Angličtina
The drawing-room stretched before me in shades of cream and gold, every surface polished to a gleam that caught the late morning light. I hated it. I hated the way the chandelier dripped crystal tears no one ever wept, the way the silk drapes pooled on the marble floor like they had all the time in the world. I had been staring at these walls for twenty-one years, and they had never once changed their mind about me.
My bare feet found the centre of the Persian rug. The wool was soft under my soles, familiar as a bruise. I exhaled and let my body remember what it knew.
Pivot. Strike. The heel of my palm cut the air where a throat would be. I dropped low, swept a leg behind me, rose into a knife-hand block that transitioned into an elbow strike without thought. The sequence ran through me like a prayer I hadn't chosen but couldn't forget. My dress, a slip of pale silk I'd thrown on at dawn, twisted around my thighs with each turn. I'd forgotten to brush my hair. Again.
