by Poppet
Thank you for reading Wrapture, and thank you to my incredible publisher Wild Wolf Publishing for being a bunch of fabulous and supportive gentleman who have allowed me to self publish this paperback, and who are brave enough to publish my controversial novels. Thank you gents! You embody everything that is good and right in your gender, and I appreciate you! xx
by
Poppet
A Darkroom Novel
#5
Copyright © 2015 Poppet
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
For the Poppeteers
~ Chapter 1 ~
“I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing … I was born with the evil one standing as my sponsor beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since.”
~ H.H. Holmes
“Your nipples are squint,” he says from his usual spot at the bar.
Mikah is an oddball. He's so lacking of normal that I think he's a severe case of Apsergers. Glancing down at my bare chest, then back at him, I just look at him the way he looks at me; bug under a spyglass. Foma puts the bottle on my tray with six shot glasses, looking at Mikah to say, “Aren't you sitting with your bratva tonight?”
Glancing over his shoulder Mikah is devoid of expression, his eyes simply portals to a bottomless chasm when he looks their way. “Nope.” Then he refocuses on my nipples. “I've seen nipples point outward, and point straight, but never squint.” He stares unwavering, then as if recalling the rules for social engagement he jerks his gaze to my eyes, his vacant and too wide. This boy will never wrinkle because his facial muscles don't seem to move anything but his mouth. He even forgets to blink. Picking up the tray and stepping up to him on his barstool, I shove my left boob in his face, the nipple cold enough to poke his eye out, “Perv.”
He stares at the areola and nipple for an awkward length of time, then looks up, his monotone voice saying, “Not. You're topless. It's there to look at, so I look.”
“Whatever, Mikah,” I snap, walking to the disciple's table to leave their order for them to start their descent into violently drunk. Before this night is through some chick will be screaming for help while they beat on her. It's so routine it's become mundane.
It's ridiculous really. Groupies stalk the rock band Ucheniki like obsessive sluts and then cry for help once the six of them turn on a woman trying to get into their bed. They share everything, and I do mean everything. One lone female in bed with six men, it's bound to end badly. What did they expect, roses and champagne? They're stupid is what they are.
Mikah plays an electric balalaika, a traditional Russian instrument which isn't unlike a guitar; the name of the band, the titles of their songs, their style and the instruments they choose to use are all big clues to idiots that they're Russian, but chicks just see hot guys flexing muscles honed to intimidating perfection. I've seen them hot, drunk and sweaty, doing the traditional dances late in the night after Foma closes up. Ucheniki means Disciples. They're a brotherhood and their love for god is no secret, which is why I don't understand why they hang out here. Surely this is their definition of a den of inequity? This place is for sinners, not saints.
Getting back to the bar I help Foma swab it down, obsessively neatening the waiting glasses, daring to ask Mikah, “Why do you guys come here?”
He stares at my tits again, forgetting women like eye contact during conversation. “Saints slum it, it's what makes a disciple. You can be in this world but not be of it. It is our duty to go where the sinners are to find the ones for redemption.” His voice doesn't undulate, staying constant and utterly insipid. “You're a dirty angel, Polina.”
Raising my eyebrows I lean my elbows on the bar, inching my nose closer to his, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Wrong. Your god made me naked. He made you naked. I'm simply a serving girl, I'm not banging the Johns.”
He doesn't blink, just stares, the two of us gaze-clashing for a silent eternity. It unnerves me and I speak first. “You like to watch, don't you brat?” (brother).
Mikah almost smiles, the outer edges of his mouth deepening and marginally tilting. “Chto sestra, kak ty zdes' delaesh'? Ty russkiĭ, u nas est' gordost' i standarty.” (What's a sister like you doing here? You're Russian, we have pride and standards.)
“Yeah, and the Russians I know have standards so low the Devil's playing jump-rope with them.”
Mikah barely moves, but he sits up a little straighter. “What?” It's slow, drawn out and gruff, not a demand, but rather a confused request for clarification.
“I was raised here even if I was born in Russia, you're lucky I still understand the mother tongue. As far as I'm concerned I'm American, end of.” I don't feel like telling him my life story so look up at the clock. My shift finished ten minutes ago. “See ya,” I say to Mikah, walking to Foma at the cash register with my hand out, saying to my boss, “Cross my palm with silver, babe.”
After rummaging in the cash register he slaps my wages onto my palm and I give him a little curtsy, turning to go to the cloakroom so I can leave this dump fully dressed.
Mikah stands in my way so I can't exit from behind the bar, all arms and legs, looking every inch the android I suspect he is. “Uh.”
“Uh what? I'm off now Mikah, I'll see you next time yeah?”
“Are you mudblood scum?” he blurts, monotone and impassive.
“I'm not a wizard or a witch, so yeah I'm a mudblood,” I laugh, shaking my head at him quoting Harry Potter, pulling out the ribbon tying my hair back. I like kids movies. If it wasn't for movies I'd never have story time.
He steps closer so I'm inhaling his cologne hiding under the fifth button on his shirt, still with his arms hanging limply at his sides, looking confounded and awkward. “Ruska Roma?” he says, as if it's a statement.
