The sound of ceramic plates smashing against the hard, cold floor should have been satisfying, but it was not.
Neither had been the act of dumping her twin's barely touched dinner into the trash; which, in truth, felt only to twist deeper the serrated knife in her gut to let all that carefully cooked food go to waste, but at least that was in the bin and not decorating their tiny, paltry kitchen like weeds bloomed over a tomb. She only had herself to blame—she was the one who'd swept the plates off the too-small-for-three dining table after first emptying them in spite—but what that was intended to be cathartic now only felt terrifically pathetic.
She wondered if it'd be more satisfying if they were the tacky chequer-rimmed plates from Golden Gillyweed.
The jagged shards littered about the kitchen floor gave her no answer.
A string of Russian curse words thrummed in the otherwise silent apartment as Ksenia finally knelt to pick up the shards, one by one by one. Anatoly had left many minutes ago in the thorny wake of their fight, claiming that he would be back tomorrow morning, which probably meant that he was going to be sleeping on one of the several couches in the Academy library, though at this point his younger twin could give less shits if he'd spend the night instead in some wild shrub along the banks of the Chicago River.
The sound of a key turning in the front door punctuated her muttered swearing, and reignited twicefold her morosity at her stupid brother, their stupid housemate, this stupid dinner that she'd made like the stupid idiot that she was.
"Idi k chyertu
, Anatoly Dimitrievich," she shouted with bile. Ksenia did not look up from her kneeling on the ground, reaching for each shard that she placed in a small growing pile by her knee. Certainly she could charm the shards together, but Ksenia did not want
the plates repaired.
She was not in the mood for reparation.
Ksenia Dimitrievna Ilyenkova ❆