Echoes of Blood

ECHOES OF BLOOD There are three things prison can never truly take from a person. Memory. Hatred. And instinct. Especially instinct. Mine was sharpened in blood long before iron bars tried to cage me. Prison did not make me dangerous. It only gave my darkness a smaller room to pace in. Seven months. Two hundred and thirteen days. That was how long I had been inside Johannesburg Correctional Centre—long enough to learn every crack in the walls, every shift change, every guard’s weakness, every woman’s fear, and every lie hidden behind soft smiles. Long enough for my name to stop sounding like a name and start sounding like a warning. Even here, whispers followed me. Shostakovich. Some said it with fear. Some with curiosity. Some with hatred. But all of them said it carefully. Because names carry weight. And mine carried graves. I sat at the metal table in the common room, lazily turning a spoon between my fingers while the room moved around me like background noise. Women laughed too loudly. Others fought over bread. Some traded cigarettes like currency. Somewhere in the corner, someone was crying quietly into folded arms. I ignored it all. My mind was outside these walls. With my mother. With my son. With him. Bubu. My jaw tightened at the thought. Love is a strange sickness—it makes intelligent women make stupid sacrifices and call it devotion. I knew better than most what men were capable of. My father raised me around wolves. Yet somehow— I still let one into my bed. “Visiting hours!” a female officer barked from the corridor. “Move, Sboshwa! Those with visitors—move!” Chairs scraped. Excitement moved through the room like electricity. I didn’t move at first. Then I looked up. The officer’s eyes met mine. Her tone changed instantly. “Shostakovich... your visitor is waiting.” Respect wrapped in fear. That was more fitting. I rose slowly, smoothing invisible creases from my prison jersey. Even dressed in state-issued fabric, I carried myself like silk and danger. Heads turned as I walked. They always turned. Fear has eyes. Power has presence. And blood remembers blood. The visiting hall smelled of bleach, sweat, and sadness. Broken families sat separated by scratched glass and old telephones. Children pressed tiny palms against barriers. Lovers made promises they could not keep. Mothers cried. Fathers lied. Then I saw her. Kwanda. Nokwanda Maseko. My person. My sister in everything but blood. She visited every week without fail. But today— something was wrong. Her shoulders looked heavy. Her smile was forced. And her eyes... Her eyes carried news. Bad news. I sat opposite her and lifted the receiver. For a moment, neither of us spoke. I studied her face. “You look terrible,” I said softly. A weak laugh escaped her. “Hello to you too, Sash.” “You’ve been crying.” “No.” “You were crying.” She sighed. “Still impossible to lie to you.” I leaned back slightly. “With you, yes.” Her smile faded. There it was. The truth waiting at the edge of her lips. My chest tightened—not with fear, but preparation. “What happened?” Kwanda looked down. That alone made my stomach harden. “Kwanda.” Her eyes lifted slowly. “It’s Ghost.” No. Not Ghost. Bubu. The streets called him Ghost. Men called him Boss. I called him Bubu. That was my first mistake. “What about him?” I asked, my voice calm enough to hide the storm gathering beneath it. “He’s... changing.” I gave her a look. “That is a weak sentence. Try again.” “He barely goes home anymore.” My fingers tightened around the phone. “He stopped checking on MaNgcobo regularly.” Silence. “He sends money late—sometimes not at all.” My breathing slowed. Dangerously slow. “And?” Kwanda swallowed. “He spends like a king, Sasha.” There it was. The crack. I stared at her. Not blinking. Not breathing deeply. Just listening. Listening the way a hunter listens before deciding where to strike. “He bought another car,” Kwanda continued quietly. “He moved into one of your father’s penthouses. Security follows him everywhere. Men call him boss like he built that empire himself.” My father’s empire. Viktor Shostakovich’s blood-built kingdom. A throne of violence, loyalty, and fear. And Ghost sat in it like he belonged there. I felt heat rise through me. Not wild anger. Controlled fire. Crimson fire. “And my mother?” I asked quietly. Kwanda’s eyes watered. That answer came before words. “She hides it well,” she whispered. “But she’s struggling, Sash.” My jaw clenched. “She sold jewelry.” A pulse jumped in my neck. “She sold one of her cars.” My grip tightened. “She stopped paying some staff.” The spoon in my other hand bent. Then Kwanda whispered the sentence that nearly split my soul open— “Dmitri keeps asking where his father is.” My fist slammed onto the steel table. BANG. The hall fell silent. Phones dropped. Bodies stiffened. Boots thundered. A guard stormed over. “Watch yourself, Sboshwa!” My eyes slowly lifted to hers. She froze. Fear crawled across her face. Because there are moments when violence does not need movement. Only presence. I smiled faintly. “My apologies, officer.” She stepped back. Then walked away quickly. Smart woman. I turned back to Kwanda. My voice softened immediately. “Did he forget my son too?” Kwanda’s silence was enough. I looked away. For the first time in seven months, prison walls felt too small for my rage. Ghost was forgetting promises. Forgetting blood. Forgetting who handed him power. Forgetting whose kingdom he was touching. That was dangerous. Not for me— for him. I leaned closer to the glass. “Kwanda.” “Yes?” “Keep watching.” Her brows pulled together. “Watch everything. Who visits him. Who he trusts. Where he sleeps. What he buys. Who he’s becoming.” “You think he betrayed you?” I held her gaze. “No.” My voice dropped colder. “I think he forgot me.” And forgetting me— was worse. Visiting hours ended too quickly. Kwanda pressed her hand to the glass before leaving. I placed mine against it. For one second— I was simply Sasha. A friend. A daughter. A mother. A woman who missed home. Then she left. And I became steel again. That night, lying on my narrow prison bed, staring at darkness, I realized something— cages are dangerous places to keep predators. Because predators do not stop being predators. They wait. They sharpen. They remember. So before this story goes any further— before blood answers blood— you should know exactly who I am. My name is Sasha Shostakovich. Daughter of Viktor Shostakovich—The Iron Tsar. The woman prison failed to break. The underworld knows me by another name— The Crimson Flame. And God help the man who mistook my silence for surrender.