40
ALASKA
I’m not in shock. I don’t regret it. I’m not afraid.
And look, I’m the type who can put on a whole scene if you give me an inch—dramatic swoon, hand to forehead, nervous cackle to cap it off—but today, nothing.
I say it and I believe it. No echo, no last-minute tear.
My head is usefully quiet and, in the middle of that, there he is, Don Jota, on the gravel, dark dot on his forehead, clean finish, the rain dulling him to matte, and me with a calm that scares me and feels good at the same time.
Irina’s gun weighs more than I expected, and I’ve got no idea how I kept everything where it needed to be—finger right, pressure right, the perfect order: safety off, loose inhale, arms steady, and an instinct I must’ve been born with, I don’t know if it’s family or gamer habit.
In my head a platinum trophy notification lights up—Trigger Queen—and a silent laugh bubbles up and stays put.
The smell of gunpowder scrapes down my throat, gets all the way to my teeth and sticks there, and I keep still, gun down, safety on, hand steady, breathing unhurried, no dizziness, no theatrics, my brain channel-surfing and always landing on the channel that’s worst for me.
Vega grabs me from behind, plants her forehead on the back of my neck, then crosses her arms over my chest. She squeezes hard, trembles a little, and I can’t tell if it’s cold, rage, or the whole package.
I tell her I’m fine, don’t let go, give me a second, and she fires back that no way, she knows me, my “I’m fine” doesn’t fly.
Nat finds my hand on the first try, a solid squeeze. She doesn’t ask questions. She just stays. And I’m grateful no one’s trying to save me from myself today, because I already saved myself, with this crappy aim, with this rage that hasn’t gone anywhere.
Far away—which is really, like, ten feet—Mauro’s yelling.
It’s a wet, sludgy sound, the words falling apart.
He’s asking for something, help, forgiveness, his mom, I don’t know.
Everything comes out broken, everything arrives muffled by the fine rain, by the trees, by the clumsy thud in my throat, and I hear a murmur that doesn’t move anything inside me.
I jump-cut into the cheap movie of the immediate future: a thread with stolen pics of me from some train-wreck night, washed-out filter, my name mispronounced on a true-crime podcast, some lady staff writer taking notes, neon-pink nail tapping a screen, a local news reporter saying “neighbors in shock,” and Vega in the group chat from the home posting, “Alaska’s fine, we’ll explain later,” eggplant emoji because her thumb always slips.
I breathe and drop back into the wet ground, mud caked on my sneakers, branches snapping, Don Jota’s still face, no air, no invincible-guy look, ash-colored skin and a twisted mouth.
And I realize there’s no epic, no end-credits music, no confetti.
Just this. Heavy silence, annoying rain, and my arm finally weighing something.
I almost tell the empty air we’re done here, that’s it, this bad joke is over.
I say under my breath, “I’m not putting the gun down until someone says it out loud.
” Random protocol. Nat goes, “Breathe.” Vega goes, “If you’re gonna pass out, give a heads-up.
” I laugh on the inside, a short ha slips out, because this is serious and at the same time my brain keeps sliding jokes in without asking.
And that’s that. I’m still here, my body pinging me with weird notifications, Mauro’s noise fading like a phone on 1%, with the clean, absurd certainty that today, finally, we get to live without that fear glued to our tongues.
I’m not in shock. I don’t regret it. I’m not afraid. I don’t need forgiveness. I’m not asking.
For the first time in a thousand years, I have peace. Vega pressed against me, Nat gripping my wrist, me not trembling and without the low hum that used to drill into me.
Ever since we left the home, I’ve been carrying a backpack that never shows up in any photo.
Not because I left, but because of what I knew would come after.
There, if one girl was gone, they slotted in another.
Fast. Cold. Another little kid, eyes blown wide with fear and a head full of dust, chanting the lame mantra, “Be good and everything will be fine,” while the creep in that house already had his list ready.
Their faces flashed through my head, waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
I lied to myself on purpose. I fed myself syrupy speeches—that maybe the director and his buddy would get tired, that the phase would pass, that without us they’d go to sleep and take up stamp collecting.
Vega and I made a pact, spit-shake and all, to never talk about this crap again.
Our shitty little oxygen bubble. But forgetting isn’t deleting a WhatsApp message.
There’s no button here. Memory sticks, and you can shower in bleach and it won’t come off.
