Thirty Days of Shame

by Ginger Talbot

  There’s no pity in his gaze. How is that possible? “She’s dead by now. You must realize that.”

  “But the men who did that to her aren’t, and they’ll do it again!”

  “Well, Vilyat won’t. Because I’m going to fucking kill him.” His face is a pitiless mask.

  Helenka and Yuri are watching us from the foyer, horrified, fascinated.

  “Keep your voice down,” Anastasia snarls. “There is no need to drag them in to this.”

  “Sergei,” I plead, ignoring her.

  He won’t be moved. “The laptop is fried. If we go to the police, I’m sure your aunt will just lie about it. We’ve got nothing.”

  I swing around to face my aunt, and I shove her, so hard she staggers. I’ve never laid my hands on her before. “Anastasia,” I rage. “You fucking bitch. The women out there, the current or future victims, those are someone’s children too. I swear to God, if you don’t go to the police, I will find a way to bring you down.”

  Her face goes slack. Her eyes are blank empty pools of despair.

  “How old am I?” she asks.

  I shake my head in confusion.

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? In your thirties. Who cares?”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  She’s trying to claim that she is three years older than me? Twenty-five with a thirteen-year-old daughter?

  “No. You were eighteen when you married Vilyat.”

  “No, I was not. I had just turned twelve. He came to the child whorehouse that he ran with your father, the one for little girls. There was also one for little boys, by the way. And I’d be willing to bet my left tit that Sergei was in one of those boy whorehouses at some point. He’s the right age; the math adds up. What else would make him hate our family so much?”

  Sergei doesn’t move. I don’t think he’s breathing.

  No. Fucking no.

  Anastasia won’t stop. She keeps stabbing my heart and mind with her words. “When Vilyat came to the whorehouse, I knew he was one of the owners, and I made him notice me. I managed to convince him to take me, to marry me, by pretending to be a frightened little virgin. I wasn’t a virgin, of course, but I used fake blood. I’d been pimped out since I was nine. I ran away from my pimp, and after a few weeks of living on the street on my own, your father’s men caught me and dragging me screaming into a truck, and they beat me bloody for screaming, and took me to the whorehouse.”

  I’m splintering into a thousand pieces.

  Anastasia’s voice is coming from somewhere up in the stratosphere now, hollow and echoing. “Helenka and Yuri have choices. They can choose their outfit, their breakfast, their boyfriend or girlfriend, their career. When I was their age, I had choices too. Convince a pervert to rescue me by seducing him with my fake cherry, or stay there and let old men rape me until I died. I thought Vilyat was a good catch, back then. He was handsome. He wasn’t old like the others. God, was I sick of sucking wrinkled old cock.” She shudders in revulsion at the memory.

  I feel so cold and alone, as if I’m floating away on an ice floe.

  Could this be true? Was my father a child-raping pimp?

  “How old was my mother when she married my father?” My voice is a husky whisper.

  Twenty. Please say twenty. That is what she told me. It must be true. Let me keep something.

  She sighs, rubbing her hand across her beautiful face. “Fifteen.”

  I can hardly feel my own body, but I summon up the last of my strength from somewhere and look at her. Tears are pouring down my face now. “Anastasia, women like Helenka are being raped right now. Young women. Little girls. Go to the police. I am begging you.”

  She scowls at me.

  “The police force there is riddled with corruption, and the men who use Vilyat’s services are rich and powerful. How well do you think that would go?”

  I can’t give up. I must fight for those women. If I were one of them, I’d want someone fighting for me. “I’ve been reading in the news about the Politsiya raiding brothels in the St. Petersburg area over the last couple of months. Shutting them down, saving the women, arresting lots of people. Including politicians and a judge. So not all the cops are corrupt.”

  She shakes her head wildly, blonde locks flying. “Enough of them are. My first client? A cop. Do you know how much cop semen I swallowed before I turned ten years old?”

