Analiese
Analiese
Have nice day.
This coming from my captor.
Who’s acting like I’m just his roommate.
Who he fucks.
Against my will.
I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand why I’m here or what he’s trying to do. I don’t understand what last night was or how he could so calmly sit there and eat an entire pizza— an entire pizza — in front of the woman he just raped.
In front of her brother.
And then teach her how to use his coffee maker in the morning.
Here in his little kitchen in his small apartment in a dingy industrial park on the outskirts of Flagstaff, I start to hyperventilate. At least I understood what was happening yesterday. Vasily’s been kind to me, but I’m no fool; this is what men do. They’re nice to you until you feel safe, and then you let your guard down and they attack.
They also withhold critical information from you. The sobbing abates. but the tears continue to stream down my cheeks while I scan the fridge for something to stress-eat, and it dawns on me that one critical problem here is I don’t know how to cook. My mom died when I was little, and it was her job to teach me. Everyone along the way has said my mother-in-law will one day teach me so I shouldn’t worry about it, but here I am. I attempt to scramble eggs and end up with burnt goop stuck to a pan. I attempt to fry an egg and end up with burnt, two-toned goop stuck to a second frying pan.
I find white bread. I’ve never had white bread before, and there’s not even a toaster or butter at room temperature for me to spread on it, but I find a tub that’s labeled spreadable butter in the fridge and give that a whirl.
It’s . . . okay. It tastes reasonably like butter. But this bread? I don’t get it. It’s wet or something. Gooey. Fluffy like bread but then cakey.
I wander aimlessly— on aching, bowed legs, everything south of my waist sore in a way that’s mild but inescapable— around the apartment for a while, poking into the cupboards and looking under the beds and in his closets. The place is small, the furniture cheap, the window shades probably the ones that came with the apartment.
The carpet needs to be replaced. Same with the Formica countertops. And everything is tidy, I’ll give him credit there, but there’s this sense of out-of-date touching everything.
Oh, and there’s a nice bookshelf, plenty of options. Some ancient, leatherbound classics, some modern mass market. A great selection.
If you read Russian.
TV? No remote. I find a single button on it that takes me to the main screen so I can see all his streaming services and the programs he’s been watching recently. Half of them are in English, which feels like I’ve stumbled on his dirty secret — aha! He watches Law they’re probably on the take, and I’d be implicating Tony, too. It’s Sunday, so I wouldn’t be able to use a library computer — I’m not even sure how that works since I don’t have a card or any ID — to get onto social media to reach out to any of my friends.
What would be the point in trying to escape? What would I do? Where would I go? If someone let me borrow my phone, it would be to have Tony or one of my friends pick me up, but I think that would put me in a loop. I know Tony was upset that Vasily decided yesterday wasn’t enough to settle the debt, but if he really couldn’t come up with that $150,000, he’d have to give me right back.
I can’t believe he sold me for $150,000.
I’d have to run away. Abandon everything, including my school and my friends. Vanish. I’m sure there’s a bus station in town, but I don’t have any money. And Tony would still get in trouble and be on the hook for that money.
I don’t know how much I care about that.
I pace over to the balcony. We’re four floors up, too high for me to escape that way anyway, but most of the buildings are lower. I have a good view of this part of the city.
Across the street is a Starbucks that people are rushing in and out of, but around the corner from that appears to be a local cafe where people are chilling at tables out on the sidewalk. I see both a drugstore and a chain grocery store. A park with meager amenities, but there’s a little playground, a running track, and a couple barebones athletic fields. They’re busy, soccer being played on both, with a bunch of kids in uniform and adults on the sidelines. Must be organized sports, although it’s February. I always thought soccer was a summer sport.
Next to the park is a church, which gives me an almost-idea. My church in Phoenix gives sanctuary to people sometimes, either because they’ve lost their homes to natural disaster or they’re diaspora. The church I’m looking at, though, I’m doubtful does that. It’s small, and it looks like it used to be a restaurant. The only reason I can tell it’s a church is the changeable letter sign too far away for me to read and the full parking lot.
Church is in service.
I don’t know that I’ve ever missed church. If I can’t go on Sunday, I go to an evening service.
I clutch my cross again.
