Raze
Page 16
For a moment, I saw raw pain reflected in his eyes, but he left without another word, and I slumped down on the seat behind my desk.
First things first, I had to organize the fighters and make sure The Dungeon’s business was done. Then I would take myself to church and mourn the boy I was supposed to hate… but could never find it in my heart to do so.
Chapter Six
Kisa
Serge dropped me off outside our Russian Orthodox Church. I stepped out into the stuffy night, black headdress and long-sleeved, calf-length skirted dress firmly in place as orthodox tradition demands. I quickly ran up the steps and went through the large doors, entering to the sound of the choir singing hymns from their rehearsal room upstairs. The large church was dark, a dark challenged only by the soft glow of candlelight. As always, when I entered this place, I glanced up to the paintings on the ceiling, images of the saints, of Mary holding Jesus.
A hand pressed gently on my shoulder. Looking to my left, Father Kruschev’s kind smile greeted me.
“Father,” I greeted and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.
“Are you joining us on the food trucks tonight, child? We are a volunteer down and I could use your service,” he asked hopefully.
My heart began pounding at the thought of my defender sitting on the street, holding that jar. Before I had time to consider the consequences of my actions, my head nodded in agreement.
“Excellent,” Father Kruschev said, gesturing for me to light a candle. I walked past and he added, “It pleases me to see you so dedicated to helping the needy, Kisa. It will purify your soul.”
I offered a tight smile but scurried away as fast as I could. I wasn’t trying to save my soul tonight or trying to help the needy. I was serving my own selfish desire, a desire—no, a pressing need to see that man again, to see his face, to ask who he was… why he was on the street.
Taking a long candle, I lit the wick with that of another and offered a silent prayer to my Luka. May he forever rest in peace.
Moving to the end of the pew, I crossed my chest to the crucifix hanging somberly on the wall. Clasping my hands, I closed my eyes.
Feeling as though my chest would crack, I was transported to the past…
*****
Twelve years ago…
The New York summer was stifling, the humidity too much to bear. I lay on a towel as the sun blazed down on Brighton Beach. We always came here for the summer. The Bratva kings descended on this little slice of Russian heaven from our houses in downtown Brooklyn. Papa and his “associates” would spend the summer months “discussing and taking care of business” while the kids and mothers would spend it lazing on the sand and eating ice cream.
I liked summer. It was a time I could get away from our rigid life in Brooklyn, a time that “the heirs” wouldn’t be called away to learn their craft, a time when Rodion, Luka, and Alik could relax… a time when I could hang out with Luka all day long.
Closing my eyes, I smiled at that thought as I soaked up the rays in my secluded spot. Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over me, bringing a brief moment of coolness to my scalding skin.
Cracking my eyes open, hand shielding the sun, my stomach sank when I saw Alik smiling down at me, his board shorts hanging low on his hips.
I didn’t say anything, just balanced on my elbows as he slumped down beside me on the towel, his thigh rubbing against mine.
Alik’s always harsh narrow eyes surveyed my body, and I no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Shivers ran down my spine as Alik’s finger gently trailed down my arm. His nostrils flared, and I froze in fear. Alik always made me feel this uneasy. His eyes tracked me wherever I walked. He would beat up any boy who so much as looked my way. He threatened them and told them I was his girl… Well, all except one. The one who truly was mine, the one whose eyes showed a piece of my soul.
“What’re you doing, Myshka?” Alik asked. I swallowed at his pet name for me—his little mouse. He’d called me that for years, for as long as I could remember anyway.
I glanced around to see who was nearby, but no one was in sight. Alik’s hand suddenly wrapped around the back of my neck, and I gasped in shock.
“I said,” Alik pronounced in an angry voice through gritted teeth, “what’re you doing? Don’t ignore me. I don’t like to be ignored.”
I caught sight of Alik cracking the fingers on his right hand. I also glimpsed a large black-and-blue bruise on his thigh, hidden under his shorts. My gaze snapped to him in surprise. What had happened to him? It looked terrible.
Alik noticed what I was looking at. He quickly covered his bruise, jaw clenching in anger. Alik turned away his head momentarily, and I internally cursed. It must have been his papa. I knew he hurt Alik. I heard his screams coming from his room as we visited his house growing up, then witnessed Alik’s bruises, limps, and occasional broken bones after “meeting” with his papa when he’d done something wrong.
Alik was never anything but angry, never anything but hateful… except toward me. Something changed in him when I was around. He was never calm, but a softness crossed his eyes when he looked at me.
“I… I was laying out in the sun,” I said softly, and the iron grip he had on my neck loosened, but he didn’t let go. Alik was fourteen, but his incredible strength was more like that of a full-grown man.
Alik dropped his hand. “I’m going to lay with you.” I didn’t dare question him, so I offered him a timid smile and rested down on the towel.
