01 » The Downward Spiral

This term describes a depressive state where the person experiencing the downward spiral is getting more and more depressed, perhaps due to causes unknown.

Anastasiya's parents were skilled in the art of having an opinion. An opinion which differed from each other, that is.

Their so-called fights (sometimes you couldn't even call it that, seeing as their fights escalated depending on what day it was) were exhausting, and that's what most people who witnessed it would say. Behind their back, of course.

Hearing the words "loud", "unwelcome", and "Novikov" muttered in the same sentence were not uncommon these days. Anastasiya would know. The maids weren't exactly so subtle when it came to the gossiping that went around. Fair enough; they had a point.

Most of the time, you'd hear the sound of Carla Novikova yelling at Aleksey Novikov for being so incompetent. Or something of the like. And you'd hear Aleksey call her all sorts of terms that came to mind. It was heavy, to say it mildly.

They hadn't always been this way, that was for sure. Whenever Carla or Aleksey spoke of their relationship, they'd often mention they were high school sweethearts.

The stories would melt Anastasiya's heart, even though all the details weren't even shared. Sometimes the storyline of their tales felt a bit blurry, but Anastasiya worked past that and felt like her parents could be as perfect as they used to be. They had to be. She knew this . . . quarrel they had going on for the past two years was a phase. They'd get over it.

It wasn't like they'd divorce. They were mature enough to know when to stop. They had one daughter. It was important.

Denise, her best friend, said she was wrong. Deluded, basically, but Anastasiya wouldn't believe that. Her friend said they weren't mature enough or else they wouldn't be fighting in the first place. Anastasiya felt like it was her own fault for letting this escalate so far. For not taking action or interfering sooner. Denise said she was stupid for thinking like this.

Anastasiya sighed, shaking her head. No need to worry about it now. She was at school. Focusing on her studies should be priority number one right now. She was graduating in a few months, anyway.

"Did you know the founder of Lexington is retiring?" she heard a familiar voice ask, interrupting her thoughts. "I think his son is going to take over Lexington Preparatory."

Anastasiya turned to face Denise Reid, removing the one earphone she had in her ear. She'd been listening to her shuffled Spotify playlist and mentally saying goodbye to Springsteen's voice as the song came towards an end. She nodded thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah. Heart attack, right?"

Denise hummed. "Yeah . . . he's old. It kinda makes sense. The son inherited the Lexington company, so I suppose getting the academy is a given, too."

Anastasiya knew the Lexingtons were workaholics. That's how most people in that kind of business went by. Plus, she had seen her own parents. When your entire life revolves around your work, leaving it and focusing on yourself could be a bit difficult. Or your children, for that matter.

That was probably why Mr. Lexington had put off giving his company to his son until the very last moment.

"Kinda dope how he inherited that company in his twenties," Anastasiya said, offering a topic.

She knew she'd been a bit distant, but with all these tests coming up and stressing over her parents and college, she'd found solace in music—and, was it so bad that she'd rather listen to music in peace during lunch? Despite having this mindset, she felt bad.

Denise widened her eyes as she took a bite from her sandwich. "Tell me about it," she said with her mouth full and Anastasiya groaned. "Hey, don't look at me like that. You've seen his pics! He's hot, single and I'd tap. God, I hope life is treating him well."

"You're seventeen–stop thirsting over someone who's double your age. Plus, swallow before you speak," she grimaced.

Mr. Lexington's son was in his early forties, but he still stayed as composed as ever. Sure, it's obvious he was dyeing his hair, but the result of it was promising. Yeah, he was pretty hot. Nothing bad about admitting that.

Denise opened her phone again to a photo of Mr. Lexington and let out a moan to purposely bother Anastasiya this time.

"Fuck off, weirdo," Anastasiya laughed.

Anastasiya waited patiently for Denise to finish her lunch and glanced around the cafeteria. Her eyes stopped when they met a set of familiar brown eyes. She kept the eye contact for a few seconds, before diverting her eyes away from Delaney and looking back to Denise.

"How's it going with that?" Denise asked, gesturing subtly toward Delaney.

Anastasiya made a face. "I don't really know . . ."

She didn't really want to talk about Delaney. Sure, Anastasiya had no problem with disclosing what was going on with her own life, but the girl with the brown curly hair and intense stare was doing nothing but leaving her slightly tongue-tied and tense. She tried not checking her out, but had failed immensely to not notice the green jacket she always wore as she sat with her usual group of cheerleader friends. Plus, Delaney did not look happy and Anastasiya knew why.

