Page 7 of Red Waters

Thievery and Threats

Every time I started to shake off the foggy tendrils of my drug-induced stupor, I was in different surroundings. The first time, I was stumbling down the hotel hallway, Yury holding me to his side. For bystanders’ benefits, he chuckled about me having too much to drink. I guess carrying me out would have drawn too much attention to my abductors. I was escorted out through an emergency exit that seemed to be at the back of a kitchen. I remember because I attempted to grab onto a shiny metal table, but my fingers were simply too numb. Just before my drooping eyes insisted on closing again, I saw a stack of cash being placed in the hands of a man wearing a dirty white apron.

The next time I slipped from the hands of the drug I had been tricked into, I was in the back of a car slumped against Yury’s chest, buttons chaffing my cheek. There was sunshine past the darkly tinted windows hiding this abduction. Had I known how long it would be before seeing such rays again, I would have begged Yury to roll down the window and let it touch my skin. Numbly, I’d try to push off him because he disgusted me.

All three men carelessly laughed at my predicament.

Instantly hating the sound of their relaxed state while I was anything but had me trying to say, “Stop touching me, asshole,” but only incoherent mumbles passed my lips.

As if pleased with my grit, Yury held me to him. “Yes, burn, little fire. Burn for me.”

Jerking with Yury’s moving body, I woke to him yelling in his native language. With no control over my body, I was now cradled in his arms studying the veins in his neck about to blow.

I tried so hard to wake up fully and see where I was, but all I could gather was being in a concrete hallway with another man with greying hair and deep-set wrinkles around his eyes. In an outrage, spit flew as he screamed at Yury. Most of the words were in Russian, but some were in English. The words I gathered were, “You shouldn’t have brought the curse,” as he pointed to me.

When the older man saw me watching him, he recoiled as if I were the dangerous one. “Never look at me, you…!” I don’t know what he called me because he had reverted back to Russian, but whatever history there was behind my presence, he hated it with a passion. That fact, unfortunately, never changed. The older man would one day see to my misery.

Having no ally except for Crash and Timothy’s murderer—Yury, who appeared to be trying to protect me—I faced away and pressed my nose to his chest as the elderly man continued with his rage. Slipping from consciousness again, I begged myself not to recognize the man’s eyes to be identical to Yury’s. To make a horrifying connection meant this man was most likely Yury’s father… and most likely my biological mother’s abductor.

Shared battle blood.

The last time I was able to escape the drug’s control is when the severity of my situation truly shook me to the core. I was on a dirty dark blue cot with broken springs, the mattress paper thin. The only blanket I had was a very dark and dingy green wool. My pillow had stains, some very dark ones that had my imagination setting fire. Even in my groggy state, I slowly sat up to further myself from whatever had taken place where my head was resting.

If I thought my pillow was disturbing, it was nothing compared to the isolated room I was in. Four grimy block walls, only eight feet apart, with no windows, was my place to rest in between all that was to come. My only light came from a long fluorescent tube on the ceiling with a wire cage around it. In the corner was a bucket. As my bladder demanded release, I understood what it was for. Next to the bucket was sealed piping as if a toilet was once there. The dark concrete floor slanted to the middle where a drain was. I stared at the mesh-covered hole, wondering if that was where the putrid odor was coming from. Maybe I was being overwhelmed by the stifling emptiness in my confinement.

The quiet had me fumbling out of bed and daring to open the door. Not surprised to it being locked, I leaned my ear to the cold metal. A few male voices speaking Russian echoed as if down a hallway. To try and figure out where I was, I dropped to the floor. Down on my hands and knees, I peeked under the door. I could only see shadows of one set of shoes and one set of bare feet walking past my door. Then it looked as if they turned and had gone into a room next to mine.

My ears strained to hear something, but it was silent for a minute. Then a chain rattled. When I heard a whack,I jumped to my feetand backed away from the door, trying to distance myself from the immediate scream that followed. Climbing back onto my bed, I crawled to the wall and huddled, hoping no one would remember I was there. The screams announced being trapped in a tiny concrete room was my best outcome.

The whacks were eventually no longer followed by screams but by tired whimpers.

Then it went quiet for a few long moments. That was before the grunts began. There were two sets, one following the other. They both sounded deep as if they came from men. I slammed my hands over my ears after hearing a male cry out, “Please, no more.” I cried with him as the grunts only got louder in a forceful manner.

After a sickening moan that stretched on and on, the dungeon I was in was finally free of cries for help. The chain jingled again before feet and shoe shadows walked past my door.

Breathing so hard my exhales echoed off the walls, I saw my own breath. I hadn’t only been shaking in fear, but fear had me unaware I was freezing. With the smelly blanket provided, I wrapped myself in the little warmth I could find. The drugs, still having an effect on me, had me eventually lying on my side curled into a tight ball. I begged my eyes to stay open and warn me of intruders, but they drifted shut.

Yury entering my room was what woke me. All I could do was watch the lion approach knowing I had nowhere to run—to hide—and protect myself. “Good morning, Little Treasure.”

I sat up, holding the blanket around me, surprised I found the nerve to say, “P-Please, don’t call me that.” Only my brother called me that. My brother’s murderer knew this.

Yury carried in a metal folding chair and sat, the door shutting behind him. “Since you said please, I will grant your request. Any suggestions on what I should call you?”

Link once had told me sarcasm was my defense mechanism. He said any time I felt threatened, I would always revert to being a smartass. When I had been fighting for Crash’s life, Yury mentioned how much he loved my spicy attitude. I was hoping it could also help me in my awful present situation. “A cab?”

His deep-toned laughter boomed in the tiny room. “I’m afraid that cannot be, but we could come up with another name. So far, I’ve been enjoying Fire.”

Wrapping arms around myself, I shrugged. A nickname to remind myself I have some guts wasn’t the worst he could call me.

“You can call me Master.”

I stared at him, wondering how wise it was to explain that was never going to happen.

As if reading my mind, he squinted. “No?” Then he winked. “Don’t fear. You will see it my way eventually.” He clapped his hands together. “Until then, Fire, do you have any questions?”

I had to pretend to be lucid all the while fighting my inner turmoil and terror. “My chances of escaping?”

“Alive?”