphanage. Her nanny, with her raspy, elderly voice would deem her a selfish, whiney little brat before guiding her attention onto the next kids. The only time she had gotten the spotlight as a child was being scolded by cutting, degraded words. But she was able to get away with a lot of things without reprimand. Sometimes, she would steal others' food to put more fat on her weak, weak bones ( not that it ever helped ). Other times, she would take younger ones' toys, taunting them with their things. No guilt or remorse followed her, even after getting upbraided for her actions. She never listened to the authority of the carer. It carried out to present day, disregarding most orders if it didn't come from a person she respected. She liked doing her own thing when possible; independence was necessary for those raised in a ramshackle house teeming with kids all out for themselves.

Most of the evidence of her past had been wiped from her body. Her cheeks filled out and fat and muscle started building up under her pale skin. Her eyes didn't look hauntingly sunken in anymore. She looked healthy under the care of her uncle, even if the lack of nutrients had only let her grow to 5'5". If she had gotten enough food, she would have ended up like her parents, although she never knew them; just on the fringe of six feet. But it could have been worse. Sierra could no longer count her ribs, her hips and clavicles didn't jut out through her skin, and her curves were the reason she was so useful to Uncle Flynn and the gang.

Sierra Kolysov was undeniably attractive. Thick brows and heavy lids moved suggestively across her face, floating above eyes that tapered downwards. They were intent beads of blue, buckets of ocean waters too deep to see into, hiding something underneath the murky surface. Her nose was small, round, with a delicate scar trailing over the bridge from an accident at the orphanage. Her lips were full and plush, always flashing smiles that didn't quite meet her eyes. Her face was round and friendly, decorated with false innocence Sierra wishes was really there. Faint freckles were galaxies on her unevenly colored skin, adding to the cutesy look that Sierra utilized to her full advantage. A threat that doesn't present itself as one is the most dangerous of enemies.

Sierra took off her heels, having enough of the chafing and toe-pinching. She winced, her stepping over sharp bits of debris every few strides, but with their bondage off, her feet felt relieved. The blonde looked around, her eyes picking through the darkness for any potential risk. After all, she was a girl wandering alone after sunset. Although she was trained to fight by Uncle Flynn, it was very minimal. Defending herself wasn't easy in heels, although they could make excellent weapons if jabbed hard enough. But she let confidence pump her shoulders up and she kept her chin held high, as if she was strutting off to be a queen. The certainty in every step she took tended to ward off most of the hungry eyes on the streets. She made it back to Uncle Flynn's before midnight.

She remembered the first time she saw the house. Sierra had been taken back by the strange man, claiming to be her uncle. She wanted to run, but a simple, beautiful four letter word left his mouth and made her stay. He said he was the only person who could possibly love her, and Sierra's heart swelled and she had hope. Her unruliness was mostly beaten out of her by the training Uncle Flynn gave her, but the spark of defiance was still something she harbored for people she deemed unworthy of leadership. She eventually was crafted into an excellent thief, light on her small feet as she entered the houses of the oblivious rich. Once Sierra was old enough, she had become attractive and mature enough to use her looks as a vice, leading men into a trap like a venus flytrap. She was good at what she did, and proud. She held no shame in what she did.

Sierra was still an unpleasant when she thought she could be. But she seemed to have a switch in her. From her lips dripped the words others wanted to hear, lies and myths about lust and desire. On her off time, though, she often was sour, her tongue sharp with comebacks. She could control her temper when money was on the line, hold her disgust for the greedy eyes of older men. But for the most part, Sierra was irritable to everyone except Uncle Flynn.

Maybe Sierra's crotchety attitude was excusable. After all, her childhood was bursting at the seams with lies. Her parents did in fact love her, they did in fact miss her. Their lost child was on their mind for so many years, wondering how their little Sierra was doing and regretting their decision of giving up their baby. But they did it for love, hoping to protect their princess from the games. Flynn had claimed to them that she was going to be loved, cared for, and defended. That was the truth. But Uncle Flynn told Kolysov otherwise, claiming that her parents were disgusted with her, not wanting her in the slightest. And she believed him. She hand an unrelenting admiration for Flynn. Maybe it was fear, because Sierra was never the trusting and loyal type of person. Punished for her mistakes and rewarded for her victories, Sierra lived in the constant hope that what she did was good enough for Uncle Flynn.

But that didn't matter. It didn't matter that Sierra was given up by her parents. It didn't matter that her value could be decided by Flynn on a whim. No, Sierra mattered to Sierra, and that was enough for her.