Sensing her discomfort, Denise nodded and pointed at her face. "Like, I know you're some kind of beauty guru, but shit . . . your makeup, dude. Your concealer isn't properly blended."

Anastasiya widened her eyes in panic and quickly brought up a mirror from her bag and looked at herself. She looked tired. Her eye bags were too prominent and she knew her entire body was slumped because of the lack of sleep, but quite frankly, she didn't care anymore. Groaning, she took her finger and started gently patting where the concealer wasn't blended.

"I give up at this makeup thing. Don't know why I even try." After fixing the smudged parts, she glanced back up to Denise. "Better?"

"Perfect," she approved, sending her a thumbs up.

So maybe makeup was Anastasiya's second best friend, and that was perfectly fine. She loved the process of applying the products on her face, and the end results were often promising. Her signature red lipstick made it all the more better, even if she did get weird glances for always going overboard with her makeup. At school of all places.

She had been trying to fix the habit of wearing it daily, considering it wasn't all that good for her skin. The zits under the foundation were proof of that and it stressed her out. She knew teenagers were supposed to have pimples, but Anastasiya despised it. It made her look imperfect and she hated feeling that way. Especially here at Lexington.

It was a good school. A tad bit on the old side maybe, but it kept being renovated so there was nothing to complain about. It was an elite school; sons and daughters of wealthy people picking this school over the public school twenty minutes away. No, Anastasiya didn't have any issue with the school, the problem was the people. Gossip was like second nature and drama was a common occurrence here. Although Anastasiya hadn't been subjected to any of this, she couldn't imagine what gossip was going around about her, especially after what had happened with Delaney. People were most likely gossiping about Anastasiya.

"Wanna hang out at Ivory's later?"

Ivory was this popular café students often ended up finding themselves in to study or just to meet up with other friends. Denise and Anastasiya often hung out there, since Anastasiya's house was a ticking bomb ready to explode and Anastasiya didn't want Denise to be around to see her parents quarrel again. They usually switched between Denise's house or the café.

Anastasiya felt guilty as she shook her head, "Sorry, can't. I have a history test coming up tomorrow and I really need to study. Raincheck?"

Denise nodded. "Yeah, of course."

She glanced at the watch and nodded towards Denise's lunch. "Girl, you have something-" she gestured to the corners of Denise's lips where she had gotten some of the dressing. "You eat so messily. Sounds like a child to me. Eat up. Lunch is almost over."

Denise removed the dressing with her finger and groaned. "Yuck. Is it all gone?"

Anastasiya nodded. Denise took her time eating, needless to say, and Anastasiya groaned once again ("You're literally so annoying, just shove it all in!"), waiting. She was doing this on purpose. She knew about Anastasiya's tendency to get easily irritated over the smallest things and Denise was taking advantage of it to playfully mess with her.

When Denise finished, Anastasiya let out a short laugh, and muttered, "I'll kill you," as they walked out of the cafeteria and to their respective classes.

One of Anastasiya's most prized possessions was the BMW she'd been gifted last month for her eighteenth birthday. Before having it, she'd been stuck taking the bus. Her dad had insisted she use public transport instead of getting driven. She had refused because it was stuffed with all kinds of people. Some of them weren't exactly . . . pro-hygiene. Her dad had called her a snob and, yeah, she was one. No denying that.

So naturally, her car also tended to be her sanctuary once school ended.

She had practically flown into the car and sighed in relief once she had turned on the ignition. Driving out of the parking lot, she turned on the radio where Top 40 was playing. Not what she'd usually listen to, but she'd manage. She recognized all the songs, anyway.

Three minutes into the drive, humming to some pop song, she frowned when her phone began to ring and put it on speaker. The caller ID said it was her mother.

"Bonjour," she greeted, staring at the road ahead of her.

Anastasiya was multilingual, and she took some sort of pride in that. She could speak three languages: English, Belarusian, and French. Though it was given. Her dad was from Belarus and was quite the 'nationalist'. His background culture was important to him, so he'd taken it upon himself to teach his daughter his mother tongue.

