11. Octavia
Days go by before the next interrogation.
Long days that bleed into night without the slightest indication of a setting sun somewhere outside these concrete walls.
I only know the time passes because every day, one of the guards stomps into the room and clicks on the light, all to slide a small cup of water and a slice of stale bread through the cage bars.
I always let Vasiliy take the bread, shaking my head each time he tears the small piece down the middle.
I’m comfortable with hunger. I much prefer taking the lion’s share of the water.
We haven’t spoken much since that first day.
What is there to talk about? He doesn’t trust me, and I don’t particularly care for him either.
The psycho has an unsettling tendency to flip on a switch.
He’ll chase me down the street one moment, and flirt with me in the next.
Offers to kill me himself, and then drapes his shirt over my shivering arms while I sleep.
I’m getting whiplash from his emotional mood swings, and I have more than enough on my plate as is.
I didn’t last long enough in the foster home to be placed into individual houses.
Instead, I spent the first twelve years of my life in a poorly funded group home with an ever-changing staff.
God, I hated it there. I detested the way I had to watch my back, and I dreaded watching potential foster parents wander through the house like they were choosing a puppy from the kill list at the pound.
I remember the first day I snuck out to take a beginner’s ballet class like it was yesterday.
I felt like a skilled spy, climbing out the jammed window in the common room and shimmying down the fire escape without anyone the wiser.
The truth is that I was clunky and obvious, and the metal steps squeaked the entire way down.
If anyone actually cared about my comings and goings, the operation would have ended before it began.
I showed up in my filthy clothes, hair tangled into a messy brown knot at the base of my neck.
None of that mattered, though, because when Ms. Irina leaned down to look at my feet, holding her nose as she did, her eyebrows flew up to her hairline.
Excellent arches, she said. Lucky girl. If you come to my Tuesday technique class, we’ll find you a leotard to loan.
I had never been called “lucky” a day in my life.
This is my way out, I remember thinking.
None of us had an easy path out of the system, and here was a spark of hope falling into my unworthy hands.
That’s what dance became for me. The escape route.
And that’s been more than enough for years, nourishing me with purpose and power.
But, as I’ve sat here in brutal silence for the last few days, I can’t help but think about how small my life is, and how little purpose and power I actually wield.
A waste, I keep thinking. Such a hateful life, you’ve been living.
Pain and loneliness, disguised as survival.
Maybe my first brush with the sins of men years ago was something of a precursor.
Maybe my life was always meant to end in an incredibly violent way.
Punches land with heavy smacks that reverberate through the room.
I curl into myself, trying to pretend I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else. Except the locked door doesn’t allow me to drift away to some faraway beach or fictional escape.
I hate being alone in the cage.
It’s an incredibly selfish thought, one I immediately wish I could retract.
More punches thunder in the space. My fingers press into my ears, a desperate attempt to block out the beating Vasiliy is suffering just a few feet away.
“You know what I’ve learned about you, baby Morozov?” That carefree voice roves through the air. The rumble before the lightning crack.
Another punch. A sharp exhale. It seems fists are the weapon of choice today.
In theory, that would be more favorable than the squelching of his knife.
In reality, brute force has a way of hiding the true effects of an injury.
A blade illustrates pain like paint on a canvas, but Vasiliy’s organs could be ruptured beneath this attack, and he might not even realize until silence settles over the cage.
That undeniable truth makes my stomach clench.
“I heard you’re quite the little interrogator, yourself.”
I gaze up from my knees, just in time to see Vas spit a wad of blood, lazily meeting the man’s gaze.
“I dabble.”
“Ah.” Sarcasm drips like spoiled honey.
Dead Fucker #1, as I affectionately call him in my mind. He seems to be the leader of this unpleasant operation.
“Please, tell me then,” he continues. “How am I doing?”
“One would assume quite well, seeing as I’ve answered all of your questions,” Vasiliy replies in an unbothered tone.
My flinch beats the next attack by half a second.
Dead Fucker #1’s fist makes contact with Vasiliy’s face so many times that the movement blurs in my sight.
Every impact comes with a wet sound, like a slab of meat hitting the cutting board.
I didn’t know the human body could sound like that.
