RISE OF THE PAKHAN
NALA
Day one million.
Or maybe a billion.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Especially my crappy skills at counting or keeping track of how long I’ve been trapped in this basement. I roll onto my back, telling myself I should be used to it by now.
The creaking of the pipes along the wall from the cold that never seems to go away. The stale air from the lack of windows, meant to keep me imprisoned. I should be used to counting cracks in the concrete floor to help get rid of the boredom that never goes away.
I tilt my head and squint my eyes. At the right angle, the cracks look like rivers on a map. I trace them with my eyes, then close them, imagining I’m somewhere else, drifting on water instead of lying here.
Footsteps pound on the ceiling above me. My eyes snap open and my heart jumps, racing wild.
It’s Tuesday.
The girls upstairs must be hurrying, trying to avoid Madam Belova’s temper. There’s no other reason. This isn’t one of the days they rush to greet the men who come and go at all hours.
Not that I’ve ever seen the men. But I know what happens up there in the brothel. I know because Madam Belova, the one in charge, grumbles and curses me multiple times a week in her broken English. She says the Pakhan should put me to work upstairs, instead of trying to get me to read minds.
I wish he would.
I don’t care what I’d have to do up there, as long as I could leave this basement I’ve been trapped in for seven years. Maybe up there I could find a way to escape or kill myself, instead of spending the rest of my life helping the boss of the Volchya Bratva, fend of threats and destroy his enemies.
I turn onto my side again, forcing my breathing to slow down. I remind myself that I do this every week. I’ll get through it. I just say what I see, try not to upset Grigori Ivanov and the worst that will happen is I’ll get beaten.
I don’t know how long I lie with my legs drawn to my chest, preparing myself. Down here, time doesn’t exist. There’s no clock or calendar. Nothing except for the mattress on the floor I'm lying on, a small bathroom with a toilet, a sink and a narrow shower that gets harder to fit into, as my body keeps changing.
And it has changed. A lot.
I don’t know what’s normal anymore. I don’t know much of anything and I’m not even a hundred percent sure about my age. I think I’m eighteen. If not, then I’m almost eighteen.
All I know is, since the day I woke up on this mattress, I’ve counted seven New Year's Eve celebrations upstairs. The first two years, I wasn’t sure what all the noise was about. Itdidn’t take long to realize it was always the same. Every single year.
Unlike now.
There’s no more running. Not a peep from upstairs, meaning, Grigori Ivanov will be here soon.
This is the routine every time the man behind nearly every dirty deal in Moscow comes to visit. The same man who ordered the killing of my family in New York and keeps me locked down here.
I sit up slowly, careful not to stretch the skin along my side that’s still healing after another encounter with the Pakhan’s belt buckle. The older he gets, the more paranoid he becomes, raging when I don’t confirm his suspicions about people.
I don’t know what to do anymore because whenever Grigori gets angry, I get hurt and threatened with my sister’s life. I also get starved. The last part is Madam Belova’s favorite—denying me food and water.
I lick my lips, suddenly aware of how dry they feel. Yesterday morning was the last time I had water. Sometimes it gets so bad, my lips crack and bleed. When that happens, eating becomes really painful. I touch them with my fingertip, relieved they still feel okay. Thank goodness.
Any minute now, Madam Belova will come down the stairs with a tray of food. She does so on Tuesdays, before the Pakhan arrives. I don’t know why. It’s not like he cares if I’m starving, all he cares about is that I’m awake enough to tell him what he wants to hear.
Right on cue, I hear her heels on the stairs. I watch her as she comes down. I’ve tried to figure out her age, but it’s hard to tell. Although her hair is black without any strands of gray, her mouth and cheeks are lined with wrinkles. In a way, she reminds me of my fifth-grade teacher.
The only difference is, Mrs. Marlow was really kind. She used to give me compliments in class even when I got the answer wrong, which happened a lot.
Madam Belova stops at the bottom of the stairs, her usual spot. She never comes closer, never near enough for me to touch her. I think she’s afraid of what I might see if I did. Understandable since she’s a horrible person.
"Here is food." Her accent is very thick, so much that I used to struggle to understand her. Not anymore. I’ve gotten used to how she pronounces her words.
"Eat now. Don’t make trouble,chernomazaya."