Carla took his example, too, and wanted Anastasiya to be multilingual. Knowing English and Belarusian alone would not do. Being the daughter of Carla Novikova meant being the best at most things. So, she had sent Anastasiya to take French classes when she was five. Carla was French Canadian and probably thought knowing French was the most logical thing. Identity and all.

Carla and Aleksey had taught themselves their spouse's mother tongue early in their relationship. While Carla wasn't exactly fluent in Belarusian, she still understood and could easily hold a conversation in it. Her accent and mispronunciations were still prominent, though.

Anastasiya still found it funny how her parents had ended up together back when they were in high school when Aleksey stuck with the popular crowd.

Aleksey was born into a middle-class family back in Belarus. He had moved to Canada as an exchange student with the money his parents had scraped away just to send him to a better school. When he started Lexington Preparatory, he was already one of the best athletes at their school. It didn't take him long to become the captain and the ace of their soccer team. It later helped him become a professional soccer player, even partaking in the Champions League. He retired early, though, and joined Carla and the business she had inherited in her mid-twenties.

Carla, on the other hand, was born into a life where she never experienced struggling with money. Her grandfather had been the CEO of a company that produced jewelry and when he passed, Anastasiya's mom, aunt, and uncle, plus her grandmother moved back to Raven. Previously, they'd lived in Quebec, but they moved so Carla's grandmother could take over where he had left off. It hadn't been a hard transition. At least that's what Anastasiya's mother told her. Carla had lived comfortably, and there wasn't much to complain about.

Raven was a town of possibilities.

"Hello Stasiya," she had replied back in French. "Did you finish off school?"

She turned down the volume of Ariana Grande and raised an eyebrow. Her mother sounded really robotic. Careful, maybe.

"Just did. I'm on my way home." Her eyes were fixed on the road and she took a right turn.

"Can you stop by the company?" Carla asked.

"Uh, sure. Why?"

Carla sighed impatiently. She sounded worked up. "Nothing much, but I would appreciate your company."

Anastasiya raised an eyebrow, questioning her mother's motives. "Where's dad?"

"He left for Washington this morning to deal with business there," she replied. Clicking noises followed, revealing she was on her laptop. Her mother sounded weird, like she'd rather not talk, and that made Anastasiya more confused than she already was. "I still have to talk to you about something important."

Carla's voice seemed tired.

"I'll be there in a few." She took a quick U-turn and followed the road ahead of her, really confused as to why her mother had asked for her so randomly. She usually never called.

She wondered if a happy ending was too much to ask for.

Ten minutes later she had found a parking spot and was entering the building while contemplating on running right back to where she came from. Driving in the car for those few minutes had given her the weirdest thoughts about what her mother would want from her. She had started to come up with her own theories and speculations behind her mother's summoning. This was so unusual. Carla was always too busy with work or other activities as a founder to properly acknowledge Anastasiya. So once she actually did acknowledge her, all it did was take Anastasiya by surprise.

(Also, Anastasiya refused to admit it, but it made her feel important to her mom.)

She showed the guard the card she had gotten from her mother years ago, proving she wasn't entering unauthorized. The card had been collecting dust in her dashboard for some time now. The guard had waved her away, recognizing her quickly as the daughter of his boss. Anastasiya raised an eyebrow at that. She rarely went close to the building in her spare time.

Anastasiya pushed the top button once she entered the elevator. It was empty, so she took the remaining time to look at herself in the mirror. Her lipstick was slightly faded. She raised her purse and looked for her lipstick. When found, she applied it to her lips evenly.

She put it back into her purse and carefully took in the image of herself. She smiled. The smile didn't reach her eyes. She still felt a bit empty. Her eyes weren't really cooperating with her.

"Hello, Mom. Why do you hate Dad and why do you waste money on expensive vases?" She spoke to no one in particular. Hell would freeze over before she'd have the guts to ever ask this.

She felt slightly ridiculous where she stood, talking to herself in the mirror.

"Do you think that will help?"

Anastasiya turned around as fast as she could, in search of the amused voice. The elevator hadn't stopped once on her way up, so where did the voice come from?

To her horror, no one was there and she wondered if it was just her overworked mind playing stupid tricks on her. Deciding on that conclusion, she let herself relax, just in time for the elevator to ping, signalling her arrival at the top floor.

She hadn't walked for long when she found the door to her mother's office. She knocked twice and waited a few seconds. The door opened quickly and a tall brunette was smiling slightly at her.