The cross is rough under my thumb. Diamond studded. My father gave it to me for my Confirmation, the last gift of any consequence he gave me before his death. He’d already been given a terminal diagnosis and went all out.
It’s white gold with ten half carat diamonds and a two-carat diamond in the center. The fact that my brother just sold me to the Bratva for two weeks over $150,000 is obscene when I’m wearing this. Why would he need to borrow such a paltry sum, and how was he unable to repay it in another way?
In his final days, my father was delirious much of the time. Most of what he said didn’t make sense, and he apologized repeatedly but never explained what he was sorry about. He also told me so many times that he wanted me to be happy. He even told me he hoped I found happiness in my necklace. I thought he meant in God and the church, which have always brought me more joy than just about anything else, especially when I can integrate my love of theatre with it.
I’m missing worship now, when I need it the most, and I fear that what happened yesterday has shaken me in an irreparable way as I consider if my father meant something else.
It would gut me to lose my necklace. But I could pawn it for a lot of money.
Enough to get a bus ticket to anywhere but Arizona and start a new life somewhere. I’ve never thought about how much money it takes to do things, but I think I could get enough that I would have time to figure something out wherever I land.
Enough to get a morning-after pill, too.
I’ve bought one before — for Camilla. She’d only met her husband twice before they married. He’s . . . not terrible, which is the best any of us can ask for, but she still isn’t ready for a baby, and her family forced her to go off birth control. I bought her that morning-after pill, then started giving her my birth control. It wasn’t like I thought I’d need it.
I don’t have a rosary on me, so I rub my fingers over my cross as I begin running through all the prayers I’d be saying after the confession I thought I’d have today, as well as throwing on all the protection ones that didn’t help me the way I wanted them to yesterday. But now there’s a new real fear.
Pregnancy.
Would Tony force me to marry Vasily? That’s what usually happens if it’s advantageous. It doesn’t matter who the man is. If he can’t be murdered, he gets a wife. I’ve known men to steal girls that way. The idea of becoming one of those girls has my stomach churning.
I’m moving before I’m even thinking through the plan. It’s better that way; I don’t know when the groceries will arrive, and I don’t know what kind of hours pawn shops keep. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I’ll second-guess myself.
I need to look like a normal person if I’m going to pull this off. I rush to Vasily’s closet to see if there’s anything I can possibly make look appropriate on me and discover an entire wardrobe of women’s clothing. Shirts and sweaters, pants and dresses. A nice coat and a couple pairs of boots.
Weird, but I’m not going to dwell on it.
I can’t pack a bag. I don’t want to carry anything too bulky if I’m sneaking out. But I layer: three tanks, a blouse, a sweater, and a coat, leggings, dress pants, and a skirt. Two pairs of socks in the boots. None of it is very nice, but it’ll be a decent start.
I consider looking for a gun, but I’m worried I won’t be able to get on a bus with it. I grab a small knife from the kitchen instead, figuring it’ll help in a pinch and I can ditch it at the bus station without worrying about too much happening if it’s found.
I hop up on my toes to look through the peep hole on the door, finding the other side to be a non-descript hallway that ends with this unit but extends the other way for at least four apartments on the opposite side. Most of the doors have signs and mats. Nothing too crazy. But as I lean to look, I notice the door’s fairly loose in the frame, moving and springing back. On a whim, I attempt to turn the doorknob.
It’s unlocked.
I tug, and it opens right up. My eyes bug out as I realize I can just leave, and the situation sinks back in.
I can’t really do this, can I? My entire life, I’ve been groomed to be a Mafia wife. I have no real skills other than being a decent actress, but I’m not making it in Hollywood any time soon.
If I run, this sort of apartment is going to be my life. A 2-bedroom on the fourth floor in the industrial district of a third-rate city, probably working in both a coffee shop and a grocery store just to afford this dive. Wearing someone else’s clothes and burning eggs.
But on my own. Living my own life.
No one deciding for me.
I slip out the door.
I have no idea what I’m doing. On a cellular level. This is the exact opposite of who I am as a human being. I’ve never even snuck out after curfew. I’m playing the Mission: Impossible theme in my head as I close the door behind me gently to keep it from making a sound, but as soon as it clicks, I realize I don’t even know which way to go. There’s an elevator halfway down the hall, but directly across from me is the stairwell.
I regret this immediately.
