#Annika Traskolnikova

[lockwoodlitherland]

ANNIKA

It was cloudy now, her memory of it all. Any time a trace of it emerged from the depths of her mind it was like a great, sluggish, looming thing made of tar. Her heart would race and a shot of panic would burst through her like a beam from the pit of her stomach to the back of her throat and she would swallow it back down again. 

Take a deep breath, hold it, gulp. Shake her head, rub her eyes to wipe away whatever image was lurking before it could be fully realised in her mind’s eye. 

Annika told herself that she couldn’t remember, that it was hazy because she had legitimately forgotten. There were gaps, huge gaps, which she tried desperately not to acknowledge in fear that, if she ever interrogated them with any real will to see,  she would see something, a part of herself, which she didn’t want to come face to face with. Along with that, Annika found it hard to distinguish between the truth of the past and the stories of it, the lies or embellished truths that she had told over and over.

She had always run, for as long as she could remember she ran; all her life she had been running, and she had never stopped. 

It seemed there had been four versions of Anni throughout her life, each one moving in the place of the broken one that had come before, protecting her until it itself was broken and needed replacing.

Annika Traskolnikova: a girl who had fled from her parents and her birthplace in Russia as soon as she was able. Who had run from the pain there and the guilt of not staying to protect her siblings. Who had run from her own weakness in the face of her Father and his cruelty. Who had run from the contempt she held so strongly for her Mother; a woman who would consistently drown herself in drink to numb her own pain, as well as deafen the sounds of what her husband did to their children.

That was early on and a life that Annika had so far separated herself from now that it no longer felt like it had happened to her, but as if it were the story of someone else, in a book she had read long ago.

The next version was Annika Trace: a young woman in her late teens who, after living with her Grandmother in England, had been launched into the fickle and fast-paced world of modelling. Moving to the States and later choosing to reside in Canada. This choice perhaps influenced by the broken Russian girl deep inside that Trace was viciously protecting. A girl who craved to feel the cold and live in the snow again.

Beautiful, sour and sly people surrounded her, marketing her body, coveting her image, caring next to nothing for her wellbeing or her soul. She remembered the intoxicating rush of it all: the love, the position of power, the idolization and obsession for her that had fueled her ego and dictated her self-esteem. 

Here, Anni had learned that the sharpness of her mind was more of a hindrance than a virtue. Learned that she wasn’t worth anything outside of her shell. That she didn’t deserve love or kindness, so neither did anyone else.

Who she was had never mattered in that world, not truthfully, she never felt as though she had substance there. This version of herself had quickly gobbled up as many vices as she could find in a vacant attempt fill a void inside herself that she had always known would never close. This was simply her lot in life and she was resigned to it. There was a certain power in that, a freedom. The freedom of not having to care. Her dreary feelings were like a black eel, coiled inside of her. In apathy she found no pain. By drowning herself in drink and drugs -as Traskolnikova’s Mother had, the Mother she had so hated for the same thing she now did herself- and other people’s vapid physical affection for her, she had found comfort for a time like a strange, warm, smothering blanket. But she had always known it could never last, it wasn’t realistic. Her wretched self would always come ambling up behind her. The anguish, the frustration, the terrible nothing that clawed inside and sought to snuff her out. And one day, she had decided to let it.

She remembered this version of herself  the most murkily now. The circumstances surrounding the day that Annika Trace had killed herself were uncertain to her, detached. The thing that the Anni who lived now remembered most vividly was the rain, weeping from the sky in great cold sheets that laminated her long red hair across her face. She remembered standing on the isolated stone bridge in the forests surrounding the exclusive five star spa resort which hosted the birthday party for her then boyfriend and fellow actor/model Oliver Elms. She remembered that she had had begun to fall out of favour in this world; the bright spark of fame she had garnered increasingly fading to an ember. She remembered feeling warmth, stimulated in her by the mammoth cocktail of drugs she had consumed; prescribed and not prescribed, legal and illegal. She remembered the screams of the older man with the kind face who she had met in the spa earlier that week, as he ran towards her and she let herself fall blissfully from the bridge. Anni remembered waking up. The man with the kind face holding her, telling her to keep her eyes open whilst a fire, a feeling larger than she had ever remembered feeling before in either of her lives, tore through her body, bringing her back and turning her into something else.

