by Poppet
Slowly I rotate her key between my fingers. She changes the locks but she's so distracted at work I always get a copy.
When she speaks to me, I freeze.
Where was I? When?
Stepping closer I stand at the end of her bed, but she's not looking at me. Her pale face is lit with the green digits on the alarm clock, making her gray eyes seem mossy. Her eyelashes are so long and dark they look like spider legs against the white pillowcase. I'll follow her to work tomorrow and wait for her to be alone with Foma before barging in. If she's doing what I think she's doing she'll taste the cold, hard, steel of correction.
Slinking back to my corner I watch until her breathing evens out and her lips go slack with slumber. Pocketing the key I unzip my jeans, pulling out the wood she gave me. She's wicked, she makes me sin. Alpha doesn't know I sin, and if he finds out he'll know it's her fault, not mine. It's against the laws of God to waste your baby gravy. He put Onan to death for it.
It's a relief to stroke the itch, the ache, the need to be inside her growing harder with each revolution of darkness I stand here smelling her shampoo and mouthwash. Night after night my restraint lessens. It's time to come to her as a disciple. It's time she begged for mercy and forgiveness. Closing my eyes, suffocating when I hold my breath to keep her from hearing me ejaculate all over my fist, I wish it was inside her, the way it was decreed.
She thinks I'm a freak.
I process, am intellectual, I'm normal, it's just when I open my mouth that the words don't come out right. She was born to serve me, not judge me.
Shalava!
(Dirty slut!)
~ Chapter 3 ~
If you stare into an abyss,
the abyss stares back at you.
~ Frederick Nietzsche
Polina:
Foma is in a faded wifebeater, hunched over papers smoking a black Russian Sobranie cigarette when I enter his office.
I loathe the smell of those cigarettes, the small room already foggy with hanging wraiths. He looks up with bloodshot eyes, smiling at me with crooked and stained teeth, “You're early.”
“Da,” I nod, putting my bag down and pulling out my notebook, opening to the page and showing him my homework.
He pats the cracked vinyl chair next to him, “Sit.”
Fidgeting with my fingers, I perch nervously. Foma is a strict teacher and I'm afraid to make mistakes. He reads over my homework, then lifts his pen, underlining a word over and over until the page is mangled. “This is wrong.” Black eyes penetrate my gaze and I hold my breath, waiting for the slap. Stabbing the page with his pen, he says, “The children were playing on the swings, not the young people was playing on the swings. Your translation is wrong.”
Lifting the ruler from his accounts drawer he grabs my hand, holding it flat on his desk, slamming the plastic down on my fingers. “What must it say, Polina?”
“The - the childrens were playing on the swings,” I stutter.
He slams the plastic down on my fingers again, the grip on my hand brutal. “Nyet!” (No.)
“Children!” I screech, before he can hit me again.
The door bursts open and the tall man ducks the doorframe to walk into Foma's office. “What are you doing?” It's a demand saturated with so much hatred that my skin crawls in reflex.
“Teaching, what are you doing here Mikah?” scowls Foma.
“The shipment is ready,” he snaps, walking up to the desk to stare down at Foma's hand snaring mine, the ruler poised to strike. “What's going on here, Foma?”
“Nothing,” I whisper, staring at my untidy big lettered writing open for all eyes to see.
Mikah jerks his head when I look up, saying to Foma, “Go get your cigarettes.”
Grumbling, Foma drops the ruler and shuffles around his desk, the Sobranie hanging from the corner of his mouth, leaving me alone with Mikah.
His hair is short, straight, and dark blond, matching the watery hue of his washed out blue eyes. “What is really going on in here, Polina?” he demands, still with a voice so level it flatlines.
“Foma is … is teaching me.”
“Teaching you what?” he drawls, his deep voice almost croaking it's dropped so significantly.
Ashamed, I duck my head to hide the tears, whispering, “To read and write.”
His big hand closes over my red fingers, lifting them for inspection. “Not anymore.”
