I am somewhere else, far away from here, where no one can touch me. And in that place, I mentally plan how I would take them down if given the chance.
I hear the sound of approaching feet and for a brief moment, when I'm half-conscious and delusional, I imagine it's the footsteps of my brothers, come to rescue me.
But it isn't.
Reinforcements have come for another round of entertainment. I shake, knowing what's coming, knowing I can't stop it, when I hear a voice.
"Maksym? Maksym..." Her voice breaks into sobs when she sees me helpless and beaten.
Taya.
The motherfuckers brought Taya here to watch. If there's anything that could break me...
I struggle against my chains, rattling them, writhing with the effort of getting free. They cut into my flesh, but I don't budge. I scream in helpless fury. I don't want her to see me like this.
And that's when I wake from the nightmare.
Every night.
Every fucking night.
I'm in a cold sweat, panting, and sit up quickly in bed. I blink in the dark room and stare at my wrists, half expecting them to be bound in cuffs, but they're free. There are no more bruises, no more broken ribs. Gingerly, I touch my body, feeling for blood, but I'm whole. The pain in my lower back and leg remind me that I'm still recovering, but I'm no longer injured.
Physically, anyway.
I brush a hand across my sweaty brow.
I was dreaming. Remembering.
The worst of a prisoner's punishment is that even after he's free, his subconscious holds him prisoner.
My heart still hammers in my chest as I try to get my bearings. I may not be bound anymore, but I don't remember where I am or why I'm here, and for a few brief seconds, panic sweeps over me.
Where am I?
I will the pounding of my heart to steady as I slowly remember.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I'm in the guest room in my friend Kazimir's house.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply through my nose again, then exhale through my mouth.
I'm in America for now. Our pakhan Demyan made me see a therapist, who told me I needed a change of scenery. So here I am. A year ago, I wouldn't have left Taya. But she insisted.
"We need a break," she said, not meeting my eyes. "We need some time to figure things out."
I couldn't give her what she needed. The relief she felt when I came back quickly evaporated when she realized I was no longer the man she knew. She couldn't love me like this. Spending night after night with the angry, brooding man I am now undid her. She fell in love with the man who worshipped her. The man of her youth, who overcame adversity by strengthening his mind and body. The man who loved her back.
Not the man I am now, who sees ghosts in the shadows. Not someone whose life work involves murder and deception.
While I was in prison I said nothing. The only sound I made were the screams I couldn't hold back. Not a word. Not when they talked to me. Not when they demanded answers under promise of further torture.
Not even when my brothers rescued me and brought me home with them. For weeks, even after the open lacerations had healed, even after my bones had been set in casts and my wounds doctored, even when I had night after night of quiet rest.
I tried with Taya, but the words were broken. I was not the man they'd taken prisoner. The only sounds I made when freed were the screams that came unbidden in my sleep.
And now, as I lay mute in bed, remembering how she shook her head while tears fell down her cheeks, the memory revives the ache in my chest.
I'm trying to make peace with it all when the soft sound of a baby's laugh captures my attention. I look to the window overlooking the bay, lift the shade, and see Kazimir, holding his daughter Yolanda to his chest. I watch them in silence, the peaceful scene soothing my pounding heart. He sits on the deck and kisses her little cheek. She giggles and coos, helplessly trying to wriggle away, but he holds her fast.
It's early, the sun just coming up over the water in waves of pink and blue.
I slowly swing my legs over the side of the bed, pull a t-shirt and shorts on, and set my feet on the ground. I ignore the pain that radiates up my leg when I touch the floor. Though my broken leg was set immediately upon my rescue, the break was severe, warranting weeks of bedrest followed by physical therapy. Both my lower back and femur suffered major trauma. The doctor says it could take up to six months for a full recovery, but the combination of both injuries and my interrupted sleep have made recovery longer. Every time I move, the memory of how my body was broken and how long it will take to recover makes my blood thrum in my veins.