Do I look like a gypsy? No I don't, so why's he asking me that?
“I don't know, Mikah. The last time I saw papa I was ten, and I don't really remember my mama or babushka. What if I am?” I challenge.
His deadpan face doesn't twitch or betray what's going on in that fucked up head of his, his focus averted to my cheekbone as if he can't stand to make eye contact cos he's so socially inept, but his hand is clutching my long hair, gripping the ends in a fist and lifting it. “Whores dye their hair.” Finally he makes eye contact, the tall weirdo looking directly at me this time with the same emotion you'd expect from a stone. “Or liars. Dirty liars hiding they're gypsy scum. Filthy blood.”
Oh! That's what he meant by mudblood. I don't recall much from home, nothing good anyhow, but I know from working here that Russians hold the Romany in contempt, seeing them as dirty and unnatural, a plague to be cleansed like Hitler once viewed the Jews. I can thank my lucky stars my last name isn't Răzvan. Not that I know what it is because my name was changed from Kisha to Polina when I came here. Now my name is Polina Scott. What it was before, I'll never know. This shakes free the hibernating pain in my soul and it takes all my willpower to stand here unaffected, simply staring at his chest the way he stares at my nipples – waiting for him to move aside and leave me be. I'm not one of their w
hores, I have no plan on getting my lungs punctured with broken ribs tonight.
As if coming to his senses he steps away, allowing me room to pass, releasing my hair with the statement, “God watches you, dirty angel.”
I say nothing, I just take my money and bolt for the change-room door, not wanting his brethren to see his focus and decide tonight is the night my luck runs out; for the second time.
When I sneak to the service entrance the bratva are already deep in the vodka, singing for their adoring hangers-on, Cossack dancing on the dance floor. I watch for a moment at them sweaty and shirtless, muscles tense with arms folded and held out at shoulder height, hopping from one leg to the other in squat kicks. Naive women think they're sexy, exotic, and mysterious. I know different, I know they're dangerous. I'm just grateful they haven't yet started pumping songs like Katyusha or Gari Gari, after those anthems the evening goes south fast.
That's the thing westerners don't understand, the Cossacks are the spartan warriors of Russia, their creed is Cossacks were born for war. A cossack is a trained killer and I get the distinct vibe that Mikah is their number one assassin. He's got no empathy, no dusha (soul), he's not normal.
Mikah has his back to me when I nod goodnight to Foma, but when he lifts the bottom of his shirt to reach inside his pocket for his Belomorkanal cigarettes I see the instantly recognizable tip of a nagyka hanging from a belt loop. What the hell?
Why does Mikah wear a Cossack whip as a belt? The tsarists used it for corporal punishment, its original name was volkoboy (wolf slayer). I shudder at the flat metal tip shaped like a teardrop, wondering who Mikah uses that thing on. Is he just paranoid, or are the ucheniki more than disciples? What kind of brotherhood are they, exactly? It makes sense of the women crying abuse, but they walked into the lair with eyes wide open. I'm not a fan of theirs, not that I'd ever tell them.
Leaving out the rear entrance I don't look back, my hand on the switchblade in my pocket, my shitkickers on my feet, knowing it isn't a Friday night until someone stops me on my way home to inner Richmond.
It always happens. I'm a dancer in dedushka's parlor, it helps pay the bills. There's just one problem, morons think spying on a woman stripping naked and dancing in a glass box is true love, they don't understand when the sentiment isn't reciprocated.
It's just money. I do what I must.
What else can a girl like me do?
~ Chapter 2 ~
Even psychopaths have emotions,
then again, maybe not.
~ Richard Ramirez
Mikah:
Keeping to shadows and musty brick wall I tail her away from Taĭna, watching her hide her platinum-blonde hair under the hoodie and shield her face inside the cowl's darkness. She is a sinner, she tempts men, but I'm still in the observation phase. To sentence a woman for reformation the evidence against her must be damning. This is recon, something I have no opinion of, it simply is. It is like God. It simply is. There's no need to question it, just like no one questions that grass is green or the sky is blue. It simply is.
I've always been stealthy and impartial, I follow my orders without question. There's no need to question. It simply is.
A stranger peels out of the shadows and falls into step behind her, tracing her path down the alleyway hemmed in by industrial buildings. She stops when she emerges onto the sidewalk lining the street, looks left, then right, then drops her bag, dipping low when she hinges to face him, stepping deep to stand up in front of him, her fist connecting with his chin in a perfect uppercut.
She uses the momentum to push him off balance, a steel blade glinting. Leaning against the damp brick I watch her, seeing a new side to the dirty angel.
“What do you want?” she snarls softly, the danger in her tone curling down the corridor behind the buildings, holding her blade to his throat now that he's on the ground at her feet.
I think she tried to sneak out, maybe she can feel the observation? They say women have a sense for danger, one they don't question. They're bizarre creatures that defy logic.
The man drops a rose, the petals bruised and come loose, whispering, “I'm sorry.”
“You will be. Don't follow me again, or sneak up on a woman alone. You hear me?”
