PROLOGUE
Katya’s Diary
February 3, 2002
He came again tonight. My heart stuttered, and I forced myself to lie perfectly still.
I heard the clink of the belt buckle first—a cold, metallic promise—before his shadow even fell across the doorway. I don’t fight anymore. I learned that lesson the hard way; every struggle only made him worse, and my pain greater.
As he climbed into the small, narrow bed with me, I pressed my nails deep into my palms until the skin threatened to split. I focused on that bright, sharp sting. It’s the only pain that’s mine. It reminded me I’m still here—that he hadn’t hollowed me out completely.
My eyes drifted to the window. The curtains used to be white. Now they’re yellowed with age and dust. Maybe that’s fitting. Nothing pure survived in this place.
March 2,2002
He called me his favorite girl. The nuns at St. Agnes said I should be grateful. They called him a benefactor—a man who “keeps the orphanage alive.” A savior.
I think they meant buyer. They traded girls for donations and call it God’s will. Their prayers are lies whispered over rosary beads. I used to pray too—until I realized God doesn’t visit this orphanage on the outskirts of Utah. Not anymore.
April 17,2002
He said I should count myself lucky.
Lucky. The wretched bastard.
If luck were real, I’d be anywhere but here.
I counted instead: twelve steps from my bed to the door, fifty-four seconds between the guards’ rounds. Counting calmed me; it turned panic into calculation as I plotted how to escape this life.
One day, those numbers will open a door. And when they do, I’ll be ready.
May 29, 2002
I think I’m pregnant. The nausea has visited every morning for the last couple of weeks. I hide it as best as I can—pretend it’s anxiety, bad food, anything but what it is. My stomach feels bloated—terrifying and sacred all at once. If the nuns find out, they’ll take the baby. If he discovers, he’ll either claim it or destroy it, to remind me of his cruelty and ownership.
But this child... this small life... It’s mine. The only thing untouched. I whisper and softly sing to it at night, beneath the blankets.
You’re mine. You’re safe. I won’t let them take you.
June 14, 2002
The back door isn’t always locked. I’ve watched after dinner, after prayers. Sometimes they get careless. One nightsoon, I’ll go. I haven’t packed yet—just hidden a coin and a small silver cross I stole from the chapel. The bread I’ll take when it’s time. Maybe the cross will keep Sofia safe.
That’s her name.Sofia.
If she ever reads this, I want her to know I didn’t run just for myself—I ran to give her a life that doesn’t begin in chains.
July 22, 2002
I ran last night. It was raining. I remembered the roof leaking in a steady rhythm, like a clock counting down. Everyone was asleep, but Anna woke when I moved. She begged me to take her with me. God forgive me, I refused. She was too weak, and I could barely move fast enough as it was. My body felt slow and clumsy, each step weighed down by fear.
I promised to send help, speaking with more hope than certainty. I didn’t know if I could keep it.
When I checked, the door was unlocked. I wondered if it was mere chance—or a moment of mercy. For a second, I dared to hope that someone was listening after all.
The wind was howling like a warning. I was cooped up in an abandoned hunting cabin I came across last night. I needed to rest, had to. But now I must forge forward. I don’t dare look back, though ahead the road stretched slick and endless, trees black as sin looming against the storm. Cold bit through my dress, sharp and unrelenting—but the air smelled of wet earth, pine, and freedom.
I must make it. That way, you will be born free, Sofia. And if I don’t… we will die free. This diary will carry the truth. I would somehow hide or protect it. It would have to tell our story: who they were, what they did, and why I ran. I swear some debts have to be paid.