I reach back for the doorknob to go back inside and pretend I never left and sit there quietly for the rest of the day because this isn’t something I can do.
It’s locked from the outside.
With that, there’s nothing left for me except to go. I opt for the stairs, figuring I have more control. I open it cautiously, tiptoe my way down three flights of stairs, and peek through the window at the ground floor door to suss it out. There’s no one visible, and there’s an exit right next to me. I’m able to slip through one door and then the next without setting off any alarms or seeing anyone else. I did it.
Holy cow, I did it.
And it is cold . I have layers on and appropriate shoes. I’m dressed right that I won’t look strange, just poor, but my nose immediately begins to feel numb. If nothing else, it’s the motivation I need to get myself moving to the coffee shop.
It’s just busy enough no one notices me hustling past the park and over to the local cafe. I feel like people there will be more likely to help me than the people at the Starbucks.
I make myself look lost, not hard to do, then grope my pockets. I’m not sure if anyone is paying attention to the show, but it’s more for me to get myself into character. There are a few people sitting outside, huddling up with their hot coffees, and my gut instinct has me walking up to the table sat with a guy and a girl instead of the three girls who are chatting over each other. If the guy and the girl are a couple, I may ruffle feathers, but that’s a them problem.
“Super sorry to bother you,” I say to the guy, whose attention snaps right to me. They’re both about my age, probably college kids, and yep, she’s already shooting daggers at me with her eyes, while the guy’s attention is locked on me. “Is there a pawn shop near here? I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend there to look at engagement rings, and silly me, I forgot my phone!”
Hopefully the mention of a boyfriend will ease some of the pressure off the guy, although the flicker of panic at engagement ring makes me think I replaced one nightmare for another.
The girl snatches up her phone. “Lemme check for you! Oh look, L&M Pawn & Jewelry? It’s two blocks down and around the corner.” She shows me her screen, and I thank her and follow her directions.
I have this hope that with Jewelry in the name, it’ll be a nicer place than I imagine a typical pawn shop to be, but it’s disgusting. The floors are ancient, scuffed and stained linoleum. The cases are filled with student-grade musical instruments, knock-off designer hand bags, and costume jewelry. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes as badly as the bleach fumes burn my nostrils. I immediately think I need to turn back, go somewhere else, but where would I go?
Panic begins to choke me again as I wait five, ten, fifteen minutes, all counted out by the overactive cuckoo clock, for one of the workers to help me. The squat, older gentleman with Coke bottle glasses and a bad limp leads me back to a dingy, cluttered office, but at least he has a proper loupe and a good light to study my necklace under.
“These are natural diamonds,” he says after a time. “I’m going to level with you, I’m not the guy for this. This should be in an auction house.”
“I need the money now. I don’t have time for an auction.”
He nods like this isn’t the first or even the thousandth time he’s heard that. He jots down two numbers, and they’re both gutting. The higher one, though, it might be enough. Not enough for the last gift my father ever gave me, but enough for me to escape and live on until I can find a job.
He taps the smaller number. “This is what you want. This is a payment plan. Up to two years. You make your payments plus twenty percent interest, and in two years, you get your necklace back.”
“And the other number?”
“I buy it and send it out to auction next month. You’ll never get it back.”
That’s what I was expecting anyway, having never gone to a pawn shop before, but my eyes shift to the smaller number. I do some quick calculations, try to figure out how quickly I’ll blow through it, but I don’t even know how much a ticket out of here will cost.
I don’t know anything.
I bite down on my bottom lip to keep it from quivering as I sift through memories. Conversations overheard on campus, commercials on TV, anything. I feel like I’ve seen plane tickets for around $50, so buses must be cheaper, right? But are those prices for real?
I don’t want to sell the necklace.
I don’t have a choice.
I’m about to say I’m going to take the bigger number when I’m surrounded by the scent of stale cigarettes, although I can now discern blackcurrant and oakmoss aftershave.
Vasily’s arms reach past me to take the necklace from the pawn broker and draw the chain around my neck. For a moment, I think he’s going to choke me with it, but then he simply fastens it and lets it fall back in place.
One hand grabs me by my ponytail, wrapping it around his wrist and yanking it so I’m suddenly staring at him, upside down. His expression is unreadable.
“ Ovechka has nice adventure, yes? Time to go home.”