"Thank you for coming," she greeted, kissing Anastasiya's left cheek. She let her daughter enter and Anastasiya sat down on the chair opposite her mother.

Anastasiya observed the big room curiously while trying not to fidget. Her gaze landed on the empty room where her father usually sat. It was a long time ago, truth be told, but she still remembered him sitting there and smiling warmly at her. The sudden nostalgia left a sweet feeling in her chest.

Her dad was always warm and they got along perfectly. He spoke more to her than Carla did. He was a great dad and she really appreciated that. She often felt bad about comparing her parents as much as she did, but it left her clarity about where she stood with her mom.

"Oh, no problem. Er . . . why did you want me to come here, by the way?" she awkwardly asked, scratching her arm unintentionally.

Carla widened her eyes at the reminder. The anxiety on her face was prominent. "Ah yes," she took a slow breath. "Honey, your dad was supposed to be here, but important business came up out of the country so he had to travel there. I'll be the one telling you this on my own it seems."

She paused, looking like she was trying to gather her thoughts and then looked back at her daughter.

"You know how your dad and I haven't gotten along for a while now. We've fought a lot and it's been uncomfortable for everyone. We got the reality check when your teacher called."

Anastasiya wasn't stupid. She knew what was coming, but she couldn't help but widen her eyes at this. Her teacher? Anastasiya hadn't even spoken to any adults about her problems.

"He said he was worried about your well-being and thought it had something to do with something going on at home. It was a reality check, truthfully. We're, ah, toxic to each other. It wouldn't be fair to any of us to keep doing this. I need you to know it isn't your fault . . ."

But it is, Mom, she felt like saying. You literally just said so in your speech.

No words came out from Anastasiya's mouth and she sat there silently, begging for this nightmare to be over.

"We decided it would be better if we got a divorce."

Divorce. The cursed word rang in her head repeatedly like a bell.

Anastasiya tried to sort her thoughts, but divorce was stuck in her brain. It was all a big messy ball of yarn. It was dissatisfying because at least yarn could be sorted into place—this couldn't.

"Why?" she finally croaked out, trying to cry. But no tears came.

Granted, it was awful of her to try guilt tripping her mother, but she was feeling extremely desperate.

"Honey!" Carla widened her eyes, quickly jumping out of her seat to give her daughter a hug. The hug felt extremely foreign. "Haven't you seen?" She softly asked. "We're terrible for each other and we just want you to be alright."

Anastasiya furrowed her eyebrows. "No, not that. Why did you even start being like this?"

Carla sighed and closed her eyes. "I'll explain."

A few minutes passed, but they sat there in silence. The busy street of Raven was passing by, minding its own business. Anastasiya could hear the cars.

"Sometimes, days will come where you find out what you've visualized for yourself isn't what you really want," Carla finally spoke up. She looked out of the glass window thoughtfully. "That's what our marriage is like."

Anastasiya looked down and started playing with the hem of her shirt. "Do you love him?"

She moved her gaze back to her mother, only to see an exhausted woman sitting there, tapping her desk anxiously. "I do love him, contrary to what it looks like right now. I'm just not in love with him anymore. The same can be said for your dad about me."

Anastasiya nodded, closing her eyes. She tried to find an escape in her mind, but there was nowhere to turn to. Words like divorce and love were currently shouting in her head. What she wouldn't give to see them back together again.

She sighed and opened her eyes again. "Will Dad still be working here?"

As much as this situation stressed her, she worried for her dad. He didn't know anything besides her mother. He had practically relied on her after they got married.

Carla pursed her lips. "We discussed this. I offered him a position here regardless of our ties, but he seemed adamant on turning to soccer again. As a coach, I mean. He wanted to train professional soccer teams and he already has many offers lining up. Don't worry about him, yeah? He's always going to be alright."

Anastasiya nodded.

"Thank you, Mom. Can I go?"

Carla sent her a worried look. "Are you sure you can manage right now?"

Anastasiya wasn't fine at all, but she tried giving her a smile—just like the one she practiced in the elevator mirror before she thought she heard something—and knew she failed terribly.

"Positive."

Carla still didn't budge. She eyed her daughter suspiciously.

"Will you let Spencer drive you at least?" she softly spoke, referring to their driver.

Anastasiya shrugged. Then, she stood up and strolled out of the door like nothing had happened. It was a familiar thing, anyway–to pretend. She did it every day and today wasn't going to be any different.