10. Vitaly
10
VITALY
T he walls in my old room were never repainted. The dark, wooden bed frame was never replaced.
I wonder if Mila still sleeps on the same mattress I had. The bedspread has at least been changed—replaced by a thick, cream comforter, pillows resting atop that look like clouds.
Every bit of the mansion I saw earlier looked like it had been stripped of my father, but this room is haunted by the ghost of my past self. It’s cruel that Nikita gave this room to Mila, but I guess she wouldn’t know how much life was lived in here before her.
Tucked inside the reading nook I never once used to read in when I was young, I stare out the large window at the view of the lawn, darkness hiding the flowerbeds my mother tended. Roses were her favorite when I was youngest, before her interests dove into purple and white lilies. I asked once if she pivoted because roses were too difficult. She said that’s what she liked about them. She said they reminded her of her son.
My heart warms at the memory. I let my head rest against the wall as I breathe in, certain I can smell the flowers now, dead as they must be. I wonder if anything is growing there anymore.
I wish I’d helped her instead of merely standing over her while she dug her hands around in the dirt. I didn’t understand the purpose of what she was doing then. No one gave a shit about those flowers but her. Why put so much care into them? Was it truly worth the dirt beneath her nails, the bruises on her knees?
Then, six years ago, there was a man called Krysa—which means rat— who found a wounded bird in the orchard where he was stationed to work. He snuck the bird into the barracks and cared for it for the next three weeks, feeding it from the tiny bits of scraps we were given, barely enough to keep himself alive. He held the broken little thing like a child, spoke to it with love we all collectively agreed to ignore. As I watched him one day, it struck me why no one said anything.
We all understood. It may have seemed feeble or even pathetic to some, but the man weighed less than a hundred pounds, took beatings on the daily, shook like a Parkinson’s patient, and cowered if anyone so much as looked at him. And still, every one of us had more in common with that man than with any of the guards.
He was a prisoner who had nothing. The bird became his purpose, his escape. And on the first day of the fourth week, when one of the guards caught wind of the little bird, Krysa came back from the orchard to find its head cut off and waiting for him beneath his pillow. Those in the barracks ignored him while he wailed, and when he was beaten nearly to death, they ignored that too.
I didn’t think of Krysa, the rat of a man who happened to share my barrack, that night. I thought of my mother and her roses, and I understood. She was a prisoner at home as much as I was in that room with those men. She simply hid her cries of despair better.
A knock sounds on the door to my room, pulling me from my thoughts and my head away from the window. Before I can get up to answer, the door opens, and Mila walks inside carrying a tray. It’s dark in here, but the vast window gives me enough moonlight to see she’s changed into a loose, dark dress.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” she says. “Mr. Petrov said you missed dinner, so I brought you something to eat. May I turn on the light, or do you prefer it dark?”
I can’t make out her expression, but I stare anyway, wondering how she can speak so many respectful words in such a strained tone. This morning , she tried to kill me. She claimed—with good reason—that I ruined her life. Are we really going to pretend to move on from that? Is she being ordered to?
The other girl, Felicity, rolls into my mind, her image making me sit up straight. Nikita had her killed for granting me the slightest help and would’ve done even worse if I hadn’t given up the girl’s name.
Mila has every right to be afraid. Whatever she’s doing is ordered by Nikita, and Nikita is … unwavering in his demand for loyalty and obedience, to put it lightly.
“You can turn on the light.”
Mila flips on the light and brings me a tray containing a plate of food as well as a glass of water and a small vase with a single yellow daisy, as if that would be necessary.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the tray and surveying the overabundance. A steak meant for a minimum of two people. Asparagus, mushrooms, a too-large baked potato, and a roll.
I forgot about these portions. It actually stuns me for a moment, and I just stare at the food.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Mila asks. “I could get wine...”
I look up at her. “No, sorry, it’s just a … a meal fit for a king.”
“Or a prince.” Mila gives me a tight smile so pinched I question if her face hurts.
“Right.” I scoot over to make room for the tray before setting it down beside me. “Well, thank you.”
I rub my hand across my jaw, still looking at the tray, and note when Mila doesn’t leave. I look up at her just as she sits on the bench in front of my bent legs. I pull my knees up higher to make a bit more room.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.
She gives me another one of those tight smiles. I don’t like it. “Oh, no, sir. I’m here to serve you . Anything you need, you just let me know.”
My arms drape over my knees as my head tilts. “So you’re just gonna … sit there staring at me until I need something. Is that right?”
Her eyes widen like she can’t believe my assumption, but it’s exaggerated. “Of course not, sir.” She turns away from me and lowers her head, pointing her eyes at the floor while casually gripping the edge of the bench.
I chuckle and lay my head back against the wood. “Funny.”
“What is, sir?”
“Stop calling me sir .”
“Yes, Mr. Petrov.”
“ Mila .”
Now she keeps her mouth shut, pretty, dark hair hiding her expression from me. Her posture is relaxed, not giving away the least bit of fear. I wonder if it’s because she doesn’t see me as threatening or if it’s because she believes she has Nikita to protect her. It’s hard to tell just how delusional she is.
“Why did you tell me you were married to Nikita?” I ask, my eyes naturally drawing to the slit up the side of her dress. It reaches to the top of her thigh, revealing clear, ivory skin any man would have the urge to touch. Any man, including me.
Mila doesn’t answer.
“Were you embarrassed about your status, or did you truly want to intimidate me?”
When she lets out a long exhale, I don’t need to see her face to know what she’s feeling. Her vocal cords hum with what’s practically a growl.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?” she asks. “You know the truth.”
