Page 28 of Nemesis

It doesn’t matter how she feels.

I can’t afford the consideration, no matter how benign it seems.

I pull a hand over my jaw, and dry blood flakes off my lip, fluttering to the ground. Usually, I’m excellent at maintaining my disinterested mask in unfavorable circumstances. I don’t know why she keeps chipping away at my composure.

Another whimper, this time followed by a high-pitched cry.

I hate the sound. It’s annoying. Distracting.

I tell myself that’s the reason why I climb to my feet and shrug off the stained button-down hanging off my shoulders. I have no idea where my overcoat is—the one I handed to her on the street. Maybe it’s still there, crumpled up on the sidewalk. Maybe Ivan will find it.

Unlikely.

I approach on soft feet, so as not to wake her. She’s completely unaffected by the weight of my shadow. Definitely dead in here. In fact, she’s so busy thrashing in her sleep, she doesn’t even wake as I slide the fabric around her bare arms and wrap her up.

Most of her dark red hair is still pulled back into a ponytail, but a few pieces curl free over her brow. The stark contrast between those rogue curls and her pale, freckled skin draws me closer. Her dark lashes flutter. What do you see when your eyes are closed, moya zlaya?

Suddenly, her mouth pulls open in a silent scream, face contorting into terror. My hand retracts.

I never remember whether you’re supposed to wake people up from their nightmares or let them fight it out on their own. Then again, I’d only be ending one nightmare by waking her with another.

I end up walking back to my spot on the other side of the cell and slumping to the floor. My skin prickles uncomfortably, but I’m not sure I can blame it all on the cold.

At least the chattering has stopped.

Days go by before the next interrogation.

Long days that bleed into night without the slightest indication of a setting sun somewhere outside these concrete walls. I only know the time passes because every day, one of the guards stomps into the room and clicks on the light, all to slide a small cup of water and a slice of stale bread through the cage bars. I always let Vasiliy take the bread, shaking my head each time he tears the small piece down the middle. I’m comfortable with hunger. I much prefer taking the lion’s share of the water.

We haven’t spoken much since that first day.

What is there to talk about? He doesn’t trust me, and I don’t particularly care for him either. The psycho has an unsettling tendency to flip on a switch. He’ll chase me down the street one moment, and flirt with me in the next. Offers to kill me himself, and then drapes his shirt over my shivering arms while I sleep. I’m getting whiplash from his emotional mood swings, and I have more than enough on my plate as is.

I didn’t last long enough in the foster home to be placed into individual houses. Instead, I spent the first twelve years of my life in a poorly funded group home with an ever-changing staff. God, I hated it there. I detested the way I had to watch my back, and I dreaded watching potential foster parents wander through the house like they were choosing a puppy from the kill list at the pound.

I remember the first day I snuck out to take a beginner’s ballet class like it was yesterday. I felt like a skilled spy, climbing out the jammed window in the common room and shimmying down the fire escape without anyone the wiser. The truth is that I was clunky and obvious, and the metal steps squeaked the entire way down. If anyone actually cared about my comings and goings, the operation would have ended before it began.

I showed up in my filthy clothes, hair tangled into a messy brown knot at the base of my neck. None of that mattered, though, because when Ms. Irina leaned down to look at my feet, holding her nose as she did, her eyebrows flew up to her hairline. Excellent arches, she said. Lucky girl. If you come to my Tuesday technique class, we’ll find you a leotard to loan.

I had never been called “lucky” a day in my life. This is my way out, I remember thinking. None of us had an easy path out of the system, and here was a spark of hope falling into my unworthy hands. That’s what dance became for me. The escape route. And that’s been more than enough for years, nourishing me with purpose and power.

But, as I’ve sat here in brutal silence for the last few days, I can’t help but think about how small my life is, and how little purpose and power I actually wield. A waste, I keep thinking. Such a hateful life, you’ve been living. Pain and loneliness, disguised as survival. Maybe my first brush with the sins of men years ago was something of a precursor. Maybe my life was always meant to end in an incredibly violent way.

Punches land with heavy smacks that reverberate through the room.

I curl into myself, trying to pretend I’m somewhere else. Anywhere else. Except the locked door doesn’t allow me to drift away to some faraway beach or fictional escape.

I hate being alone in the cage.

It’s an incredibly selfish thought, one I immediately wish I could retract.

More punches thunder in the space. My fingers press into my ears, a desperate attempt to block out the beating Vasiliy is suffering just a few feet away.

“You know what I’ve learned about you, baby Morozov?” That carefree voice roves through the air. The rumble before the lightning crack.

Another punch. A sharp exhale. It seems fists are the weapon of choice today. In theory, that would be more favorable than the squelching of his knife. In reality, brute force has a way of hiding the true effects of an injury. A blade illustrates pain like paint on a canvas, but Vasiliy’s organs could be ruptured beneath this attack, and he might not even realize until silence settles over the cage.

That undeniable truth makes my stomach clench.