First things first, I had to organize the fighters and make sure The Dungeon’s business was done. Then I would take myself to church and mourn the boy I was supposed to hate… but could never find it in my heart to do so.
Chapter Six
Kisa
Serge dropped me off outside our Russian Orthodox Church. I stepped out into the stuffy night, black headdress and long-sleeved, calf-length skirted dress firmly in place as orthodox tradition demands. I quickly ran up the steps and went through the large doors, entering to the sound of the choir singing hymns from their rehearsal room upstairs. The large church was dark, a dark challenged only by the soft glow of candlelight. As always, when I entered this place, I glanced up to the paintings on the ceiling, images of the saints, of Mary holding Jesus.
A hand pressed gently on my shoulder. Looking to my left, Father Kruschev’s kind smile greeted me.
“Father,” I greeted and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand.
“Are you joining us on the food trucks tonight, child? We are a volunteer down and I could use your service,” he asked hopefully.
My heart began pounding at the thought of my defender sitting on the street, holding that jar. Before I had time to consider the consequences of my actions, my head nodded in agreement.
“Excellent,” Father Kruschev said, gesturing for me to light a candle. I walked past and he added, “It pleases me to see you so dedicated to helping the needy, Kisa. It will purify your soul.”
I offered a tight smile but scurried away as fast as I could. I wasn’t trying to save my soul tonight or trying to help the needy. I was serving my own selfish desire, a desire—no, a pressing need to see that man again, to see his face, to ask who he was… why he was on the street.
Taking a long candle, I lit the wick with that of another and offered a silent prayer to my Luka. May he forever rest in peace.
Moving to the end of the pew, I crossed my chest to the crucifix hanging somberly on the wall. Clasping my hands, I closed my eyes.
Feeling as though my chest would crack, I was transported to the past…
*****
Twelve years ago…
The New York summer was stifling, the humidity too much to bear. I lay on a towel as the sun blazed down on Brighton Beach. We always came here for the summer. The Bratva kings descended on this little slice of Russian heaven from our houses in downtown Brooklyn. Papa and his “associates” would spend the summer months “discussing and taking care of business” while the kids and mothers would spend it lazing on the sand and eating ice cream.
I liked summer. It was a time I could get away from our rigid life in Brooklyn, a time that “the heirs” wouldn’t be called away to learn their craft, a time when Rodion, Luka, and Alik could relax… a time when I could hang out with Luka all day long.
Closing my eyes, I smiled at that thought as I soaked up the rays in my secluded spot. Suddenly, a dark shadow fell over me, bringing a brief moment of coolness to my scalding skin.
Cracking my eyes open, hand shielding the sun, my stomach sank when I saw Alik smiling down at me, his board shorts hanging low on his hips.
I didn’t say anything, just balanced on my elbows as he slumped down beside me on the towel, his thigh rubbing against mine.
Alik’s always harsh narrow eyes surveyed my body, and I no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Shivers ran down my spine as Alik’s finger gently trailed down my arm. His nostrils flared, and I froze in fear. Alik always made me feel this uneasy. His eyes tracked me wherever I walked. He would beat up any boy who so much as looked my way. He threatened them and told them I was his girl… Well, all except one. The one who truly was mine, the one whose eyes showed a piece of my soul.
“What’re you doing, Myshka?” Alik asked. I swallowed at his pet name for me—his little mouse. He’d called me that for years, for as long as I could remember anyway.
I glanced around to see who was nearby, but no one was in sight. Alik’s hand suddenly wrapped around the back of my neck, and I gasped in shock.
“I said,” Alik pronounced in an angry voice through gritted teeth, “what’re you doing? Don’t ignore me. I don’t like to be ignored.”
I caught sight of Alik cracking the fingers on his right hand. I also glimpsed a large black-and-blue bruise on his thigh, hidden under his shorts. My gaze snapped to him in surprise. What had happened to him? It looked terrible.
Alik noticed what I was looking at. He quickly covered his bruise, jaw clenching in anger. Alik turned away his head momentarily, and I internally cursed. It must have been his papa. I knew he hurt Alik. I heard his screams coming from his room as we visited his house growing up, then witnessed Alik’s bruises, limps, and occasional broken bones after “meeting” with his papa when he’d done something wrong.
Alik was never anything but angry, never anything but hateful… except toward me. Something changed in him when I was around. He was never calm, but a softness crossed his eyes when he looked at me.
“I… I was laying out in the sun,” I said softly, and the iron grip he had on my neck loosened, but he didn’t let go. Alik was fourteen, but his incredible strength was more like that of a full-grown man.
Alik dropped his hand. “I’m going to lay with you.” I didn’t dare question him, so I offered him a timid smile and rested down on the towel.
