The birdcage that Polasky has me hanging in infuriates me, but I can’t deny it’s beautifully made. When I move, it sways back and forth as if to a sinister song.
Polasky tells me to smile like Americans do, but I don’t feel smiley. At least, there have been no tears since I’ve been caged. I’m using all my will to keep them from flowing as the time nears for my exhibition.
Staring at the door, I wonder whether Alexei will return before the fight. I want him to. It’s reassuring when he’s in the room because he’s not afraid of Egorov. Also when Egorov grabbed me, I think there was at least a trace of sympathy. Maybe it was only anger, but I tell myself hopefully that it was more and that he’ll be the one to win the fight.
Looking around, I’m glad that it’s only Polasky for now because I need to stretch again. My muscles and joints are becoming sore from being curled inside for a second day. No matter what happens, I’ll be glad to get out of the cage.
The door opens, and Egorov and his fighter enter. I think about staying still, but I can’t.
Moving slowly, I stand, turning my back to them. I stretch my arms overhead and feel my joints pop in relief. I inhale, rise onto my toes, and then exhale, melting back down to sit cross-legged on the floor cushion. Egorov wanted to take the pillow away because I wouldn’t pose for the gross bidders who came yesterday. Except for Egorov and Alexei, they were all old and fat, with cold fish eyes.
I wonder what made Alexei become a fighter who works under contract. Being a proxy for a rich man who doesn’t have to put his own body at risk to win a lot of money is not something I would do. If a man isn’t strong enough to fight himself, he shouldn’t be able to win a young girl. Although maybe it’s good if an old man wins me. Maybe he’ll only want to look at me, not use me.
The thought of the impending fight over a collection of cash and my body makes me shudder. Egorov’s champion, Vlad, is undefeated. I was sure he would win until I saw Alexei again. He’s big enough to have a chance, I think.
Egorov moves closer to my cage. When I’ve been won, my body will be property. That reality makes my stomach heave. So many hours without food have made it full of acid and on the verge of emptying itself whenever my nerves kick in.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost time,” Egorov says, glancing at his phone’s screen. “Your price has been settled. It’s close to three hundred thousand. The most of any girl ever.” His smug smile makes me gag. “When I win you, I’ll make a lot of money.”
Why is he proud of profiting off my attractiveness? It’s got nothing to do with him.
He rattles my cage just to irritate me. I’ve asked him not to, but he ignores my wishes of course.
They plan to put hot lights on me during the course of the show, so that I can be one of the focuses for the crowd. Egorov says that if I pose and stretch and let people take pictures of me pouting and chewing on my fingertip, he’ll go easier on me at the end of the night. He wants all the men to want me. That’s exciting for him, evil creep that he is.
I’ve thought all day about how I should behave. In some ways I want to perform so he’ll show me mercy and so I can maintain some frosty dignity by pretending being caged doesn’t bother me. But another part of me refuses because, of course, being stripped and humiliated does bother me. I’m embarrassed and raging on the inside, and I want the crowd to know I’m upset over my treatment. They should have to see me scowl and cry. I want them to feel guilty at being complicit in the abuse of a young woman. If they have any hearts left, they will be.
The doorknob rattles, and I stiffen and curl in on myself again tightly, resting my chin on my knees with my arms wrapped around my legs. Egorov plans to put something inside me. It’s a fluffy tail decoration that will hang from my own tail. It’s such an odd thing that I would almost laugh about it, but anytime he touches me I don’t find it funny. I plan to yank it out of me the first chance I get.
When I look up, I hope to see Alexei. Instead the man who enters is gray-haired and wiry. Is this the rich bidder whose champion fighter will compete against Egorov’s? Could this be Alexei’s master?
He carries a black bag.Why?My nerves jangle.
Egorov and his henchmen join the old man at the door to the cage. I stare at them from under my lashes, trying not to appear interested.
He’s a physician, I realize. An evil one.
I push myself back until I can’t get farther from the door. Egorov unlocks the cage, reaches in, and grabs my arm, pulling me toward him just like one would a reluctant pet at the vet.
“No! What are you doing? Stop it!”
Resistance fails. He drags me to the edge, holding me by the wrist and behind the elbow.
The doctor approaches with a hypodermic needle in hand.
“Oh, God. No!” I scream and start to fight, thrashing and violently trying to pull back. The grip on my arm grows tighter. So tight it hurts. And it’s no use. I’ll just pull my shoulder out of the socket if I throw myself backward.
“Give her all of it,” Egorov says.
“No, the fentanyl that’s mixed in is too powerful. I don’t want to kill her.”
The needle goes in with a sharp pinprick, and then a warm sensation crawls up my arm and into my body.
“No, no,” I whisper on a breath, terrified that my heart will seize up and stop.
As the minutes tick by, the medication’s hold mounts, and I feel like I’m floating. I slowly sink down to the floor of the cage. Watching the world turn sideways through the bars, my head slumps.