  I taste vomit in my throat, but I won’t give up. “Obviously if Vilyat is so afraid of what you’ve got on him, you have useful information.”

  She takes a couple of steps backward. Now her tone turns sharp and nasty; her eyes snap with resentment. “It’s easy for you to be self-righteous, Willow. Your mother kept you safe. Your father saved most of his abuse for his whores.” Another blow. “You’ve never experienced what I have. I pray you never will. But I am going to do whatever it takes to keep my own children safe, and frankly, everybody else can just fuck right off. You think those women would risk anything for me? The world is an ugly place, Willow, and people only look out for their own.”

  My breakfast is rising in my throat. “Then go. I’m staying here. I don’t care what they do to me. And you? You’re dead to me.”

  She turns and walks away, and Yuri start crying when they realize I’m not going too. Helenka throws a final glance back over her shoulder, her eyes haunted. The lawyers hustle them out the front door, and they’re gone from my life.

  Jasha watches the door slam, and then tears his gaze away. I can see that he doesn’t want her to go. I don’t think he deliberately betrayed Sergei, but I think that he was slack in his surveillance of Anastasia because he was developing feelings for her. She probably knows that, and she doesn’t care about him any more than she cares about me, or those women who are dead or dying, or anyone besides her kids.

  I look at Sergei with drowning eyes.

  My life was a lie. My mother was a child bride. The blood of monsters runs through my veins.

  His face is grim, impassive.

  “Tell me about my family. Tell me what they did to you. Tell me!” I scream.

  “I can’t.”

  Rage flares inside me. I’ve never felt anything like it. It consumes me like a wildfire. I turn and run into the living room and grab one of the empty wine glasses, and smash the cup off it. I slash my arm with the stem, drawing a bright red line of pain through my skin.

  Sergei and Jasha pound towards me. I swing to face them, waving the glass stem, wild eyed, and then I jam the stem up against the tender flesh under my chin.

  “Fucking tell me,” I scream. “My only family that I care about is leaving here, and I will probably never see them again. They’re safe, so you know what? I have no reason to keep myself safe anymore. What are you going to threaten me with? Pain? I’ll cut my own throat, Sergei, I swear to God I will.”

  Jasha lunges at me and snatches the glass away.

  My bones turn liquid and I fall to the ground, screaming and crying. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”

  Then I realize that I’m in Sergei’s arms, and my throat is raw. I’m staring up at the ceiling, heaving. How long have I been screaming?

  “Please.” I’ve never begged like this before. “If you don’t tell me, it will kill me. Nothing you can tell me will be worse than what my mind will fill in. For the love of God, I’ve got to know. The pictures in my head right now – they’re killing me.”

  Sergei bends down and oh so gently kisses my forehead. Right there in front of his men.

  He strokes my hair, and his eyes plead with me. “Willow. You’re too good for this. Too pure. It will poison you.”

  “It’s already too late.”

  “Fucking Anastasia,” he curses furiously.

  I choke on a sob. “Oh, for God’s sake, Sergei. Yes, what she’s doing is wrong, but she’s a feral animal protecting her young. If I’d been raised like her, I might do the same thing. If you don’t tell me…it will end myself, one way or another.”
>
  He stares at me, his gaze tender and infinitely sad.

  “If I’m going to tell you about it, we need to make some preparations,” he says. He glances up at his men.

  Maks pulls me to my feet and sits me down on the sofa, while the rest of them leave. “Stay there,” he grows at me. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I am weak with fear of what I’m about to find out.

  He comes back with a first aid kit, a towel, and a bowl of water. He washes and bandages my arm, without looking at me.

  Then he leads me through the mansion until we reach a room. A padded room.

  Sergei is inside, and I stumble in, shaking, even though it’s not cold.

  “Stand right by the door, and be ready to run,” he tells me. He glances at Maks and Jasha and Slavik. “Take her out if I get too…”

  “Yes,” Jasha says with a grim nod.