Snatching my hand back I stand so fast the vinyl chair scoots into the filing cabinet. “No! You can't stop him, please Mikah.”
I need this. It's the only way out of stripping, out of the hell of my life.
For the first time in knowing him Mikah smiles at me. “I will teach you. Foma is married, it's not right to lock yourself away with him like this. It causes gossip.”
I don't know what to say, just standing and staring at the brute who scares me shitless. I'm too afraid to say no to him.
Mikah slams my notebook closed, lifts my backpack and shoves it in, then grabs my wrist, leashing me to his side and walking me out of Foma's office right to the back door, yelling to three of his henchmen, “See you tonight!”
“Chto za huy?!” (What the fuck?) shouts Pasha after us, but Mikah ignores him, walking me out to his black sedan with tinted windows, opening the door.
“Get in,” he orders, throwing my backpack in the back.
I shake my head, “No, Mikah please, I don't want trouble.”
Walking to his side of the car, he stares at me over the matte roof. “If you don't want trouble, then do as I tell you.”
My nerves are boring a hole through my middle, I'm so anxious I feel sick.
Ivan wheels the boxes of Russian cigarettes to the rear entry door, pausing to look me over, then orders Mikah, “Ey parshiviy, syuda id.” (Hey jackass, get over here.)
Mikah flips him the bird, snapping, “Otva'li.” (Fuck off). Then he points to the car, his tone different, a varied octave exposing distress, “Get in, now.” He's pissed off his bratva and I don't want to hang around to see who they take their ire out on, so dive into the passenger's seat, slamming the door shut with my breath hitching, my pulse careening.
Mikah gets in just as fast, the car already started and moving down the tight alley behind the buildings, watching in his rear-view mirror the whole way. Chewing his lip he halts at the street, taking out his cell phone and switching it off, removing the sim card. “Where do you live, Polina? We need to get out of view, fast.”
“We can go to your place, or a coffee shop?” I ask, hopeful.
Flat eyes stop perusing the traffic to deadpan on my gaze, “Nyet.”
“Why not?” I plead, not wanting him to know where I live, or how shitty my accommodations are.
“Do you really want to be at my place when Ivan, Pasha, Gavril, Bogdan, and Misha come home? Do you want them to know your secret, because they'll know something's wrong if they walk in and you're not sucking my cock.” He said it in Russian, as if it is too dirty to say in English.
I'm helpless and at the mercy of men. If Mikah tells Foma to stop teaching me, then he will. He needs the black market supply coming to Taĭna. The bratva supply drugs, women, alcohol and cigarettes, and god knows what else. I know their rock band is just a front for shady dealings. Shit.
Indicating he turn right, I mumble, “Twenty blocks that way.”
He turns into the flow of traffic, watching the cars but saying to me, “You walk to work?”
“Yes,” I say softly, looking away from him, out my window. This whole car smells like him, and it smells nicer than I thought it would.
“It's dangerous, kisa. Why don't you take the bus?”
I almost strain my neck when I snap to look at him. “You called me kisa.”
“Yeah, so? You are, it's an endearment, I wasn't referring to your pussy, kisa.”
Swallowing hard, I can barely get the words out my panic is so great, “Kisha is a name after kisa. Kitten in Russian. Why did you call me kisa?”
/> My real name is Kisha, does he know who I am?
Mikah gives me a strange look, his eyes bugging ever so slightly. “Why are you panicking, Polina? Has no one ever called you kitten?”
I can't answer so sit on my hands to stop them shaking, grateful I'm wearing skinny jeans. They're harder to get off than the stupid skirts Foma makes us wear at work.
“Where twenty blocks down? We're almost there and I need to park.”
I point that he turn, “You can park behind the building, then the bratva won't see it if they're looking for you.”
“You live here?” he says too deep again. “Above a Chinese laundromat? Are you in bed with the communists, kisa?”
I shake my head. “I just rent, they're inexpensive.” I refuse to say anything about communists, I don't know which side of the fence the bratva are on and won't say anything to make him angry. His shirt hangs over his jeans, but I bet he's still wearing a nagyka as a belt. It hints at him being staunchly traditional.
