kakistocracy
(n.) to be ruled by the worst person ever
MILA
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I sat on the window seat tapping my finger on the cold glass while trying to get the one lone rabbit in the wasteland of snow’s attention. He’d become my friend the past four days. The four days I’d spent locked in this room.
A middle-aged woman, owner of a tight bun, permanent scowl, and, apparently, one medieval black dress, delivered my meals three times daily.
“You can call me Yulia. I am housekeeper here. I do not like messes,” was how she introduced herself.
I didn’t respond, preoccupied with the perpetually locked door that finally lay open. I’d stepped toward it but froze when I saw a man standing in the hall with an assault rifle held across his chest. I imagined if I ran, a spray of bullets would follow.
By what I saw from the fixed bay window, I was on the second story of a remote house. Large and built of stone, with nothing but snow and trees surrounding it. If I shattered the glass and managed the jump without breaking my leg, I doubted I would get far with only a T-shirt and Elvis’s smolder to keep me warm.
I refused every meal the first day, receiving a look of condemnation from Yulia and a, “You are going to get in trouble.”
The second day, when I refused breakfast, she handed me a note.
Every meal you refuse is another day in your room.
Choose wisely, kotyonok.
I flushed the note down the toilet. And then, I refused lunch.
Yulia shoved another piece of paper at me.
I can only assume my pet wants me to hand-feed her.
But just so you’re aware, the thought of my fingers in your mouth makes me hard.
I ate the next meal.
Hours passed in this bedroom with nothing to do or watch except for the homemade porn on the TV. I washed my single item of clothing in the bathroom sink with a bar of soap and showered more often than necessary due to sheer boredom—and maybe with the small vendetta to skyrocket Ronan’s water bill in retaliation.
Soon, I realized solitude was the worst torture. Dwelling on my feelings of doubt especially. I wondered if my papa was responsible for that boy’s death, and if so, whether I would turn my back on him for it. I clearly wasn’t the honorable person I aimed to be because I didn’t think I could.
The truth was, love was self-serving. A greedy monster without morals, corrupting my most basic principles. Loyalty came hand in hand, tightly gripping my throat.
My thoughts and the walls closed in further each day.
I tapped on the glass again, drawing a look and a twitching nose from my furry friend. “I guess it’s just you and me, buddy,” I whispered.
And then an eagle swooped from the sky, his claws extended, taking off with my rabbit and leaving nothing behind but a wasteland of snow.
I woke to darkness and the Woman in Black at my bedside.
As a gasp of terror squeezed my lungs, I scrambled back against the headboard. My eyes focused in the moonlit room, and an exhale of relief poured from me. The phantom was none other than a skinny housekeeper.
“God,” I snapped. “What is wrong with you?”
Yulia arched an eyebrow, but I swore, as she moved to the door and turned the light on, her bony shoulders shook with silent amusement. Heart still pounding at the disturbing awakening, I blinked against the harshness of the overhead light.
“Your presence is required downstairs, devushka.”
The words settled on my skin like a thick, suffocating paste, and everything in me went quiet. I glanced at the clock on the wall to see it was twelve o’clock, and, slowly, I said, “It’s the middle of the night.”
Yulia yanked the comforter off me and began to fold it on the foot of the bed. “Laziness casts one into a deep sleep, and an idle person will suffer hunger.”
Did she just call me lazy? Most importantly, did she actually quote the Bible while aiding and abetting the devil? I didn’t dwell on her brand of insanity for long. The ironic thoughts floated away on an icy flood of anxiety.
I hadn’t seen Ronan since he locked me in here days ago. I assumed he had so many superior villainous things on his mind he’d forgotten about the captive in his guest room. The solitude was a relief and a hell all at once.
It seemed I was no longer forgotten.
Maybe, at this symbolic midnight hour, he’d decided to finally trade me for my papa’s life. Or maybe this was when the torture would begin. Maybe he’d decided the best revenge was to kill me instead.
My imagination conducted a circus in my head, flashing snapshots of my demise: Ronan pushing me out into the snow; inked fingers in my hair that forced me to my knees; his cavalier expression, and a pop as he put a bullet between my eyes.
A tremble rocked me at my core, and I grabbed the sheet Yulia was pulling away for something to hold onto. “I’m not going down there.”
Eyes narrowed, she tugged on the other end of the sheet. “Da, ty poydesh.” Yes, you are.
I tugged back. “Nyet, ya ne poydu.” No, I’m not.
Her glare intensified. “Get up. You have already made them wait long enough.”
Them?
The single word ravaged my body and soul, and the sheet slipped from my fingers. Yulia pulled it away, her expression smug with triumph, though her gloating was soon lost beneath the dread that poured in.
Maybe Ronan wouldn’t just kill me. Maybe he’d pass me around to all of his men first. I felt sick. So sick, I was unable to move. My breathing accelerated; chest squeezed tight. The panic raged a storm within me, and I was on the verge of losing this horrid reality to darkness, but the winded sensation paused when Yulia set a silky piece of fabric on the bed.
I stared at it.
It was a white, modest dress—one that looked long enough to reach the floor even on my tall frame, so it couldn’t have been an easy find. Why would Ronan make the effort to send me this dress if his men were only going to rip it off?
Disturbingly, the grip on my lungs eased at the thought maybe it would just be death.
But I refused to die in Gucci.
Somehow, the image of me lying in a frozen grave while vultures picked at my corpse adorned in a luxury dress sent a wave of amusement through me. It inflated in my stomach, rose to shake in my chest, and then, the laugh escaped in a deranged peal of hilarity that brought tears to my eyes. Yulia stared at me like I was one giggle away from being committed. Slowly, I sobered, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and headed to the door.
“You must dress, devushka.”
I didn’t stop.
Her voice hardened. “He will be displeased.”
Days ago, that statement ruled me, controlled my every movement like a puppet on a string. Now, with unhinged mirth in my veins and my demise on the horizon, it had no hold on me.
“I don’t wear silk,” I said, stopping in the doorway to give the dress a fleeting look. “But you can have it.” My eyes took in her stuffy black uniform she probably slept in. “Your wardrobe looks like it could use some variety.”
Her growl followed me into the hall. “I do not wear white!”
As of today, I didn’t either.
If I was a virgin walking toward sacrifice, I’d do it dressed in a black hand-me-down.