My nails dig into the flesh of my cheeks.
He doesn’t cry out, but every once in a while, a choked breath will suck through the air.
I hate those breaths the most.
“You want to know what I think?” the man says, a drop of sweat dripping from his brow as his fists unfurl. “I think you are beginning to outlive your usefulness.”
Vasiliy spits again, and this time, the glob of blood smacks against our captor’s boot.
“I have the type of information on two separate Bratvas that many would die to inherit.” Impossibly, he manages to crack his bloody, swollen lips in a cocky smirk.
“I think I’m the most useful thing you’ve ever had. ”
I’m so taken aback by the taunt that I don’t notice the glint of silver until it’s too late. I’m not able to warn him. The blade arcs through the air, landing in the middle of Vasiliy’s thigh with a piercing squelch.
My own leg twitches.
The pained hiss that ricochets through the space is the only sign that he’s in bad shape. He doesn’t usually give them his reactions.
My forehead kisses my knees. Grounding breaths, one after another.
No more, I want to plead. Wetness drips down my eyelids, splattering across the dark, gritty floor below.
Two thunks against the far door. I don’t lift my head.
I don’t want any of our captors to see my tears.
Dead Fuckers 2, 3, and 4 pour into the room, footsteps rattling the floor.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as they uncuff the restraints and heave Vasiliy’s massive body between their arms. It takes all three of them to balance the weight of his swaying form.
I crawl to my feet when the bars rattle. If I thought he looked bad last time, now he looks like he’s knocking on death’s door. His face is so swollen that I can hardly see the glint in his bright blue eyes. Fresh blood pours off his body from injuries, new and old.
How could he be responding so calmly to their questions in this state? My back presses against the wall as I wait for them to throw his body in like last time.
I had no idea that pigeons bled red, just like us. Not until I lifted that heavy brick from the floor…
Vasiliy has a very particular scent; musk mixed with something dark and addictive that I don’t have the vocabulary to name. It’s a constant in here—one I’ve learned to seek out in the last few days, even from across the cage. But I don’t smell it anymore.
As the guards lug his unsteady form further into the cage, I should be able to get a hit of that intoxicating scent, and yet, all I smell is iron, sharp and sour.
I wait. For them to drop him to the floor.
For those heavy footsteps to dissipate in the distance, and silence to fall back over like a blanket of comfort.
The men don’t move.
Hands, Octavia. Watch the hands.
I learned a long time ago that faces lie the most. Hands are honest.
Something sparkles through the darkness. A flash of silver. Rings?
No. Too large.
The metal extends over the man’s knuckles, fitting like a second skin over the grooves and peaks. When the hands start to curl, I realize what I’m looking at.
“Stop,” I shriek, peeling myself off the wall. Adrenaline pours through my bloodstream, strangling my next breath.
The silver knuckles unfurl. I lift my eyes to find a dark pair already settled on me. The other two guards also look to me, dropping Vasiliy’s limp form with a thunk.
“Well, well,” Silver Knuckles says. His lips stretch into a terrifying smile. “So nice of you to join us, princess. I’ve been patiently waiting for my turn with you all week.”
I ignore the words, stepping in front of Vasiliy’s crumpled form.
My blood pulses between my ears. Holding their attention feels like wearing a bright red target.
Three strange faces look down at me, lit with amusement.
Hook nose. Heart-shaped jaw. Dark, low brows.
Their various features burn into my memory.
The faces of the men who will kill me.
“He can’t take any more,” I hiss. “What will your boss do if you accidentally kill him before he gives you what you need?”
Fire laces my scalp as Silver Knuckles yanks back my hair, a cruel smile playing across his lips. “We were never after him in the first place.” He pulls again, lurching me off balance with the movement. “It wouldn’t be a major loss. You, however…”
My spine crunches against the wall, knocking all the air from my lungs. A slow-moving panic stiffens my muscles, much like the sickness that gripped me years ago.
“Calm down, Stafford,” one of the others says, arms crossing over his chest with discomfort. “We have orders—”
“Fuck the orders,” Silver Knuckles, Stafford, spits in my face. “It’s been days, and he still hasn’t asked her a single question.”