This man scares the eggs out of my ovaries.
It's too quiet when he switches off the engine, turning to ogle at me with his mutant eyes. “Why don't you take the bus? If I ask you a question I expect an answer.”
My duress is too great and my bravery diminishes. Blinking back tears, my voice is a hoarse whisper, “I can't read, Mikah. I can't take the bus unless I know where it's going. This world wasn't made for people like me.”
He sits still, breathing, watching me with his motionless eyes and expressionless face for an intolerable age. The tension stretches so taut that I start to fidget with the switchblade in my hoodie pocket, steeling myself for life and death drama.
Turning away he gets out of the car, ordering, “Come.”
After directing him I follow a step behind, doubting if any of this is a good idea. He seems ready for violent confrontation when he takes my dodgy stairwell up to the third floor, standing in the dim light of the tiny window at the end of the hallway grimed over with decades of dust. He shakes his head in a single jerk, “I don't like this, kisa. You shouldn't live here.”
Biting my tongue I insert the key into the lock and let him into my tiny apartment, switching on the light and closing and locking it behind us. He dwarfs my home with his height and wide shoulders. I'm tall for a girl at 5'9, but he's tall even by my standards. He looks in the bedroom, then the bathroom, and then sits himself on the chair opposite the kitchenette, pulling out his cigarettes. “Please don't smoke in here,” I ask quietly.
He hesitates, then drops the soft pack on the table where I read at night. Sitting forward, elbows on knees, he scours a hard gaze down me and back up. “What's your story, Polina? I need to know if I give you my protection.”
Taking a step back, I flatten against the door. “I don't want your protection.”
I don't want to be your whore. I can't do that! Not ever!
His laugh is abrupt and nasty, “Is that so? It already is. I left with you against the wishes of my brothers. Now I protect you.”
My hands are shaking so violently my bangles are rattling together. “Mikah, I'm grateful you want to help me, but I can't … I …” My throat is too tight, the tears too close. Clamming up I press against the door, shaking my head, pleading with him to leave me be. I did nothing wrong, I don't deserve this.
He stands so fast that my knees buckle and I slide down the door, keeping my eyes firmly on his shins when he walks to me, crouching down to grip my chin. “Start talking, kisa. Whatever your secret, it's too late to undo what's been done.”
The tears burst out of me like a god damn exorcism and I sob, shaking my head, begging through lips going numb. “Please Mikah, I'm a good girl. Please don't make me.”
Folding long elegant fingers around my wrist he secures his hold on me, pulling me up and walking me to the only chair in my home. He makes me sit, then pulls the table to in front of my legs, sitting down on it and caging me in.
“What are you afraid of, Polina? Tell me.”
“I can't be your whore,” I wail, my arms automatically coming up to shield my face from the backlash I anticipate.
The silence in my home could fill an ocean with fear, the tall disciple staring at me while a storm brews a multitude of retorts in his eyes. Eventually he blinks, lowering my arms by pushing down on my wrists, reminding me I'm slender and fragile and no match if he decides to get aggressive. “Why do you think I want a whore?”
“Isn't that what you expect? Isn't that the rule of protection?” I blurt, my heart hammering so hard I'm getting lightheaded.
“No.”
His voice has no emotion, it's like talking to a robot. It's disconcerting and freaking me out. “No?”
Mikah gives me a lopsided smile, his grating voice chaffing, “When did you see me with a whore? Did you see it, or do you feast on gossip and lies like everyone else?”
“I – the women – they scream – we all know you share –”
His hold moves to my knee, grinding fingers into my flesh, “I don't fuck whores, kisa. If I wanted a whore I wouldn't be here, or offer you protection.”
“Then what does it mean … this, this protection?”
“It means you are mine.”
Tears blossom and shed, and I shrink back into the threadbare upholstery of my chair, “I can't be … I don't … date.”
“Are you gay?”
