5. Katya
CHAPTER 5
KATYA
The basement is so cold I can’t help but shiver. Puffs of air appear in front of my face, and I curse the forced air heating system that keeps the theater at a chilly fifty-five degrees overnight when no one is supposed to be here. This is better than being on the street , I remind myself over and over.
My phone is dead and has been for a while. There aren’t any outlets down here other than heavy-duty lines with electric shock warnings, but last I checked, it’s negative one outside, and I know this is a far better option, even with how… lacking it is.
I’ve gathered as many items as possible to keep me warm. A couple of blankets from my boxes, old costumes, and flattened cardboard form a nest under me, and I’m surrounded by the boxes that came with me from Natalia’s.
I’ve literally stacked them in a pile around me so that if someone came down here, they would never notice my hiding spot. At first, I wished she had held on to them for a while longer, as I’m pretty sure they will stay in this basement for the foreseeable future, but it’s nice to have a semblance of protection that smells close to my old life.
Franco hasn’t come to see me since we spoke, and I’m constantly worried that he’s forgotten about me, that he left me down here to starve and die, knowing I can’t handle the stairs alone. Part of me doesn’t even hate the idea. I just wish it were a faster death. I think it’s been about two days, but I’m not sure exactly how much time has passed. I last ate the morning Natalia kicked me out, and my stomach was too unsettled to eat much then.
Franco’s words play on repeat in my head, along with Scott’s attack and all the other horrible memories I have.
“They’ll sell your virginity to the highest bidder. I’ll get a cut, and you’ll be set up. For a little while at least.”
“Just my virginity? Why would someone pay for that?”
“I never said it would be a nice first time or with someone you would choose yourself. That’s worth something, Katya.”
“I don’t know if I can, what about…?” I don’t say Pietro’s name, but he hears it in my hesitation.
“Pietro is dead, Katya, and you’re out of options.”
I admit I agreed at first simply to get off the street without actually considering that I might go through with it. The idea seemed absurd as if it couldn’t be real. I believe that’s why he suggested this spot for me to stay. Franco realized that once a bit of my panic wore off and I started asking questions, it might not seem like such a good idea.
He practically carried me down the steps, and I thanked him for it before I realized just how little there was down here. There have to be nicer places he could have hidden me, but this way, I can’t escape him or go back on my decision. Even if I’m pretty sure I would like to. That decision alone terrifies me.
Why would he leave me down here if he were being honest about everything?
Placing one of my last painkillers into my mouth, I swallow it with a swig of the last gallon of water he left me, but I guess he didn’t consider the fact I’d have to piss.
At least I found an old bucket. It sits closer to me than I’d like, but I don’t have it in me to repeatedly drag myself across the basement. The plus side of not eating in a few days—outside of the lightheadedness and gut-turning hunger—is that the bucket only smells like piss.
I turn the bottle so the pills spread out and start to count them. I have nine. That might kill me, but it might not, so it’s not really worth the risk. I am so truly out of options.
I was starting to feel worse while at Natalia’s, but I assumed it was just the miserable tension and the unease I felt every moment I was there. But as I continue to shake and sweat at the same time, I’m not so sure—I might be sick. But I don’t look at my legs to see how they’re doing.
I listen to the ballerinas practicing above me during the day, wishing more than anything I could be with them. At night, I listen to what I hope are only rats, but my mind trips over horrible images of what they would do to me if I died here. Right now, it’s rat time, and my stomach is in so much pain it’s doubling over on itself.
I want to attempt climbing the stairs, but weakness sinks into my bones rather than relief from the pill. Saliva fills my mouth as I imagine sneaking into the dressing room and finding spare bits of food. I try to fall asleep, sitting against the wall in my makeshift fort, but I can barely keep my eyes closed for a few minutes. I’m so nervous and cold.
Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. My stomach is doing whatever it can to consume itself, and I feel more like a wild animal than a person. My crutches lean against the wall within my reach, and I pull them over to myself.
The trip across the basement takes what was left of my energy, and when I come to the stairs, I realize I forgot just how steep they are. I try with my crutches for a few steps, but they don’t get me far. I switch to my hands and knees, but the boots are heavy, and I’m so tired I feel like I might pass out.
Every crumb on the carpeted steps has the potential to be food, and I’m only just better than tasting one of the bits. Every step I climb is torture, and I’m worried about the changing sounds above me. The night seems to be passing into day, making my chances of getting out and finding food less likely by the second.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I climb. Rationing painkillers is hard because it hurts so bad while you’re waiting for the next to kick in. I want to die. The old Katya had religious convictions that forbid suicide, but as the pain and nausea overtake me, I wish more than anything I had an easy way to end all this goddamn suffering.
