Once the girl is settled behind the bars, Katerina sets down a large bag I hadn’t noticed before. She opens it, then kneels and starts removing items one by one. Old, worn teddy bears, dolls with tangled hair, the kind of packaged kiddy snacks I didn’t get to eat even before I wound up here. Last is a large set of oil crayons.
Katerina leans in and gives the girl a hug. I have to rub my eyes to make sure I’m seeing clearly. “You’re going to love it here, once you get past the initial adjustment,” she says, her voice soft. “Now, Mommy has a lot of work to do and can’t miss any more days, okay?”
Mommy? The devil has a fucking kid?
I squint and tilt my head. Of course she does. Replace her tattered white dress with a sleek black one, and the little girl looks just like her. Their straight black hair swings past their waists, and the girl’s is straggly like it’s never been cut before. Their blue eyes are as close to seeing the sky that I’ve gotten in eleven long months. Their skin is the same pale shade, like they’ve never seen the sun.
The girl glances at me, then back at Katerina. She seems unfazed, despite the prison-like bars caging us in, the torn condition of my clothes, my dirty hair, and the odor I know is coming from my cell. Makes me wonder what the hell her life has been like before now for her to be so unaffected.
She nods.
“Thank you.” Katerina gives her a peck on the nose then stands and walks to the display case. She opens one of the cabinets at the bottom and withdraws something, then walks back to the girl’s cage.
“Baby girl. You still like to color, don’t you?”
Again, the girl nods.
“Well, you know Mommy plays with colors, too. And today, we both get to play. Isn’t that fun?”
When the girl only continues to nod, unease spreads through my body. Why isn’t she saying anything?
“I just prepared this piece last week.” Katerina sets down the item in her hand, and my empty stomach lurches until I dry heave.
It’s a forearm, nothing but skinless bone.
I’ve been watching Katerina ‘work’ for so long I eventually learned to hide my reactions in front of her. Some days, I’ve even grown numb to it. But seeing her hand someone’s body part—a seventeen-year-old who was living and breathing in this studio just last week—to her own kid, that’s sick on a new level.
“This boy was very lively,” Katerina continues, “but this particular piece of his didn’t speak to me like the others. You know, I think you might do a good job telling his story with your pretty new coloring supplies.” She spreads the crayons along the cement floor and places the bone between them and the child. “Will you do that for Mommy, Sofia baby?”
Another nod.
“Good girl.”
When the child looks back at me with curious eyes, Katerina’s gaze follows. The woman smiles, and it makes my skin burn with rage.
I grit my teeth but don’t shy away. I stare her down. Katerina moves toward me almost gracefully, her steps soft. When she reaches my cage, she stops and slides a finger down the bars, until her nail traces over my knuckle. I almost snatch my hand away but manage to hold my ground as a growl rumbles up my throat.
Her smile widens, and she angles her head, her eyes roaming along every inch of my face. “This one here, my sweet girl, is our pretty, pretty pet.”
The anger in my blood boils until it hurts. My heart races in my chest, my breaths heavy in the still air. I shift my gaze to the small girl, and for the first time, I think I see fear flicker in her eyes. I’m not sure if it’s from her mom’s words or the livid expression on my face, but I’m glad to see it.
Fear means maybe she isn’t entirely unfazed after all. Maybe there’s still hope for her.
“In art, some pieces take a little more time to bring out the most vulnerable parts of them,” Katerina murmurs, still tracing the angles of my face with her eyes. “But then all the best things take time, don’t they? He’ll be ready, eventually. The process cannot be rushed.”
A muscle in my jaw ticks. I know what Katerina means by that. She wants me to cry, to beg, like the others. She wants to see my fear. In her mind, fear is art, and without it, she has nothing.
What she doesn’t understand is that I’m not afraid of death.
In this room, I almost look forward to it.
