2. Ana

TWO

Ana

D ima doesn't say anything as he drives. There's no passing look or small talk, it's peaceful and my eyes close as my crown touches the headrest. Working through the sorting file in my brain, I scratch off the last name that would have any information on Nina. The old cunt died. He was a lucky bastard with a brain hemorrhage listed on his death certificate instead of allowing me to have fun.

She'll be twenty now, too old for a live in. Too young to have killed herself yet. It usually comes when they reach twenty-five. At twenty-five they're discarded, the longer they've been a commodity the harder it hits them. Nina wouldn't have any memories of before she entered Yulia's sick house, all she'd have is twenty-plus years of service as the sum of her life. I hope she remembers the three years she had with her mama and that she's stopped believing anyone who says they know her mama.

If I save her, there's hope for me too. We're linked, our lives intertwined, otherwise she never would have smiled at me. The smile she refused to let drop even when I was tasked with giving her punishments or lessons.

The thought of searching porn sites and seeing her face amongst the sea of the other little girls who have now grown into women turns my stomach. It's the natural progression to swap out one form of exploitation for another but it's not their choice. You can't make a choice when all you've been taught is that your body is used. The fuckers are too good at manipulating everyone and they manage to fit their videos amongst those of people who had all the information and take control while doing the same profession.

Dima pulls me out of my thoughts as he stops the car. I expect another warehouse as I open my eyes but it's a house. A nice idyllic family-style home. It's not as extravagant as the Vartanov estate with stables and its own lake but it's private and bikes wouldn't look out of place strewn across the driveway.

Sick fuckers always have the nicest things. The perfect image of family and respectability when they touch themselves to images of children. Someone must have studied the psychology behind it and found an answer that's more succinct than my mommy was mean to me. Every study seems to have that answer. Behavioral disorders make sense, you develop a distorted sense of self because the primary caregiver skews it from reality. Fucking kids can't have the same excuse and I can never find a reason when I search online but people have to have studied it. They study everything, it was the first thing I learned when I left Yulia, and it made it easier to fit into the world because every little thing had been examined and the questions I had about people had already been answered.

Dima's grumbling starts when I don't move, and he doesn't give any information to who the sick fucker is. I know he seeks them out online by posing as a child, his targets are personal. He gets to know them before killing them. That's more fucked up than mine, it takes a real crazy person to invest their time infiltrating someone's life and gaining their trust just to kill them.I just make sure their death hurts.

My body goes on alert as I get out of the car and follow him down the path to the front door. He doesn't tell me to shut up or take out a knife, he does something stranger and takes keys out of his pocket to open the door. I turn rigid when he inputs the security code, and his body relaxes. The fucking asshole has brought me to his house. I don't want to see him in his natural habitat or have him assume I'll fuck him because of how I grew up. There are already murmurs from the lower guards about my ‘skill level' and rage blinds me as I go to walk back out.This is the second time one of them has forced me into their shitty house. Last time I couldn't remember how I got there but all of the stupid brotherhood can fuck off before I ever fucking touch them.

Arms wrap around my chest and waist from behind and I'm picked up off my feet. He's a dumb fuck, giving me enough space to kick back. His huge hand wraps around my jaw and he pushes his thumb against the joint with a threat. I've already lived through the pain of having it broken, it was easier a second time, and if he snaps it, I'll be fine a third time. I rock to create momentum as I throw my head back and catch his chin, but he doesn't slow down, the ginormous freak.He turns, ignoring my fight and tightens his hold on me as I grab the back of his head and aim my foot into his knee.

His voice is harsh and there's no twisted satisfaction in it.

"Do it again and I'll shoot you in the head."

Technically, he's asking me to. So, I pick my foot up and hold his neck tighter, but he grabs my thigh and throws me on the sofa. My bag is yanked off my back, forcing my shoulders to burn as I land on my stomach. I quickly jump up so he can't get on top of me but he blocks the exit and kicks my bag away so I can't get a knife. I can take him, or I'll die and everything will be over.

He raises both hands before I can take a full step and speaks instead of grumbling.

"We're going through the rules, calm the fuck down, you little hellion."

Ugly cunt. I hate him for that name alone. I'm not little, I'm a grown up. Little is the equivalent of a curse in my head, little girls wearing little skirts. It's all I fucking heard for years, and it will never be associated with me.

Dropping his voice, attempting to be soothing, he approaches me calmly like I'm a wild animal.

"Sit down, I'm not going to touch you."

I move back with each step he takes to maintain the distance between us. My back touches the wall and he stops advancing, allowing the gap to remain. My eyes are itching with wearing my contacts for twenty hours and I blink to stop them drying out. He copies me and shakes his head before clenching his fists and spitting out house rules that won't apply to me.

"You don't leave or sneak off like you do at Stasya's. Eat whatever you want just clean up after yourself, I'm not going to be your fucking maid. Don't go in my room but you can use the rest of the house. Don't touch any of my shit or bring any of your victims here."

There's no sick fantasies in his eyes as he looks me up and down, it's revulsion and I relax. I can handle the disgust, it's my base line.

"I'll pick your things up in the morning, are they at Stasya's?"

His question is dumb, I don't have anything more than I can carry. If you weigh yourself down with possessions, it's more things that can be taken from you. There's only one thing I have that holds any value and it could fit in my palm.

I don't need to be adopted into their weird ass family. I'm not like them, they all grew up together. They have shared memories or experiences but I'm an outcast. I have been since birth, and I'll die the same. It's not a burden to be alone when it's the default setting of your existence. I force my muscles to go limp, which Dima takes as acceptance when I'm waiting him out.

