8. Viviana

Bright white sand sprawls for miles. Turquoise water stretches to the horizon and sparkles in the sunlight.

Dante is down by the shoreline, his swim trunks pulled up to his belly button. He's hurrying around with a red pail and plastic shovel in his hands, trying to finish construction on his sandcastle before the tide comes in.

"It's like a picture." I tip my head back to breathe in the salty air. It almost burns my throat, but I can't really complain. I'm in paradise.

Strong arms wrap around my middle from behind. A stubbled chin rests on my shoulder. I know without looking that it's Mikhail. His hands circle around my stomach.

I glance down and I can't see the toes I know are buried in the sand. My baby bump is in the way. I let myself sink back against Mikhail's chest.

"Because it is," he whispers in my ear.

"Hmm?" I hum, my eyes fluttering closed.

I'm exhausted, but I don't want to leave the beach. I don't even want the sun to set. Each time I open my eyes, the sun looks a little lower in the sky. Dante is working on his castle, but he's getting closer and closer to the water.

I curl my hand around my mouth. "Dante, come back in! You're too close to the water!"

My voice doesn't carry. I realize all at once how thirsty I am. When's the last time I had water?

"I said, ‘Because it is,'" Mikhail repeats. "It is a picture."

I have no idea what he's talking about, but the sky is suddenly getting dark overhead. The beautiful day is gone and storm clouds are rolling in. The waves are large swells that rise over my head. The water pulls at Dante's legs, laps over his knees.

"Dante! Come back!" I go to pull Mikhail's hands off of my stomach, but my bump is gone. And it's not hands wrapped around my middle, but chains.

The heat at my back is replaced by an eerie chill. I finally look over my shoulder and see Trofim grinning back at me.

"All of this is a picture," he hisses. "It's not real. It was never real."

I turn frantically towards the water, but Dante is gone. The castle he was working on is underwater and there's no sign of my son anywhere.

"Dante!" I cry, but my voice is gone now.

So is Dante.

So is Mikhail.

"None of it was real," Trofim whispers along my spine. He circles in front of me, grinning like a devil. "Except for me."

He lunges at me and I swing at him.

"For fuck's sake!" a man complains, swatting my hand away from his face. "I thought she was unconscious."

The guard in charge of bringing my meals is standing above me, a growing bruise on his cheek from where I hit him.

"She was," another man insists from the doorway. "I guess she's awake now. Just in time."

"What are you doing here?" I try to sit up, but the man grabs my chain and yanks me towards him.

I wait for the painful tug of metal against my wrists, but it doesn't come.

"Stand up. And if you hit me again, I'll hit you back," he warns.

My chains are loose. The cell door is open.

Half of my brain is still locked in the nightmare, but the other half is scrambling to make sense of what's happening.

"Where are you taking me?"

They don't answer. They silently lead me out of the room and into the hallway.

I'm not sure why Trofim thinks I need two guards on me. I can't even stand up on my own, let alone fight someone twice as big as me.

My legs are shaky. The only times I've stood up in days have been to waddle to the makeshift toilet in the corner. But even that has become less frequent. Can't pee if you have no water in your system.

The hallway is dim, but there are other closed doors every so often. How many other people are huddled behind them, too starved and thirsty to fight back?

Suddenly, the man in front of me turns into a large, open room. There are no windows, so I know we're still underground. A table set up against the wall with a curling iron and blow dryer sitting on top of it. A makeup bag is spilled open on the table.

A woman is standing in the middle of the room, her hands folded in front of her. She can't be older than eighteen and she looks even smaller than I am.

"You can sit here," she offers nervously, gesturing to a metal chair in front of her. Her smile falters the longer she holds it.

I don't move, but the men shove me forward and drop me down in the chair. The cold metal bites through my thin clothes. But nothing is as sharp as the pain that lances through my wrists when the guards re-cuff me to the chair.

"Why?" I ask through a sob.

Why are you doing this? Why are you keeping me chained? Why am I still alive?

No one answers me and the young girl nods to the guards.

"We'll come back for her," one of them grunts. They close the door behind them.

And it's then that all the pieces fall into place.

Because hanging on the back of the door is a wedding dress.

Tomorrow, you and Trofim get married.

My father warned me, but I couldn't process it. As horrifying as every moment of being trapped here has been, my brain couldn't grasp that Trofim would actually force me to marry him.

"This can't be happening." I try to drop my face into my hands, but the chains catch. Blinding pain shoots up my arms and I drop them at my sides.

The girl is wide-eyed. She stares at me for a few seconds before she turns around and grabs the makeup bag from the desk. "I'm supposed to get you ready."

"It's going to take more than that," I mumble.

She chews on her lower lip for a few seconds. Then, quickly, she pulls a water bottle out of the makeup bag.

I feel like the vampire I saw in my first ever scary movie. He'd been starved of blood and lunged anytime a human got close. His purple lips curled away from pointed teeth and his eyes were red and hollow-looking. I was up with nightmares for weeks afterward.

The girl jolts in surprise, but she isn't afraid. She unscrews the cap and hands me the bottle. I wrap both hands around it and drink and drink and drink.

I force myself to stop when it's still half-full. If I keep going, I'll just make myself sick. Then her kindness will be for nothing.

"Thank you." My voice still sounds hoarse, but it doesn't hurt as much to talk.

"If you're dehydrated, then your skin will be dry. I can't do makeup on dry skin." I know she's crafting the explanation she'll give Trofim if he finds out she gave me water.

She took a risk giving me the water. She knows Trofim won't like it, but she did it anyway. Maybe…

"Are there tweezers in there?" I ask quietly. "Or maybe cuticle scissors. You could drop them on the floor without realizing it. I'll use them to pick this lock and then overpower you before?—"

Her face creases like she's in pain. "I can't. He'd kill me if you got away."

I know she's right. But it doesn't make me hate her any less.

It doesn't make me hate any of this any less.

"My father told me that at least if I marry Trofim, I won't be dead," I say flatly as she begins wiping away days' worth of built-up grease from my forehead. I meet her eyes to make sure she knows I mean what I'm about to say with every fiber of my being. "But I would rather be dead than marry Trofim."

She snaps her eyes away from mine and doesn't look at me again.

I don't blame her. I don't know why Trofim has her here, but it's not to help me escape. It's not to be my friend.

No one is on my side and no one is coming for me. Not my father. Not Anatoly. Not Mikhail.

The woman dabs blush on my cheeks and swipes mascara on my lashes. She curls my hair and paints my nails. I want to tell her that she might as well be preparing my corpse.

Because this is not a wedding I'm getting ready for.

It's a funeral.