We carried it, both of us, day after day.
I don’t know if what I just did has a neat little slot in any law or any sermon.
I don’t care. I feel a calm too big to fit in my arms. That man will never again lay a hand, set up a camera, or close a door to hurt anyone.
End of the bullshit. End of the awards. End of the “art.” End of “it’s over. ”
I don’t regret it. I’m not afraid.
I have my reasons. And I have peace.
I don’t even notice when Vega lets go of me.
Or the second Irina takes the gun. I only know the pistol isn’t weighing down my hand anymore and now Irina Popova, queen of control, is holding it.
With her other hand she takes my chin, immobilizes my face, and plants those green eyes—just like mine—right on me.
"Are you okay?"
She doesn’t yell, doesn’t lecture, nothing. I was braced for the blame-fest and got something else. A shine. Pride. My big sister is proud of me. She shows it without shame. Heat pours in and my legs go loose, and everything feels strange and right at the same time.
"I’m here," I say. "I look like hell, though. Take a picture and I’ll be trending as 'dangerous psycho.'"
Irina tightens her grip on my jaw a little, like a loving head chef who won’t let anything burn.
"Breathe, Alaska. Slow."
"I’m breathing."
Vega steps in, slides a hand under my nape, and smells my hair. Nat peeks in at my side, eyes wide, lips pressed tight. She brushes my wrist, soft, and inside me a neon THANK YOU lights up that I don’t know how to say out loud without crying and turning it into a scene.
Irina lets out the tiniest breath.
"Alaska, listen to me. You’re not alone. Not now, not later."
"Come on, kill the epic soundtrack, Popova." A dumb little laugh slips out.
"We’ll fix this." She moves a strand of hair off my face—a gesture that feels like someone wiping my brain clean. "Does anything hurt?"
It hurts somewhere that doesn’t show up on X-rays. I almost say it, but I pocket the drama.
"I’m here. And I’m hungry. Really hungry. Serving justice works up an appetite."
Vega taps my shoulder like, okay, focus.
"First you two get out of here," Irina orders. "Then you eat."
"Okay, Mom 2.0." I laugh, and at the same time I want to crawl under her jacket and stay there a week. My head is always drafting weird plans.
Irina lowers my hand—the one that’s shaking—and hits me with the coach stare that gets you ready for the final penalty kick.
"Look at me."
I look.
"I’m here," I repeat, this time steady, no Jell-O wobble. "I’m okay. I’m not going to fall. If I do, you pick me up and we keep going."
"We’ll pick you up," Irina concludes.
Vega nods with those huge sad-anime eyes, and Nat squeezes my wrist once—our private signal.
Three safety clicks, and I hang on to that.
Everything’s spinning and, even so, inside me a clean silence opens that doesn’t ask for explanations or send me the bill.
I breathe without counting, without a mental stopwatch, without that fear that sticks a foot out to trip you.
The group home comes back: the scratchy blanket, the stained ceiling, Soraya’s broken voice. And my hands, finally, stop shaking.
"Irina," I call her. "I’d do it again. With witnesses. With the front-facing camera. With a cute filter, though."
Mauro breaks the moment with a high, sticky sound—crying mixed with pleading and with calling out to people who don’t answer anymore.
Irina clicks her tongue. She flicks her wrist, lifts the gun, and squeezes once.
Bang. The blast bites my ear and my ribs hum.
The other guy drops. Then there’s a silence that makes you swallow and stare at the floor so you don’t drift off to strange places.
Irina turns back to me and goes straight through me—heat up, cold down—lining my body up without touching me.
Hello, pending issue closed; drop a like, ring the bell, and thanks for coming to my TED Talk on domestic justice.
I lock my eyes on her and breathe, because right now I’ve got nothing else.
And the only thing that comes out, with my tongue stiff and my brain on pause, is a low:
"About Nat…"
Because I see her there, whole, with that face she gets when a lie crashes live, and it hits me I just sold her out in front of Irina. That wasn’t in my script.
"Come on," Irina soothes me, "I already knew about Nat. I was just waiting for you to put it out there. We’ll talk about it, just not now. Are you okay?"
I nod. Nothing else comes out. Irina grabs me and folds me into a no-negotiation mom hug, no warning, no questionnaire.
And I let her, all in, no theater, without that cardboard resistance I wear like a uniform.
Something loosens where the scares are stored; I give in for a second, and it feels good.