He feigns being hospitable as he hands me my bag then leads me through the house to show me each room until we reach the bedrooms. He points at his door beside the only guest room set up with an air mattress.

"Don't knock or even touch it. You can have this room or move shit yourself if you want one of the others."

I give the room he's showing me a cursory glance because I'm not staying while he lingers like a creep. He gives a grunt in parting, and he finally fucks off.

The room is nice, it's all white and clean. Even the floor is soft, and I don't touch the air mattress as I pass it on the way to the adjoining bathroom. If I let myself get used to comfortable things, I'll miss them. There's a lock on the bathroom door and I quickly slide it across before taking out my notebook and speaking to the only person who actually knows me.

I stop myself from saying more than the few lines I allot each day and tuck the loose sheet between the full pages before slamming it closed. The resets are what Yulia taught me when she needed me to listen. All I have to do is stop breathing and then my body will turn off. When I wake up, it will be back on again and I'll be able to breathe properly.

The next part is the best part of my day, and I carefully take out the smiley face sticker. The color has faded despite me trying to protect it with tape and I move my lips, mimicking the gesture. It's the only time I can do it without blood on my skin and there's someone doing it back.Someone is smiling at me again, finally. But I can't waste all of the smiles and carefully put it in my bag, so it doesn't get ruined.

My eyes sting and it doesn't help when I take out the contacts. It's like looking at a different person as I stand at the sink and look at the person staring back at me in the mirror. Some cultures believe eyes are portals, they show a person's soul. With or without the brown film, mine are empty. The blue is cold, and Marlo isn't in the mirror physically but he's there in my head. I can hear him, and my shoulders come up to block my ears as I quickly look down so I can't see them.

‘ You're wrong, look at them. You have evil in you .'

An erratic hum fills the air and I close my eyes as it gets louder. The urge to put my contacts back in sits in my fingers while my eyes burn in refusal. So, I convince the air around me to shut up.

"No one can see me, they don't know."

No one will see my eyes, it's okay.

It takes different sentences until the voice goes away and I look up. My hair is starting to snap at the ends from the harsh chemicals I've used for nearly all my life. I press against the tender spot on my scalp, feeling the sting of the chemical burn grounding me as I inspect my roots to make sure my dark hair isn't growing enough to be fully visible. Two weeks until I need to bleach it again. I wonder what I'd look like with my dark hair, I can vaguely remember it, but I wouldn't recognize myself.

Would it make me look less gaunt?

Soften my features or sharpen them?

Would it make me less revolting to be who I was supposed to be rather than who I am?

I lower to the floor, pressing my back against the handles of the vanity drawers under the sink and hug my knees. There are no tears as I stare at nothing. Not space or an object, it's all blank. The other girls would huddle up in this same position, tears streaming down their faces while they begged for their parents. It wasn't so anyone could facilitate the request, but they were speaking it into the universe, begging for comfort. The urge to do the same is on my tongue when I don't have parents.I don't tell myself the usual story that makes me feel better, I just sit there feeling the walls close in like the 104 days.

Or was it weeks?

No, it had to be days, I counted the sun coming up.

I need to kill someone. I'll feel better then. It will make me know things and if I know things I can't forget how to talk. If I know things then I'm not with Yulia. If I know things I can't go back to her.

Grabbing my phone, I load the forum of sick fucks who trade people's nightmares like baseball cards. There's a new member inviting people to a launch, and I click on it eagerly.

My stomach rolls at the use of the word brave. The cunts all have their little fucking code words. Brave equals depravity. The sicker the fantasy, the greater the risk of getting caught. I haven't heard of TRR so it must be new. None of the names stick out as I go through the thread and there's no sign off other than the initials. But a teaser is given of one girl that matches Nina's description. There's no picture attached, and I push myself up to stand and splash ice-cold water on my face. Cupping it in my hands, I hold it over my eyes to calm the itching before I put new contacts in.

My eyeballs protest at being covered again but it's a habit I've become accustomed to. Marlo's bullshit about my eyes showing the world that I'm wrong has never stopped. They're bad, like me, and if normal people see them, they'll know too.

I hug my backpack to my chest with my hand in the pocket, fingers wrapped around the knife, and press my ear to the door before leaving the bathroom. I do the same to the bedroom door that's still closed and there's no movement. But the lights are on. Fuck it, I'll jump out of the window. My leg will hurt for a day but as long as I keep moving, I'll be fine.

The house is looked after and there are no squeaky floorboards as I turn the lights off before I open the window. Throwing my bag down first, the dull thud shows it's higher than I anticipated. There's no trellis to hold on to and I cling to the ledge, stretching my body to close as much of the distance as possible. I focus on making my body weightless and let go. I hate heights, the drop always zooms out but the feeling of plummeting through the air is nice. My body hits someone else instead of hard ground and I scramble, searching for my bag.

I'm a fucking idiot, I should have kept hold of my knife. Or strapped the backpack to my chest.

A hand whips out, wrapping around my ankle as I kick the cunt in the stomach. It drags me back before I can grab my knife. My lips lift in relief at all the memories being chased away and it's Yulia's face in front of me as I turn. She blocks my shot aiming at her throat with more force than the usual opponents have. This is going to be fun.

A deep grunt shatters the illusion of my vengeance as I kick into their thigh and Dima falls on his back, cupping his groin. Curling my lips into my mouth to stop from laughing doesn't work and I nearly fall over as his boot connects with my ankle. He rolls onto his knees, still holding his dick and I hold my hand out.

"Stop being dramatic."

The glare he sends me doesn't help his cause. The ugly dickhead just makes me laugh. But he takes my hand and tries to drag me down as he stands. He doesn't say thank you, which is rude, and I wipe my hand on my thigh.