You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

‘Yes, I’m crying over my dog. We’ve had her for thirteen years.’

‘Oh,’ he says and sits next to me. ‘I suppose you can get another one.’

‘Would you say that to someone who has just lost their child or a member of their family?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t say it to me. Suzie was family,’ I say tearfully.

For a while there is an awkward silence and then he puts his hand on my knee.

I look up at him, surprised. This is his way of comforting me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly.

‘That’s OK,’ I whisper, shocked that we are communicating on this level.

He stands. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

‘Thanks,’ I say again.

He nods gravely, walks away, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

I don’t see him again until late. I’m already in bed watching a You Tube music video when he leans against the doorframe staring at me. He is dressed completely in black, black polo sweater and black jeans, and his eyes are half-closed. I feel that something about him is different. It’s even possible that he’s a little drunk.

‘How do you feel?’ he asks.

‘I’m OK,’ I say warily.

‘Is this working?’

I scowl. ‘Is what working?’

He pushes away from the doorframe and comes into the room. ‘This thing we have. Is it working for you?’

‘Not really,’ I say truthfully.

‘Why not?’ he asks, taking his jacket off.

‘Do you really want the truth?’

‘Why not? Hit me with it,’ he says with a wicked grin, and I know. He has been drinking.

‘Maybe because I care for you and you’re always pushing me away.’

He tilts his head. ‘You care for me?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you care for me? You don’t know shit about me.’

‘Maybe I can care without knowing everything.’

He smiles, but his eyes are strange. ‘You know what your problem is? You’re too uptight.’

‘I’m uptight.’

He nods slowly. ‘You’re uptight. You should take up yoga or meditation like your sister. That’ll help calm you down.’

For an instant it doesn’t hit me. And then it does and it’s like a kick to the gut. I stare at him and he stares back. I take a deep gasping breath.

‘How do you know my sister meditates?’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘It’s you,’ I accuse, my voice trembling. ‘You planned it all. You had her kidnapped, didn’t you?’ The ice in my voice shocks me.

He simply looks at me.

‘Didn’t you?’ I scream at him.

‘I did,’ he admits, utterly indifferent to the magnitude of his crime.

I stare at him open-mouthed with horror.

‘Do you still care for me, rybka?’ he mocks.

Rage slams into my brain and it feels as if my head is on fire, ready to explode. I see red. With a shriek of pain and fury I jump out of bed and fly at him. My fingers clawed and aiming for his face. At that moment I hate him. My nails don’t connect. He catches me easily and holds my hands high up in the air, looking down at me with a curl of contempt to his lips. I start kicking his legs and he suddenly, in a quicksilver move, turns me around so my back is pressed up against him and I am completely immobilized.

‘Let me go, you bastard,’ I yell in a mad frenzy.

‘When you stop trying to hurt yourself,’ he says serenely.

‘I’m not trying to hurt myself, I’m trying to hurt you, you stupid prick,’ I curse.

‘If you hurt me I will have to hurt you, and I don’t want to do that,’ he says.

‘You’ve already hurt me,’ I sob.

‘You are a child who is crying because she has stubbed her toe on a piece of hard furniture, but by tomorrow you will forget and you will be laughing again.’ He lets go of me.

I put some distance between us and look at him blankly. I am beyond anger or pain. Look at us. There is a chasm between us. It has always been there. Who knows how many wonders it holds, but I can never reach him, and I don’t want to anymore. I’m not sure how long I stand there frozen, simply looking at him. One minute, five, or perhaps even ten. All I know is that it is over. There is nothing left.

Then my senses come swimming back to me and I feel the first shaft of pain, and oh sweet Jesus, such loss. Such terrible loss. And anger. And betrayal. And sadness. Everything is jumbled up and bewildering, but I know only one thing. I have to get away from this house, this man, these feelings I have for him.

I run past him.

He doesn’t even attempt to stop me. I sprint up the stairs and into my room. Once there, I haphazardly throw a few things into my suitcase and stuff my manuscripts into my rucksack. I know I’m leaving my stuff, the stuff that I came here with, but I don’t care. I just need to get out of his house. I hook the rucksack into the crook of my elbow and, carrying the other bag, I exit the room.