Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
AVELINA
Today is the first day the men came for me…
It’s supposed to be a normal day at the orphanage. But that all changes when three men walk into the convent’s office.
We’ve all been watching them as subtly as we can. They’re very different from most people who come here because visitors are usually older couples who want to adopt a girl. But at eleven years old, the chance of that happening for me dwindles by the day.
Now we’re sitting in the dining hall, the gray bricks surrounding us.
The sounds of Moscow are hardly heard through the thick walls.
Beyond the windows, the dull gray bleeds into the horizon, and the courtyard is filled with weeds and grass that haven’t been tended to for a while.
The tables are long and worn, the wood leaving splinters if you rub against it the wrong way.
We sit there with our trays of food when Sister Paraskeva and the men march through the doors.
She’s a stern-looking lady, although the same can be said for all the nuns here, and her dark eyes level on me.
It’s like the nuns can see everything and know every little thing we do.
It wears on me, tearing me down little by little.
Each day here, I feel small, alone, and invisible, and I’m very careful not to rock the boat too much and get a lash across the knuckles.
“Get up, Avelina,” Sister Paraskeva says, her voice as sharp as ever. “You’re to go with these men.”
My green eyes dart up. My heart skips a beat. They’re here for me?
The three men stand by the door, watching. Their faces are hard, unreadable. But the look they give me chills me to the bone.
I stand slowly, my feet dragging across the floorboards. I pause for a moment and receive a glare for my hesitation. Fear gnaws at my stomach, unease settling in my chest like a heavy brick.
Their gazes scan me like predators.
One of them is tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit pristine and his tie smart.
The second man looks much like the first. They speak with the third man, deferring to him as if he’s in charge and addressing him as Gennady.
Gennady is more muscled and younger, but it’s his features that catch my attention—sharp features that notice everything and drip with cruelness.
Two other girls are directed to move as well.
“Don’t worry, girls,” the older man says, his voice somehow slimy and making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “We’re just here to take you out for a treat. Even orphans deserve something special now and then...”
I glance back at the girls who watch us, then the two at my side. Their faces are pale, confusion etched into them. One girl is barely old enough to even understand what’s happening. Then there’s Maria who’s a year younger than me, her cheeks flushed and tears already brimming in her eyes.
“Do we have to?” My voice wobbles, barely above a whisper.
“Don’t make a fuss! Do as you’re told!” Sister Paraskeva berates me.
The men usher us outside, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I smooth down my auburn hair, a nervous gesture as we step out into the snow-covered courtyard.
The ground is slick with ice, the trees bare of leaves.
A thick fog has settled over the city, making everything look distant and unclear.
The two men lead us toward a black car parked on the cobbles near the gate.
The windows are dark with tint, making it impossible to know if someone else is lying in wait inside.
Maria sniffles, threading her hand with mine.
I know I have to speak up while I still have the chance. “I…d-don’t want to go.”
Gennady’s head jerks around, his eyes narrowing.
And he slaps me.
Viciously hard.
Putting his full weight into the strike.
My head snaps to the side like a ricochet.
And the force of it makes my whole body stagger backward and tumble to the hard ground.
A gasp echoes around me.
“Shut up, you little brat,” he snarls. “You should be grateful we’re even bothering with you!”
My cheek burns with a brutal sting as a metallic tang of blood seeps into my mouth.
My head pounds. My palms are bleeding from where they scraped against the rough ground.
And my hip aches from where I landed on it as I fell.
I want to say something else, but the words are lodged in my throat like thorns.
I get up slowly. Gennady grabs me by my arm. I stumble as he shoves me into the car. The other two girls follow. The door slams shut behind us, the locks clicking into place with an ominous sound.
And all I hear is the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
The engine roars to life.
Sometime later, the car stops, and a large imposing building in the heart of the city stretches before us.
And I begin to understand.
The men aren’t taking us for a treat.
The car door is yanked open. My stomach churns violently.
We climb out. With a shove, we’re forced to move forward and into the building.
And the cold, dank walls close in around me.