I don’t, though. I might wake up if I took all my remaining pills, and starvation is a cruel and hideous death—one that takes time.
I’m not willing to risk dying that way if I can avoid it. My stomach scrapes the steps as I climb. This is more than exhaustion; it’s a fundamental lack of fuel. No machine can run without it, and I’ve been a machine for too long to think of myself as anything else.
I’m a dancer, an athlete, or at least I used to be, but I also used to have people in the world who loved me, and that changed too. Now I’m nothing.
I’m only halfway, but I have to keep pushing. The sounds from upstairs grow louder, and I know my chance of sneaking past undetected is gone, but maybe I’ll just scream at the top of my lungs for help and pray to God. Why couldn’t it work this one time? It worked so many times before.
Sweat coats my entire body as I slide up another and another. The agony and hunger get the best of me, and I lay as flat as I can against the steps while I vomit up water, bile, and the bitterness of the undigested pill. I hate myself and everyone who isn’t suffering as the wet slap lands against the concrete floor below.
I look up, planning to keep going, but Franco is at the top of the stairs, staring at me with a halo of light behind him like he’s my goddamn savior and not my executioner.
My heart drops out of my ass, excitement, dread, too much all at once, so it races away from the situation to jump in the ground beside Pietro. If I’m headed anywhere similar to where I’ve been, I’d rather not go.
“Katya, what are you doing?” he asks, but all I can think about is the fact he has a breakfast sandwich in his hands.
He takes a bite, and if I had it in me to reach the top of the stairs, I would maul him for it.
“I need food,” I manage to say. “And…” So many goddamn things.
His face twists in confusion, and then he seems to realize his mistake.
“Shit, I’m so sorry. Here, have this.”
He runs down the steps to meet me and hands me the remaining two bites of the sandwich, but I’m in so much pain. I just puked my guts up, so when I try to swallow, it takes a few tries before it will go down.
“Alright, we have to go,” he says as he grabs me under the arm to pull me up before I’ve fully swallowed.
“I need my crutches,” I argue as he painfully pulls me up the stairs, forcing me to bear far too much weight on my still healing legs. My bones grind since the walking casts are just barely holding them together.
“I’ll get them,” he grits as he drops me on the top step. A second later, he’s back at the top with my crutches. Much to my relief, the wheelchair he tucked in a closet already waits at the top of the stairs for me. He returns with the crutches and leaves them against the wall before grabbing me once more and helping me into the wheelchair.
“Franco, I need to talk to you about this. I changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.” I’ve been through too much. I’m in too much pain to survive all this.
He pushes the wheelchair forward, and I’m so relieved to be out of that damn basement and to have had two bites of food I don’t register his silence for a minute. The carpet slows the wheelchair, but we’re still moving quickly. We’re on the street a few seconds later, and I’m freezing since I never had a chance to put my coat on.
“Franco, what the hell?” I demand as I quickly rub my hands over my arms to combat the biting cold. “I told you we need to talk about this. I changed my mind. Take me back inside.”
He doesn’t, pushing me down the wheelchair ramp a little too fast for me to stop him without seriously hurting myself. He stops outside the car, putting his body in front of mine to prevent me from leaving. He throws open the door.
“It’s time to go, Katya. You can’t change your mind. It’s already done, but you really don’t need to be so worried and upset. It’s just one night.”
“I’m not getting in.” But my fingers are numb where they chafe my arms, and my lips tremble.
“You’ll have money. Everything will be okay.” Every piece of rational sense inside me tells me he’s lying, but the idea that he’s not is my very last desperate hope. What if he’s telling the truth, and I’ll have money at the end?
He sighs, like I’m annoying and pathetic all at once, a waste of his time.
“Where are you going, then? Not back in my theater, I can tell you that. Maybe to Natalia’s? But you fucked around with her boyfriend, didn’t you? Why would she take you back?”
I gasp. “You know I didn’t.” Is that really what Natalia believes? I’d die.
“Did any of the other girls run to your aid? Do you see them out here right now?”
The answer there is a resounding no, but many of them are immigrants themselves and hardly in a position to help me. He looks up, and I follow his pointed gaze to several dancers watching from the windows on the upper floor. Shame heats my cheeks, and that’s what decides for me rather than the pain of the cold.
“Do you have a single option other than getting in this car with me right now?”
I don’t say anything, and it hurts so fucking bad to stay silent, but what can I say? Where can I go?
“When this is over, I’ll have money?”
“When this is over, you’ll have money,” he agrees.
Please, God, let that be true.
Without any further argument, he helps me out of the chair and into the car. He packs both the chair and the crutches into the trunk, and I watch his actions in the rearview. He doesn’t seem to realize I’m watching, and when he closes it, I see a distinctly villainous smile.