I sigh and look out the window. Toward those old flower beds. “Even if you were married to him, it wouldn’t change anything. You’d still be a prisoner here.”
Discomfort settles deep inside me, and I shift as if that’ll help. “I hate to admit this, but… If you’d married me all those years ago, your situation wouldn’t have been any different then either. Ring or not, the women of this world are made to be servants.”
“If this world is too unsettling for you, you’re free to leave it at any time. Downtown, they’re having a feminist march next week. You could go find your people. As your assigned servant, I’ll help you make your poster.”
“Wow, what a kind offer.”
“The anti-gun protests are the week after.”
“Oh, good. You know how much I hate violence.”
“I don’t know anything about you,” Mila snaps, her hair swaying as she whips her head my way before resuming her position.
Silence fills the space between us for what feels like a long while, bringing with it tension twisted by Mila’s resentment. The sadness she keeps locked inside unfurls, and the longer we let the space fill with her energy, the more the sadness leaks out. Nine years’ worth.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” I say, knowing it could never be enough. Hating that it will never be enough.
She lets that hang in the air for seconds that turn into minutes. Finally, she sighs. “What do you want, Vitaly?”
What do I want?
I look out at the yard as if I’m thinking, but the answer is obvious to me.
I want redemption. I want to right my wrongs—at least the ones I’m capable of. I have done things in my life that will never allow me a single night of peaceful slumber, and there are so many things I’ll never be able to take back, to give back.
Not just to Mila. Not just to my father or my mother, but to every person I’ve ever come across.
I’m ashamed to say it. It isn’t the story I want to tell.
But the memory of Krysa’s bird is one I recall well because it was my blade that touched its neck. It was my boot that connected with Krysa’s skull. My tears that remained dammed behind my eyes instead of flooding onto the concrete floor like Krysa’s.
Because in prison—and the world, for that matter—there are two kinds of people. Those who are victims and those who are not victims. Those whose purpose is to help the vulnerable and those whose purpose is to help themselves.
I know which type I am. I’m the type who will bash a man’s skull in for an extra scrap of meat. It’s done. It’s too late to pretend I’m someone else.
But this one wrong, this one thing I did can be corrected. If I can spare this one life, perhaps I’ll prove to myself I have a soul after all. Perhaps my mother and father—if they’re looking down on me—won’t cry today.
“I want you to be happy,” I say, my voice low.
She laughs, finally looking at me with a cruel smile. “Yes, I’m sure that’s just what you want. To travel across an ocean to make some girl you threw away years ago happy .” She shakes her head. “Am I truly supposed to pretend to believe this? Because, frankly, I don’t know that I can. I don’t know that anyone could be that good an actress.”
“Did Nikita ask you to act for me?”
Her smile falls some. “What?”
When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “You’re a Petrov living in this house. I’m to serve you with a proper attitude out of respect, regardless of whether you deserve it or not. That requires acting. Nobody had to ask me to do that.”
“Ah.” I nod.
Curious, though, that he sent her to ‘serve’ me instead of one of the other women. Except, of course, it isn’t curious. He wants to use her against me somehow.
“Look…” She blows a strand of hair from her forehead. “I think, maybe, I haven’t had the best tone. I apologize. Sir .”
I just stare at her. Her bright red lipstick is smudged in one corner of her lips, and I can’t help but wonder if it was an application error or if Nikita kissed her. It’s hard to imagine this woman messing up her lipstick. She seems … meticulous.
As if checking for confirmation, I run my gaze over her manicured hands, up to her carefully styled curls, so long and beautiful. I know her hair is dyed, but I can’t see a single off-colored root.
Mila clears her throat, bringing me to her annoyed face.
“It’s no problem,” I say, unsure what she wants me to say. I think she wants to tell me to fuck off. I don’t know what she thinks I’d do if she did.
She gives a curt nod and straightens. “So… For the time being, anything you need help with, you can ask me. You’ve been away for a long time, so I’m sure you have plenty of questions…”
When I don’t respond, she splays her hands as if to prompt me.
“I had my questions answered today with the lieutenants. But thank you.”
Her face falls. After a few moments, she tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles. “Yes, I’m sure. The lieutenants— while knowledgeable, of course—don’t know the goings of the mansion like?—”
“I’m all set for now, Mila.”
Her face falls again.
“But thank you.”
She faces forward, her jaw working while she considers something. At first, she seemed disappointed. Now she seems angry. I flatten my back against the wall and hang my arms over my knees.
“You think because I’m a woman, I don’t know anything,” she says, resentment bulging from her words.
What?
“You think all I am is a whore, but I’m not.” She turns to me, her chin lifting, a muscle jumping in her cheek.
I squint at her, trying to understand what’s happening inside her head. She wants so badly to be more than Nikita’s lap dog. I can see it.
What does she want from me ? Validation? Does she want me to ask her important questions she may or may not know the answers to for the sake of making her feel important?
What is this?
“Okay,” is all I say.
Her eyes bulge at that, and she grips the edge of the bench. When her jaw slackens, her hurt spills out. “You can’t even pretend.”
“Pretend what?” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m as bad an actor as you are. I’m not even sure what you want me to think, but telling me you aren’t Nikita’s whore isn’t going to make it so.”
“Oh, go to hell, Vitaly.” She stands, her small hands balled into fists as she stomps toward the door. She hesitates before reaching it, her feet slowing to a stop while she seems to consider something. I think she may turn around and come back, but after a minute, she leaves, slamming the door closed behind her.
I pick at the food but only eat a few bites, all the while thinking of the extra scraps I got for the brutal beating I gave Krysa that cold, winter night.
It seems like such a strange waste.