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My shoulders droop as I hop down from the metal bar and stand on the ground. I continue staring at my feet, my hands balling into fists. The reminder that they’re no longer here to tease or call me Sashenka anymore fills my heart with a cloud of suffocating smoke.
I tap my chest, resisting the urge to cry.
The more I tap, the more claustrophobic it gets. Gruesome images sneak into my subconscious.
I can almost feel the weight of my cousins’ bodies covering mine. Thepop, pop, popsounds echoing in the air. The terrified shrieking, the pungent metallic smell of blood, and, eventually, how they became heavy.
They were so heavy, they crushed me. I couldn’t breathe or speak. I couldn’t—
A pair of big boots stop in front of me, and I straighten, thankful for the distraction.
No idea why those memories are hitting me now more than before. They were dormant for some time, but they’ve come back with a vengeance lately.
“It’s time for the morning meeting,” the newcomer announces in a gruff, unwelcoming voice.
He’s Lieutenant Viktor. Captain Kirill’s right-hand man. Or more like a persistent shadow. Whenever the captain isn’t here to observe my progress, Viktor shows up, acting as unwelcoming as he looks.
I prefer the captain’s company. No, not company. It’s not like he’s here to be my friend. It’s that, if I had to choose, I’d pick his presence, supervision, and attention to detail.
Sometimes, it feels as if he knows my progress and my weaknesses and strengths more than I do.
Viktor is just harsh with no rhyme or reason, and I don’t think he’s liked me since our first meeting that night.
“Yes, sir,” I say instead of asking why the captain isn’t here.
Viktor would just glare, make me feel lower than the dirt beneath his shoes for even asking, and then he’d eventually dismiss me or flat out ignore me.
He starts down the hall, and I follow behind. The boots are no longer heavy, and they don’t weigh me down, despite the exhaustion in my muscles. That’s because I’ve gotten used to training in the morning and at night in addition to the official training.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be allowed to do that by my direct superiors, but I think Captain Kirill has found a way around that regulation, because no one has bothered me since I started this marathon-like pace.
I wait for Viktor to go into the hall before I step inside. I grab a tray of food and sit in the only available spot, which, unfortunately, happens to be on Matvey and his gang’s side.
Five pairs of eyes glare at me, but that’s the limit of what they can do in public. After that time, Captain Kirill got them punished by our captain. I have no doubt that Matvey would finish what he started and avenge his wounded pride if he got the chance. Which is why I’ve made sure to avoid being in a position like the one from back then.
I’m stronger, but not strong enough to take on the five of them. Hell, even Matvey alone would be hard to defeat.
I stuff my face with the bland food. I used to eat way less than these men, but now, I’m a beast just like them. On the bright side, this means I’m improving my stamina.
It’s all thanks to…
I crane my head to get a glimpse of the special ops table. Viktor sits at its head, and despite his gloomy nature, a general cheerful atmosphere radiates from the rest of the guys. They’re all dressed in black, so they stand out against our green uniforms.
Some faces are as harsh as Viktor’s, some are young, and others appear welcoming, serious, and, well…loyal.
I’ve heard so much about them. Most of those men followed Kirill from the United States. They’re Russian, and most are Russian-born, but many, including the captain himself, are American-born. They still hold their Russian citizenship and have the right to serve in the Russian army if they choose to.
He recruited the rest from the professionally trained infantry he thought were worthy of joining his ranks.
One of them, a younger boy, probably about my age, laughs loudly, and Matvey clicks his tongue, then whispers, “Bunch of entitled fuckers thinking they’re all that.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but I tactfully choose to focus on my food.
“They’re not even real Russians,” goon number one agrees.
“How they think some Americanized motherfuckers are worthy of Special Forces is beyond me,” says goon number two before he chokes on his food.
Good. Hope he dies.