The third Annika, the most recent face, was Annika Beckenheim (Anna, officially). The man with the kind face had turned out to be Kelsey Beckenheim. A man who took her into his family, who saved her life. But that was a life she hadn’t wanted to continue living. Luckily, she wouldn’t have to. Annika Trace had died that day by all accounts; it seemed that someone else, far off, had seen her fall into the water that night. ‘A beacon of light and talent cruelly ripped from this world before her time’ she remembered reading the unoriginal headline from one of the media tributes that relentlessly circulated for a short time, despite her body never being found. 

 Annika Beckenheim was an incomplete face who mingled with the bits of Annika Trace that lived on. The two melded together to hide and protect the girl Traskolvikova and the wretched broken parts of Trace. Anni had even let parts of Trace’s life blend with Beckenheim’s when she had sought out Oliver Elms again. This had been for comfort during a time when Beckenheim’s life had begun to fragment, but it had also been to gain access to the money that she had accumulated in her previous life. 

Physically she changed herself in order to further solidify the separation. The trademark red hair of Trace was dyed and toned white-blonde, she began tinting her eyebrows and lashes to darker shades, and she gained a healthy weight. Ageing had helped her too, as she moved into her mid to late twenties her features had seemed to sharpen. All of this suited her fine, the further away the better.

This woman had begun to live a nice life. A real life. A life were she had loved and been loved. Where she had been valued and had been allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. She had been cruel and she had been kind. She had found solace and an escape from the torment that had followed her around since her childhood. And in that, there had been the beginnings of acceptance.

As an amalgamation of all three people, all three lives, she was the most the real. She lived the fullest. She also lived in a supernatural fantasy; a story from the myths of her childhood, from the legends of Pagans, Indigenous Peoples and Scandinavian lore. It was the freest she had even been, yet the most surreal life of them all.

However, the plot of this story she lived had called for the darkness to return, for yet another tragic ending. The fear that always lay deep down like a frightened animal, ears pinned back against its skull, mouth spitting, it had always whispered that this could never last. And it hadn’t. Something terrible had happened and it had hurt worse because it had hurt not only her, but the people she had come to love and protect.

Her new family, who had accepted her and loved her and who had been the sunrise in her darkness: Damian, Silvie, Lil, Jay, Beck, Mitchel.

The friends and acquaintances that had taught her to care for herself, that she could be strong without hurting anyone else, that she could be fearless and compassionate at the same time: Cassandra Blake, Harley McCallum, Jamie Rivers.

The person who had affected her the most. The most positive things she had ever felt had been with him. With him, she had been the best version of herself. Lloyd Rivers had been indescribably important to her.

To save his life she had left. Afterwards, she had tried desperately, selfishly, childishly to claw him back. It had left the wound far worse, festering.

The loss of this life, this life she had made with him, was the most painful thing she had ever felt. Her future and the future of the people she had left was uncertain, teetering on a knife edge. Her every muscle grew taut, the corners of her vision started to darken. She could see only before herself and again she wanted to run, go somewhere, be away. Be someone else. She could hide again, Anni could flee and leave someone in her place. For a while she had been... too many different versions of a person, each protecting another. She had been everyone she could think to be. It seemed like a hundred faces, cycling one after another. She searched them for comfort, seeking someone who didn’t hurt. She would shove Annika Beckenheim to the back of her mind, with everything else she ignored and forgot. They could all fester together.

But how could she go on, when all her memories were bad, when everything that had shaped her was rotten? Who did that leave for her to be, another broken, sorrowful thing?

The wretched part of herself crawled back to consume her for a time. 

