But Serafina’s touch is…different. Can’t say why. Maybe it’s the injury’s doing.
Two…
“Stay alive!”
Alive, I can do. Awake is a different story, especially if she keeps rubbing my scalp like this.
Three…
Blackness consumes me, and even the girl whose voice imbeds into the deepest parts of my mind, mending areas that have never been silent, can’t keep the memories away.
Ten Years Ago
“You know what you’ve done.” Papa sneers down at me before the cell door bangs shut. “Or, should I say, what you haven’t done.”
Conformed. That’s all I didn’t do. I’m not the kid he wants.
Instead of being at the gym, I stayed home and built the start of what’ll be an entire network infrastructure for no reason but my own enjoyment and interest. It’s been an ongoing project consuming most of my time. In truth, I intended to head to the gym as I was supposed to, but my hobby became too alluring to walk away from. Anastasia—or Ana, as she insists on me calling her, even though I despise nicknames—claims it’s an obsession.
Either way, hours passed before realizing I never got up from my desk.
Papa’s steps echo down the stone corridor into my small, six-by-six cell within one of the Russian prisons. His steps reach fifteen before being too distant to continue counting.
This isn’t my first stay here, nor will it probably be my last. While the cell is near-silent, the prisoners trained to not make noise, my head still fills with the familiar buzzing.
My finger taps my knee in a routine pattern to keep me present and stable.One, two, one.
Despite the silence, prison is too stimulating. The stones are chilly and hard beneath me, the cold seeping into my skin with the sense I’ll never be warm again. The stale air smells like mould and sweat, and in the distance, there’s an irritating humming from one of the guards. There’s no whirling of my computers to relax me. Hell, I’d even take my sister rambling about ballet shoes or whatever if it keeps my mind at bay.
Anything but being here.
My hands press into my temples, hoping the pressure does something—sometimes it does, sometimes not—while my fingers continue their pattern against my skull.
Control doesn’t come as easy to me as it does other soldiers, much to my father’s disappointment. I’ll never be who and what he wants me to be, and I wish he’d figure that out rather than constantly toss me in here. It never teaches me the lessons he hopes it will.
Even Ursin, our Pakhan, approves of my hobbies. He boasts about its potential usefulness, given the changing tides of the world. He first praised my knowledge of technology last year, on my sixteenth birthday, and it was the only compliment ever received that validated me.
When around Ursin, Papa pretends to be okay with it, but he wants a fighter, like who Dimitri, Ursin’s nephew, is becoming. Papa doesn’t understand how technology calms my mind.
Unlike people, technology is logical. Servers involve systems. Computers are built with both physical and software components. Every piece has a role, even if it’s sometimes complicated, but figuring out the solution is half the fun.
When unable to separate myself from computers, Papa invents any and all reasons to get angry and tosses me into prison in response. If I defend myself, he goes after Anastasia and forces her into worse. That was a lesson quickly learned.
This is my fifth time in prison—always this cell, soon to be etched with my name like some fucked-up plaque. Indications of my past visits are evident. On the adjacent wall, there are lines drawn into the stone, representing the passing days. I know there are two hundred and twenty-two blocks that form the cell and fifteen metal poles fencing me in, seven of which make up the sliding door—having counted them on my very first stay and each one after it.
If anything, I should be grateful to be onthisside of the prison rather than the other, where the Bratva locks up prisoners they mean to break. Papa doesn’t need me broken, just fixed. The solitary confinement, the smaller rooms and steel doors and various forms of torture, are meant to drive prisoners mad.
Sometimes, I’d prefer those rooms, though. The scar on my ribs and slightly crooked nose from when it was once broken and didn’t heal correctly are testament to that.
While the Bratva may not have complete control on this side of prison, we’re behind quite a few inmates’ captivity. Anyone discovered fucking over the Bratva who weren’t killed for whatever reason, Ursin tosses into here.
My presence is like wildfire in this place, a spark that’ll spread when word gets out. Papa’s aware that by forcing me in here, it’ll be a workout worse than the gym when I’m fighting for my life.
Whenever I return home with new scars, stories, and successes, Papa preens like he did them himself. Ursin, though approving of my computer knowledge, also never hides the pleasure of my skirmishes.
Right on time, Jakob, the only halfway decent guard, appears with a grimace. Handcuffs hang from his belt, which he retrieves before unlocking my door.
“You’re back.” It’s his way of sayingwelcome back.