I shake my head.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, picking up his Belomorkanal cigarettes and tapping one out, lighting it and exhaling in my face, blowing the loose strands of my hair off my cheeks. “Start talking, Polina. You need to trust someone. Now that someone is me.”
“What must I say?” I squeak, wishing he would open a window if he's going to fill my home with that stink.
“You can start by telling me why you didn't go to school. It's compulsory back home. Why can't you read, kisa? How is it possible that you are illiterate?”
Pouncing out of my chair I rush to the window, opening it wide, walking to the kitchenette with agitation, putting the kettle on, blurting confession, “Mama died when she gave birth to my brother. Papa didn't care for children, he drank and gambled and was in a lot of debt with bad men. Babushka, his mother, she came over twice a week, it was the only time we ate. I didn't school, I became the mother when I was just young. Someone had to clean and make toast. Then … when .. I I I w-was n-nine, papa sold me. J-just before my tenth b-birthday he auctioned my virginity to the highest bidder to pay off his gambling debt. The man who b-bought me … I never learned his whole name, but his comrades called him Oleg, he kept me tied to a bed in the basement for a long time. I can't say how long. I w-was too y-young, it hurt, the mudak huesos (bastard cocksucker) was a d-doctor, s-so he knew how to keep me alive. I tore, I screamed, b-but n-no one heard m-me.”
Turning away, sobbing, I hide behind my hair, the kettle and coffee forgotten. It's too hard to talk about it. I can't talk about it. It's no one's business but mine. The trauma breathes in my blood, it feasts on my life, it gives me cold sweats and nightmares still.
I hear him come to the sink, pouring water on his cigarette so it dies in a hot hiss.
When I sense him behind me I shuffle to the corner where the broom rests, saying to the broken tiles of the wall, unwilling to look at him, to let him witness my shame and pain, “He made his money back. Other men paid to lie with the young one. Nice and tight they said. I couldn't run, I grew weak, too weak to struggle no more, but I knew all about sex before I even had my first bleed. When I became a woman h-he sold me, said I was useless to him. I was put in a container and shipped here when I was twelve, with other girls. It was chaos and scary, and we didn't speak English. One girl – Mira – broke us out, we fled across the docks, some of us t-tried to stick together, and I lived on the streets until Foma. He offered me a job. His papa, I call him dedushka, he owns another place. I work for them, they taught me to count and use the cellphone, and I watched TV to learn the rest. I can't get a real job until I
can read. I can't get a driver's license or a gun or anything. I'm helpless because I'm loh!” (Stupid)
“Is your name Polina?”
I shake my head. “Foma gave me that name. Says it's safer for me. He got me registered with documents and stuff, he made me legal.”
“What is your name?”
“Kisha.” It's a shaky whisper. I'm so distressed I feel like the world is spinning and grip the counter for stability.
“That's why you freaked out,” he states, his voice so rich but also so hollow and monotone.
I wipe my eyes, taking big breaths, “Coffee?”
“Yes,” he says, deliberately using English for the stupid girl, forcing me to turn and face him, holding my shoulders, dipping to look me in the face. “I didn't know any of that. I wondered why you weren't like the other girls. You never go home with a man. Are you broken?”
“B-roken?” I hiccup, sucking air into anguished lungs.
“Down there.” He nudges his head to indicate my crotch.
“Don't be so insensitive, Mikah.”
He drops his hold on me. “Sorry. I know the words come out wrong. I can't help it either, kisa.”
Trembling now like I have damage, I shake my head, blubbering, “Not broken there.” I shout, “In here!” slamming my hands to my chest, then my head. “Bad, so fucking bad Mikah. I can't make it heal, I try so hard, I pray for it, it never comes.”
Wrestling with my mouth, fighting the tears and the downward tug of misery, I pull out two chipped mugs, reaching for the coffee. He stays my hands, forcing me to put the mugs down. “I'll take you out for coffee. Let's go get something to eat.”
“No, I'm too upset.”
Mikah holds my hands, looking down at me, his eyes still blank, his tone still dead. “You are mine now, I look after what's mine.”