Suffocating me with their sinister secrets.
AGE 13
I found out that the men who came to the orphanage that day worked for the government.
They were looking for girls to train.
To test.
And to do other things to.
First, they took us to a training facility every day for two weeks, a place that smelled of industrial chemicals and antiseptic—and of fear.
They raged at us if we didn’t follow their commands quickly enough.
Ranted at us until we were too tired to even think.
And punished us in unspeakable ways if we didn’t meet their standard...
They abused every part of our bodies and minds. Then at the end of those two weeks, they decided which of us met the standard. Which of us had potential. And it was for more than just skating.
I was one of the girls they selected. They took me out of the orphanage and brought me to this Moscow facility where I now live and train under their strict regime for figure skaters.
I’m told every day what an honor it is that I’ve been selected for this opportunity.
How it’s my duty to do this to repay the government for footing the bill for bringing me up in the orphanage.
I look down at the ice skates on my feet.
They pinch like metal claws, too small by at least a size, maybe two.
The leather has worn thin where my ankles press against it, and I can feel the deep ache starting in my toes—the same ache that keeps me awake at night.
We don’t get new ones very often. When we deserve them, Coach Anya always says, though I’ve never been quite sure what that means.
The music for my routine begins, and I stand ready to skate out onto the ice and move through my routine. For the sixteenth time this session. My legs feel strange today. Lighter somehow, like they might float away from under me if I’m not careful.
I take a deep breath and push forward, only to skid to a stop as I spot a man slide onto the bench beside my usual coach.
I immediately recognize him. It’s Gennady. My heart plummets into my stomach.
He was the man who savagely slapped me that first day.
He’s the strictest of all the coaches. He isn’t here very often because he’s a senior coach and works across the whole of Russia apparently.
He’s ex-military, or so the rumors say, and it shows in the way he commands the rink and screams at us whenever he’s here.
But why is he here today?
And why is he watching me?
My stomach clenches. A sharp, hollow pain that I’ve learned to ignore. I press a hand against it briefly, then catch myself. Never show weakness. Never show need.
My coach levels a look at me, and I clear my throat. I can do this. I know I can.
I inhale. Then exhale and glide out effortlessly onto the ice.
I’ve done this so many times that it’s like muscle memory.
My movements blend with grace and precision as the music swells and flows, each note pulling something beautiful from deep inside me…
something they haven’t been able to touch yet.
Out here, for these precious minutes, I am not nothing. I am flight personified.
My breath leaves me in a soft pant before I move into the triple axel, soaring high—higher than fear, higher than their words—before landing with a perfect whisper-quiet slide.
My adrenaline soars. Without missing a beat, I spin. A fast, tight twirl as my body becomes pure poetry. I hit each position with perfect alignment, feeling that rare moment of rightness where everything in the world makes sense.
And for just this moment, I remember what it feels like to fly.
A smile pulls my lips up, my cheeks flushing as I move into the next move: the Beillmann spin. My back aches as I arch and pull my leg above my head. But it’s a good ache—the kind that means I’m pushing past what they said I could never do.
Another sequence of jumps, each one higher and more challenging. I feel like I can defy gravity as I twist in midair, challenging not just physics but every cruel prediction they’ve made about my future. Every leap nailed. Every turn controlled and sharp.
In this moment, I am more than they will ever be.
I finish the final spin, one I’ve practiced for hours on end, my body bent nearly in half as I spin low, arms locked. And the world becomes a beautiful blur of ice and light.
Slowing to a stop and breathing heavily, I allow a small moment of pride—something I’ll have to hide in just seconds, but for now, it’s mine.
It was perfect. And it was all mine.
My arms shake from the effort, but I smile brightly as I’ve been taught to, my head pounding from the adrenaline and that strange floating feeling that’s been coming more often lately.
Silence follows.
The high I’m riding slowly dissipates as my coach motions me over. The beautiful spell breaks, and I’m just a girl again. A girl with holes in her tights and bruises she tries to hide.
I swallow.