Page 41 of Red Waters

Yury raised his hand to the gunman on that window. “Please. No.” The gun that had killed the two slaves trying to escape was now pointed at me.

The uncle wiped tears of laughter from under his eyes. “Lower your gun, you fool. Her shooting him is beyond the revenge I could’ve hoped for.”

After the gun was lowered, Yury went to lower his hand, too. I studied his hand as his pointer finger brushed along the scar on his upper lip. It was the scar that reminded me of Crash and the cruel punishments from his father. Yury had hinted at his father also being abusive. In the bathtub he had told me:

“My father was brutal with his training.”

“You were young.”

“Yes.”

Training. If Yury’s father was ‘training’ him, so was his uncle. For the observing men, I kept all my building rage pointed at Yury, but my mind raced to connect the dots.

“She fought for you, on her death bed.”

In the kitchen, Yury had said his uncle was a doctor, causing more past comments to enter my mind.

“You were pulled from her dead body.”

Was the uncle trying to save her life? He had just said my Seafoam.

I had asked Yury in his bedroom, “So, you saw her die?”

“I watched her be murdered.”

If the uncle was trying to save her, someone else killed her.

“By who?... Please! What happened? Why was she murdered?”

“Many reasons, but I think the main one was for becoming desirable.”

“Someone started caring for my mother.”It was his uncle.

“I have been taught this is the time to have one soiled.”

Without lowering my gun, I gazed at the dead man in the chair. Did he have his own son soil the woman his brother was caring for? Studying Yury’s father’s eyes being removed, it dawned on me. “You both were there. You watched Yury with my mother.”

The uncle released a, “Meh,” while shrugging his shoulders, teaching me where Yury got denial of feelings from. “It was a debacle, I assure you.”

If my mother was still of mind to fight for me on her death bed, then I believe she was a good person. It is simple. Good people don’t wish to rob children of their innocence. If I were eighteen while in that living room, that meant Yury had been eleven years old when forced to have sex with my mother. He and Seafoam deserved retribution.

So, I shot the man on the couch.

Expecting to feel a bullet pierce my body, I was shocked to only hear male grunts.

Yury had spun and attacked the man holding the knife to his throat while Kirill charged the gunman from the floor. Motionless, I stood in a black robe, one worn to rape slaves, while two more men were murdered by rapists themselves. Yury’s uncle stared at me while taking his last breath that uttered, “The curse.”

I inhaled, deciding being a curse to end a sexual slavery servitude organization was just fine by me. I was always willing to be the fire to burn the guilty.

With more blood on his hands, Yury rushed to me. He took my gun and shot his Uncle three more times. Dropping the weapon, he roughly grabbed my face. “I killed him. Do you understand? You did not. I did.”

Whether it was for criminal charges or my sanity, I was most grateful for his effort to ease my conscience. It didn’t work, but it was more unexpected kindness. “Thank you.”

Inhaling knowledge that I was not fooled, he rested his forehead to mine. “How did you learn to shoot like that?”

My heavy arms hung at my sides. “Crash. He said he had a good teacher.”

Blinking his eyes, Yury stood up straight.