  “And don’t leave her alone for a minute. She’s on suicide watch. When she goes to the bathroom, the door stays open.”

  “Of course.” Jasha’s voice is weary and resigned.

  Sergei runs his fingers through his hair, and his eyes go vacant as he stares into space. Into his past.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he says.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SERGEI

  “I already told you a little bit about my parents, but I didn’t give you the full story. They were drunks and monsters. We were dirt poor, and they spent every kopek on alcohol. I only kept Pyotr alive by stealing food for him. I did everything I could to keep the harshness of the streets from him.

  He was a sweet little boy. When we were next to starving, I was feeding him and he wasn’t gaining any weight. I found out why. He was giving half his food to a stray cat who’d just had kittens. I was furious – I wanted to kill them all – but he cried and begged, so I relented.

  He appreciated every single thing I gave him. I would steal a toy for him, and bring it home. I’d never tell him that, of course. He would have refused to accept a stolen toy.

  Whatever I gave him, no matter how small or shabby, he’d light up like a Christmas tree. He was so excited and so grateful. That was my only warmth, it was the purist happiness I’ve ever felt, until…well, you.

  The year that he was five, there was this one toy he really wanted, a stuffed fox that sang the alphabet. They were sold out everywhere. He never got that toy while he was alive.

  When he was six and I was twelve, my father beat him so badly that he nearly died. I carried him in my arms, and walked miles until I got to a hospital. The police were called. My father was taken to jail. We were taken to a children’s home. It was horrible there, so we ran away and went back home to my mother.

  Biggest mistake I ever made. It cost him his life. No, don’t argue with me.

  My mother was furious with us. She had a sick love-hate relationship with my father. He had stabbed her, fractured her skull, knocked her teeth out, punched her until she miscarried again and again. She slashed him with a broken liquor bottle, and broke his nose with a chair leg while he was passed out drunk. He used to flaunt other women right in front of her, take them home and fuck them in their bed while she was locked out of the room, screaming and beating on the door. She would hunt the women down, cut up their faces or beat their skulls in with bricks.

  She was so enraged that my father was in jail because of us, she got rid of us for good. And she made a profit doing it.

  She sold us to a couple of men who wanted pretty little boys.

  Pyotr was terrified. When we got in that truck I lied and told him that we were going to a nice new home.

  That was the last day I ever saw him smile.

  Jasha, Maks, Feodyr, Slavik, and a boy named Yakim – I met them all there. Your father and Vilyat came to inspect and approve the new merchandise. They don’t remember me, but I still remember them. Oh, believe me, I do. Every contour of their faces. The sound of their voices. Their laughter.

  We heard them speak. They gave away quite a lot of information about themselves, because adults always underestimate children, and because none of us were meant to make it out of there alive.

  We learned that they were from America, and that they visited Russia every couple of months. We learned that they didn’t personally sample the boys, because they preferred girls. We learned their last name. Toporov. It was burned into my memory.

  After we were inspected, a few children were disposed of because they had venereal diseases. Your father did that. Took them out the back and shot them in the head, one by one, and we had to watch.

  Then we were separated by age. The men who visited that whorehouse had particular tastes. They would want children of a specific age range.

  They dragged Pyotr away from me. I fought, but they just laughed at me and beat me until I passed out.

  We were there for a couple of months in total. It doesn’t sound that long, does it? You can’t imagine how long a couple of months can feel.

  Yes, we were raped. Every day. Many times a day. We were beaten. Tortured. Starved. If we wanted to eat, we’d have to crawl across the floor and bend over for men to violate us. We were made to submit to unspeakable acts by adult men who laughed at our pain.

  They brought in new boys on a regular basis, to replace the boys who died.

  We’d been planning our escape since the day we arrived. We stole dull bread knives and sharpened them. We broke the furniture and made weapons from the sharp splinters.