“But–”
“But nothing,” she snaps, pressing the blade so it draws blood. It's sharp. “I'm not looking for a boyfriend, go back home to your wife and kids. Creep.”
Snapping back to erect she scoops up her bag and sprints across the street, running into the deserted night with her footfalls echoing hollowly, every so often she splashes into a puddle but it doesn't slow her, she's running like the devil himself is after her.
I follow, passing the stranger, drop kicking his head and adding two more to the ribs for good measure. “She's mine, asshole.” I know where she lives so follow at my own pace.
Standing in deep crevice of shadow across the street, staring up at her little apartment above the Chinese laundromat, I watch her routine unfold. Mistake number one is being predictable.
Retreating deeper into the doorway of the locksmith I light a smoke, inhaling while she moves across windows, closing curtains, backlit with the lamp in her sitting room. Now she'll shower, put on regular sweatpants and tank top with her fluffy socks, and curl up in the chair next to the lamp. She sits there every night, her mouth moving while she reads. I think she's simple, stupid, intellectually challenged. Tomorrow morning she'll go back to Taĭna and lock herself away with Foma for two hours. He doesn't open the pub until nightfall, so what is she doing with her boss?
Is she fucking him? Is he cheating on his wife with Polina?
It's time I found out.
Unpocketing my phone I thumb through to the remote video feed I installed inside her cramped apartment, it's tiny and humble. She's destitute in more ways than one.
•
Polina:
It's a strain to make sense of the words sometimes. I'm already tired from my shift, my feet ache and the blister on my left foot has popped, now burning from the shower. I rub it absently through the blue sock, reading from my grade 7 children's book.
I can't concentrate, I keep thinking of the whip hidden under Mikah's shirt. It reminds me too much of him. My skin is clammy, my hands cold, my heart racing. Closing my eyes I try so hard to quell the darkness. It's the reason I don't date, why I'll be single forever. I can't, I just – can't. Closing the precious book, lovingly stroking the cover, I place it on the table, pulling my knees up and hugging them, cradling myself through the surge of desperation.
My wings are broken. I'm too crippled to ever fly. I'm disfigured in my heart, in my perspective. He mangled my mind when he took what he paid papa for. I was his prisoner for so long, until he sold me again.
By then I had no more tears.
I feel like Mikah, disjointed from the world. I watch people talk and laugh and dance every time I waitress, but I'll never be one of those girls. I'm afraid I'll kill. I'm afraid the rage will drown me again and I'll slaughter people who are good to me. People like Foma.
Giving up for the night I switch off the lamp, moving through the darkness, always through the darkness. I do everything I can to survive. Knowing the layout of your home in pitch darkness can save your life. Hiding weapons under cushions, taped under sinks, in shoes in the closet, even in the toilet cistern, that's how a girl survives an attack. I change my locks once a month and sleep with my switchblade under my pillow. A girl like me can't get a legal firearm and I need it to be legal. Kneeling at the end of my bed I clasp my hands, asking god to save me from evil men, to heal my fractures, to make me whole again.
Oh God, how I wish you would kill the wicked! How I wish violent men would leave me alone! I hate them with total hatred; I regard them as my enemies! (Psalms 139:19).
Climbing into bed I stare at the faint sliver of light peeking through the top of the curtain, hitting the ceiling. A shadow moves across it and my pulse hiccups at the thought of someone walking around
down in the street at this hour.
Tonight I keep thinking of Oleg, ebanatyi pidaraz (fucking motherfucker). He never called me by my name, he called me Manda (cunt). It's all he saw when he looked at me, it's all he wanted.
Swallowing down the pain, fighting the tears, I turn to stare at the alarm clock. Foma will be angry I didn't do my studies, but I'm tired.
Closing my eyes I snuggle into the blanket, breathing long and deep, forcing myself to shut down the hurt. Crying never made it right, it doesn't bring evil men to justice. That's the thing about being here in the land of the free, it makes a girl pine for justice, but where I come from money talks and justice is only for the wealthy.
I smell deodorant, a man's deodorant.
Blinking my eyelids open I watch the charcoal on black, the unseen shifts of black in an abyss, shadows barely holding shape or form. Nothing moves, I hear no breathing – but I smell a man.
It's a nice scent, warm and clean … close. Maybe it's my guardian angel standing at my side to watch over me while I sleep?
“Where were you when I needed you?” I whisper to the dark.
•
Mikah:
I do this every night. I stand in the corner and watch her fall asleep, then I pull back the covers to stare at the formless pajamas she hides her slender body in.
She prays before bed, it gives me conflict. Who does she pray to? How can a sinner ask for forgiveness when she plans on shoving her nipple at me every time I see her at work? She parades it like a bilad' (whore), but she always goes home alone, she scares away any man who comes near her. It's this that makes me think she can be healed of her evil. There are two women in Polina, one is a sinner, the other is holy. I'll kill the sinner so I can have the saint. I saw her first, she's mine. Gavril thinks I'm wasting my time, we play gigs to find the sluts, they come to us willingly, and we cut them out of the tree of life.