And it surprises me that I feel Popova through and through, and a silly laugh bubbles up that I bite back because it’s not the time for a burst of laughter, even though my body is begging to let it rip.
Irina flips in a blink, from warmth to command, from family to boss, ready to sweep up the mess with the same steady hand she uses to make you soup when you’ve got a fever.
"Whatever happened here stays here," she says. "No one."
She sweeps us with her eyes one by one and lingers on Vega, whose eyes are wet and mouth is twisted.
"No one. And especially—not a word to Mikel. Understood?"
Vega nods, serious.
"Not a word to Julia. Or Sabina," she finishes. "I’ll find the right words… or the silence."
Anton and Alexei wait, black suits plastered to them by the rain, not blinking, not in the mood for showboating.
Irina tips her chin twice, a minimal signal.
They catch it instantly and get to work without gawking or questions—that’s why they’re here, full-service disaster cleanup, no selfies, no voice memos.
Irina turns to Nat, and it jabs me in the gut—half thrill, half fear.
"Nat."
Not Natasha—Nat—and that shorthand scorches me and soothes me at once.
"We’ve got this. You take the twins to your place. Rest. Don’t leave until I come get you. Take care of them. I trust you. And we’ll talk. And don’t panic—I’m not going to kill you or anything, for now. Don’t make me improvise."
If my hair didn’t smell scorched I’d crack up, but I hold it together because my dignity is low, not nonexistent.
Nat blinks big; she’s shaken. Not by the shots—she’s got that life in her Favorites folder.
She’s shaken by me, by what I did; she didn’t expect me to pull the trigger, didn’t expect me to stop being the joke and hit the red button.
A mental ticket opens: what if she doesn’t look at me the same. Error 404, partner not found.
I look at her, searching for the bug, the point where the interface broke. She pins me with her eyes, steps in, and squeezes me hard, no room for doubt—bone to bone, chest to chest. No words. Don’t need them. Message received.
I breathe. The rain keeps on and everything runs off me: heavy lashes, jacket clinging.
All you hear is water and orders spoken low.
Irina is already handing out tasks without raising her voice; Rashel vanishes for a second and comes back with a bag I don’t even want to look at; Anton and Alexei shuttle back and forth.
I float without floating, in that weird place where the body weighs a ton and the head goes still.
"Let’s go," Nat says, hoarse, her hand firm on my back, a gesture that straightens my spine and my morale.
I nod and grab Vega’s hand—she’s shaking, grip fierce, nails cold.
We walk to the car without speaking, short steps, heads down, breathing in sync.
Behind us stay Irina, Rashel, Anton, and Alexei with the night and its crap; ahead, the open door, the seat still warm, and the three of us breathing the same rhythm.
I shut my eyes for a second and hit save—new folder, dumb name, do not touch.
We get in, and the car smells like wet plastic and my reheated fear.
Nat starts the engine without theatrics, wipes the windshield with the patience of someone who’s cleaned worse.
Vega takes the middle seat; I pull a face so she knows I’m here, I haven’t fallen into the black hole, we’re having breakfast together tomorrow.
I get the fantasy of ducking into a hotel with bathrobes, ordering pasta, and putting on a cheesy game show with a host who yells. Irina leaving us alone for twenty-four hours. Mikel getting lost in a roundabout. And the world, for once, not asking for a receipt.
Nat brushes my knee and dials me down. I want to say, "Hey, sorry about before, and thanks for now. And you scare the hell out of me, and I feel so good next to you, and I feel so shitty for having felt good squeezing that trigger." But what comes out is a weird noise that isn’t a word, and I leave it there, parked, pending review. Maybe later I’ll dare.
Maybe I’ll record a voice memo and send it with a tacky sticker to deflate the drama.
Vega lets out a long sigh and asks with her eyes if I’m okay, and I give her a yes with my chin, that ugly gesture we both have that never works in photos but says more than twenty City Hall speeches.
Nat sets one hand on my back, the other on the wheel, and I promise myself I won’t leave her alone in any more weird scenes; some hero complex slipped into my system without warning—next time I’m grabbing her hand before the world catches fire.
What happened here stays here. I seal it on the inside—no candles, no vows, just my word and my mouth shut. And I tell myself that tomorrow will be another day, worse or better, I don’t care, but ours. And if anyone wants details, they can make them up. I’ve given enough explanations for one day.