  The men had made a mistake, using street rats for their little boy whores. They thought they were being smart. They knew that nobody would miss us. And they liked our spirit; they enjoyed it more when we fought back. But they didn’t anticipate how wily, and sneaky, and vicious we already were.

  Finally I got word from one of the other boys that Pyotr was sick. He’d developed an infection. We had to act right away if we were to have any chance of saving him.

  Our plan was basically a suicide pact. We were as good as dead there anyway; we had nothing to lose. There wasn’t a single boy who’d been there longer than six months. Most had only been there three or four. The boys would die of sepsis, or the men would kill them for sport.

  We planned to stage an uprising and kill as many men as we possibly could, and we’d get as many boys out as we could. We were deep in the country, but we thought we might just have a chance that some of the boys could escape and go to a news station and tell them what happened. We didn’t have any hope of going to the police; the local chief came to visit himself sometimes.

  But we were more successful then we’d ever expected.

  We actually killed all of the guards and clients. They weren’t expecting it, from children. We killed the first few guards, took their guns, and turned the guns on the rest.

  Feodyr jumped in front of me and took a bullet for me. It’s a miracle he didn’t die.

  We all ran for it. Pyotr had gone ahead. He was alone in the woods, in the winter.

  He was killed by a starving wolf. The wolf was still feeding on him when I found him.

  My bracelet? Made from the wolf’s sinews. I strangled that wolf with my bare hands.

  You know, that toy fox – Jasha, get the fuck away from me – I give Pyotr that fox every single year. I buy him a nice new one and take it to his grave, or have it delivered since I’ve left the country.

  Get her out. Get her out. Get her out!”

  WILLOW

  Jasha and his men rushed me out of there, and slammed and locked the door behind him. I heard Sergei roaring like a wounded beast.

  I’d done that to him.

  My family had done that to him.

  “He’ll hurt himself,” I gasp.

  “That’s why the room is padded.” There’s not a glint of softness or sympathy in his voice.

  I stumble and fall.

  Jasha carries me back to my room. Slavik clumps heavily along beside him. They seem dispirited, the life sucked out of them. They’ve just had the nightmare story of their past recoun
ted, their humiliation and agony dredged up and displayed before a stranger. And their leader, the man whose strength has kept them going, is in the grip of madness.

  Jasha sets me down on the bed and backs away. His expression is bleak, and he looks lost.

  Slavik’s fists clench, and when he speaks to me, disgust ices his every word. “Now you know why we hate you.”

  Jasha heaved a sigh. “She didn’t know. She was not part of it. She is no more guilty of what happened to us than we were.”

  Slavik spits a stream of curses, then storms out of the room.

  I lie on my bed, on my side. I couldn’t move if I were drowning.

  There is no reason for me to move, to eat, to drink. To breathe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Who knows what day?

  Who cares? I will never have the strength to leave here. I’ll die here. I deserve it.

  I stagger around my room. I trip over things. I bump into the wall because I can barely see. That’s okay. It doesn’t hurt. I cannot feel my own body.

  The cold white sun tells me it’s daylight outside, but what day? What part of the day? Morning, afternoon?

  My father’s putrid blood taints me.

  He used to fly to Russia every couple of months, and when he came back, he’d bring presents for me. Russian nesting dolls. Chocolate eggs with toys in them. Necklaces with charms dangling on them. Beautiful handmade dresses.

  I would dance with joy. I would thank him in perfect Russian. My father would nod his approval, which would make my mother smile in relief. She’d trained me well in how to keep him happy.

  And the money that financed those trinkets… I ate chocolate and wore beautiful dresses that were purchased with the blood of child whores.

  And my poor mother. Forced to marry him at such a young age, dragged to this country, away from everything she’d ever known, and she never said a word. To protect me. She was little more than a child, only a few years older than Helenka is now, when she was snatched up by my father.

  I knew that my father was a strict, old-fashioned man, and that my mother walked on egg-shells around him, but she hid the true horror of our lives inside her for all those years.