chapter 18
272 Words
The door opens at 2 AM.
Vera never comes at the same time.
Can’t sleep. Can’t prepare.
She’s alone tonight. White dress. Bare feet.
"Up," she says.
My ankle is chained to the wall. I can stand. Can’t reach the door.
She kicks a bucket inside. Water. Ice floating.
"Hands."
I put them out.
She cuffs them in front. Plastic zip ties. Tight.
"On your knees."
I kneel.
She grabs my hair. Yanks my head back.
Dumps the bucket.
Ice water. Can’t breathe. Can’t scream.
She lets go. I fall forward. Gasping.
"Ryan Volkov." She says it slow. Like a lesson.
I cough. "I don’t—"
She crouches. Holds the photo in front of my face.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Suit.
"This man is pain. Understand?"
I shake my head. Water dripping.
She takes my hand. Presses it flat on the concrete.
Brings her heel down on my fingers.
I scream.
"Every time you hurt," she whispers, "this is his face. His fault."
She lets up. My fingers are red. Not broken. Yet.
"He took your warmth. So now you’re cold."
She stands. Kicks the photo so it lands face-up in the water at my knees.
"Look at him. Until you see him when you close your eyes."
She leaves the zip ties on. Leaves me kneeling.
Turns the light off.
Door locks.
I stare at the photo in the dark. Water soaking my pants.
Ryan Volkov.
I don’t know him.
But my hands are going numb.
And it’s his fault.
Because she says it is.
Because if it’s not him, it’s her.
And I can’t survive hating her.
Not yet.
- Writer
