Page 3 of Volatile Waters

Kirill moved with much speed, wrapping his arms around her from behind, and hoisted her into the air. Little tan legs kicked out from under a sundress, but Kirill only laughed. Tears dripped down her perfectly high cheekbones as my father stalked forward. “I could’ve made much money with this body.” All family members circled their prey as Father caressed her wiggling hips. “But all my hard work to build my own empire deserves compensation.” He grabbed her chin with force and lowered his voice. “That will be you.”

Uffe laughed as he walked out the front door, Marina crying out for him. So many hands groped at her body, too many to fight off at once. The way my family members all craved her, following as she was forced into the newly modified basement, crying and screaming for the man she believed loved her, unbuckling their trousers, had me wondering about what they claimed to deserve. Bearing not one ounce of regret on their faces, they had me thinking they were doing nothing wrong.

My mind was being trained, my thoughts shaped before I was in training myself.

Marina’s cries could no longer be heard when the basement door closed. The house went eerily quiet. Alone, I went to my room and crawled under the blankets.

When I heard the doorbell so early in the morning that it was still dark outside, there wasn’t another sound in the house. Once the doorbell chimed again, I crept down the extensive staircase. On the bottom floor, my bare feet tiptoed across the white marble tiling. After hearing tires spin down our long private driveway, I gathered the nerve to open the door.

Until that dark morning, I had been innocent of what torture looked like.

The naked body, lying on the bricked entrance, had dried blood from every orifice that they had used, but it was her chest that grabbed the attention of my young mind. Her breast had been violently removed. Yet, her eyes were closed in a relaxed fashion, as if not having felt the pain.

That is when I knew my mother was dead.

No one came running as I screamed in Russian.

No one came to the rescue of a terrified little boy who vomited next to his mother’s corpse. So, I ran to the last place I had seen the male figures in my life enter. Banging on the locked basement door, I cried hysterically, snot and tears dripping all over my pajamas.

The door swung open, and half-dressed men raced past me and to the wide-open front door, guns in hand. Collapsed on the floor, I watched as they examined my mother in a heartless fashion. Father was more upset about the poem stapled to her bare stomach. He ripped it off, her dead flesh taking the brunt of his anger.

In Russian, he read,

My business is my business. Yours is now yours.

Get in my way again, and I will steal your whores.

Standing over my dead mother, as if she were merely a chess piece in their vicious game, Uncle slapped Father on the back. “At least, now, her endless spending will cease.”

Father nodded, appearing perplexed. “This could have been worse.”

To try and comfort myself, I pulled my knees to my chest, shaking.

Uncle checked his cellphone. “No news of other retaliations.”

“An eye for an eye. Now, it is done.” Father held up the piece of paper. “This poem tactic, it is good, no?”

Barely interested, Uncle shrugged his shoulders. “Effective, I suppose.”

“I will remember this way of delivering a message.” Gesturing to my mother’s corpse, Father told other family members, “Get this cleaned up. At least, I got a son out of her.” His eyes searched his surroundings to find me by the basement door, still on the cold tile, drying vomit on my chin. His expression showed disappointment. “I see he has some growing up to do.”

I don’t know exactly when Marina was brought up from the basement, but one day she was in the main house, the first of the live-in sex slaves we would come to refer to as the Elites. The Elites were high-dollar sex slaves that had been trained for buyers who favored BDSM. Our slaves were literally handpicked and specialized in the fields of Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadism and Masochism, and Slave and Master—a client favorite.

Exiting my bedroom on the second floor, I heard unusual noises—grunts and moans—from my father’s bedroom. None the wiser, I opened the door to see something my innocent mind could not comprehend. In the center of his huge room was Marina, bent over and tied to a moving table, one Father willed toward the front of his naked hips, repeatedly. Father’s head was leaned back, his mouth gaping, eyes closed, and he was panting in rhythm to the fast-moving contraption.

Marina’s legs were tied apart, and her face was very red. Veins were raised from her neck. My heart pounded as I realized she was trying to scream but couldn’t, due to the ball strapped inside her mouth that was secured around her head. As the table kept moving, her eyes slammed shut, tears falling.

To avoid being noticed, I slowly retreated back into the hallway, only to run into my Uncle’s chest. He whispered in my ear, “You like what you see?”

Horrified, I shook my head, staring at my father maneuvering the table with large handles I had seen on an exercise machine.

Uncle whispered again. “You will when you learn that they like it.”

I slid past him and pressed my back against the hallway wall. “But, but, she is crying, Uncle.”

I didn’t understand why he laughed at my statement. “‘Crying uncle.’ This is truer than you know.” He gently tugged on my shoulders. “Yury, the time will come when you will understand this is a game. There are winners, and there are losers.” He pulled me back to the doorway, forcing me to see Marina, now unconscious, but the act still taking place. Father’s arms were sweating as he worked the long handles. Uncle asked, “Does he look like the loser?” At that moment, my father roared his release.

I tried to escape, but Uncle held tighter. I stuttered, “B-But, what about her?”