For an indeterminate amount of time following her loss Annika felt like she was moving through quicksand. She’d gone back to the isolation of the only home she had left, itself left broken in her wake and the wake of those who had begun to disassemble everything she had come to know.

She had considered killing herself again, hoping that this time it would stick. She had lost her strength, all sense of self, selves, was shattered. 

Until, one night she had found some forgiveness for herself whilst talking to her brother, Damian.

Sweet, simple Damian, to whom she had never given enough credit. He had seen the anguish and fragility in her, the anger and the hate. His wisdom that evening had motivated her to become the version of herself she practiced now.

Damian had driven her out into the depths of the Provincial Park’s acres in the cool chill of an early spring evening. To one of his favourite spots. Sat together and wrapped in blankets in the back of his work truck they were the audience to a breathtaking scene of natural beauty.

“It’s terrible.” Damian had said. His thick eyebrows knitting together with concern as he poured out some of the hot chocolate from his thermos, handing it to her in a battered enamel cup. “To have been hurt. It���s unfair, and it’s awful, and horrid, and painful, and shitty. But Anni… it’s okay to go on.”

Annika had shook her head, sniffing at the cup and staring ahead. Her eyes had seemed a soft pale green in this light, it was like the vivid colour had been washed out of them over and over, They were the green of leaves that were clinging to the very last bits of life they could.

“I’ll never control it.” She’d said abruptly, blinking tears. “It’ll always be there. I can’t just, carry on. I can’t just be me. I don’t know who that is. I thought I did but…” she was holding her breath to stop herself from crying but it meant choking the words out, “but I’d built myself up around him, around the future with him that I’d told myself was set. Around our friends and our family being here. And-“  her chest shuddered as she finished her sentence, struggling to speak “and it’s all gone.”

“No.” Damian had said, he pulled her close and she’d begun to cry into his chest. “If you don’t trust yourself then can you trust me? You’re the most resilient person I have ever met. You’ve come through so much and you’ve protected yourself in the best way you knew how. I see you Anni. I promise you, you’re important, you’re worth protecting, you’re a worthy person. You don’t need to be anybody else.”

Annika had always created these new persona’s to deal with memories she couldn’t face and situations she felt she was incapable of handling. She changed herself physically and emotionally every time. It was exhausting, damaging. Not since she was a child had she considered just, being her whole self. Herself who didn’t rely entirely on anyone else for her existence, for validation. She would learn to live, to live for her.

This fourth version of Annika, the person she was now, she was still learning, still coming to terms with… well, with everything. 

Simply, she was named Annika for now, she decided. That name, Anni, at least that, that had always been with her, and she didn’t want to wash that away.

[lockwoodlitherland]

LLOYD & ANNIKA

“Annika…” He said again, seemingly finding it hard to form words. He stepped back and set on the edge of the sofa.

“Could we make it work again? Me and you? I mean…I didn’t realise it before but something in my mind knows that I want this. I want you…“ He frowned and ducked his head, almost confused. He was sure he wanted her, he just needed to get his heart in on it too. “Maybe…”.

“Maybe, huh?” Anni gave a smile and let out a fast breath of air through her nose that might have constituted a laugh. 

She wasn’t so sure. She wanted him, she wanted him to want her. But all she ever did was hurt him. It seemed to be the only thing she was good at these days; hurting the people she loved.

Annika moved towards him, sitting on his lap and leaning her temple into his cheek. She gave a sigh, long and through her nose, fidgeting softly with her fingers in her own lap, gazing down at their legs, meshed together. Anni closed her eyes, defeated. She was tired, exhausted, she hadn’t slept in days and it felt like longer.

“I…” Anni had to take a deep breath. Nuzzling her forehead into his cheek, she began breathing in his familiar, calming smell. She held herself there for a moment, eyes closed, wishing that she could stay here like this with him forever, hiding from the world. It’s consequences.

“I love you”.

It seemed that even if Lloyd had outwardly forgotten how the treat Annika there were little bits of memory that still remained about how he’d once held her because Lloyd did remember the happier times he’d spent with her after all. His arms were strong and protective. Even if he didn’t love her like he once had, he could still hold her and keep her safe. He could do that. 

When she said ‘I love you’ he didn’t even tense up, but for the first time with Annika he couldn’t say it back. Not because he wouldn’t, just because it wasn’t love he felt for her. He adored her, yes. Respected her and really felt for her but not love, not this time round. 

“You must be tired.” He murmured, looking at her face, his eyes now soft, like they usually were around her. With an easy motion he picked her up and gave her one of his trademark lazy smiles. “If you don’t mind staying of course…”.

It half killed Annika when the words that came out of his mouth weren’t the ones that she wanted to hear. That she craved, that she needed, to hear. But it hurt more to know that it was her own fault that they were gone. That she’d probably never hear them from Lloyd again. She had to leave, she had to go, she had to run. Panic began to well up in her chest, moving up through her throat, threatening to drown her. This wasn’t good for either of them anymore.

“No, no, I have to go.” Annika wriggled in his arms until he set her down. His acts of kindness, the way he treated her, it felt forced now, wrong. It was all wrong. 

“I’ll let you get back to sleep.” Anni stooped to pick up her duffel bag, hoisting it over her shoulder. She wanted to apologise to him, to cry and become submerged under the bed sheets that smelled so suffocatingly of him. But it was better this way. 

“It’s fine.” Annika felt pathetic, embarrassed. She hurried towards the door, bile and hot tears rushing up from her stomach, her chest, begging to erupt immediately before she could escape this shitshow.

[lockwoodlitherland]

ANNIKA

Name: Annika ‘Anni’ Traskolnikova/Trace/Beckenheim Age: Twenty Five (during original) Birthday: October 23th - Scorpio Height: 5ft 10

***

BASIC STATISTICS Full name: Annika Avdotya Traskolnikova
Pseudonym: Annika Trace 
New legal name: Anna Beckenheim
Name origins: Original Russian. Stage name Westernised version. New name protective, adoptive.
Nickname: Jana, Anni 
Nickname origin: Jana her Father’s nickname for her. Anni, Westernised shortening used by her Mother and Grandmother.
Do they like the nickname?: Y
Preferred Pronoun(s): she/her
Titles/epithets: Miss
Sex/gender: Female
Age: 25 (during original)
Birthday: October 23rd 
Place of birth: Yekaterinburg, Russia 
Race: White European 
Religion: Originally Russian Orthodox, now Atheist 
Occupation: Former Model, Agent of the Cartel, Club Dancer, Bar Pianist 
Relationship Status: fuck me up PHYSICAL APPEARANCE Height: 5ft 10
Eye color: Green
Face shape: Cherubic, high cheekbones, sharper jaw
Distinguishing facial features: Bright eyes, eyebrows, smile, cheekbones
Other facial features: Moles and beauty marks
Who do they most look like?: FC: Kate Upton
Left or right-handed?: Right
How do they dress?: Not often (but when dressed like a style goddess obv)
Any special accessories? If so, why are they special?:
Something they always carry with them: -
Weapons: Eyes, smile, gun, fists, anything she can throw
Describe hairstyle: Dyed a creamy/honeyed blonde, loose curls
Natural hair color: Strawberry Blonde/ Red
Natural hair texture: Thick
Cleanliness/grooming: Good
Miscellaneous physical characteristics: Boobs, bum, hips
Usual mood/expression: Chronic bitch-face (fierce) SPEECH AND COMMUNICATION Pace of speech: 
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General health: FAMILY OF ORIGIN Mother’s name: Matilda Hartley Traskolnikova
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Father’s name: Ikyovon Traskolnikova 
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Describe relationship with parents: Catastrophic
Any other caretakers?: Kelsey Beckenheim, Rosie Hartley (Grandmother), Oliver Elms, Lily Teller-Beckenheim
Siblings: Monika, Izabella
Describe their ancestral history: Mother is Northern English, Father East Russian EMOTIONAL CHARACTERISTICS Describe their sense of morals: 
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