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Then our lives went to hell.
He wanted a son to carry his name.
Our mother delivered three girls, followed by a stillborn son. Our father turned to drinking. He became abusive. Curses yelled at Irina when she didn’t shut the front door and let the cold air inside. Katya—my second oldest sister—forced to stand in the rain when she tracked mud in the living room. A slap to my face when I dropped the pig slop outside of their pens. Worse of all, he beat out mother and called her a lazy whore when she didn’t prepare his dinner to his liking.
Our happy home turned into a living nightmare.
But he still wanted a son.
For years, he bred our mother, no different from the sows. She gave birth to Syuzanna and another stillborn son. Our father cursed her even as her health deteriorated. Gone was our cheerful mother with the shining dove gray eyes—so like mine. Only a fragile husk of a woman remained. Her skin paler than her waist-length ash blonde hair, again another trait of hers I bear. But he didn’t stop.
His hopes of a son died with Tasha. Our father took one look at the baby girl and left the house cursing.
Irina chose her name since it means birthday. I helped Katya to clean our mother and our baby sister. Papa returned drunk and covered in dirt. He took our mother bound in a sheet and buried her in the yard. We watched as he shoveled dirt over her lifeless body. That night, he came for Irina. She was sixteen.
When she screamed from our parents’ bedroom, Katya and I raced from the one we shared. We banged on their door. The angry muffled voice of our father sounded before Irina’s teary one. She told us she was fine and begged for us to go back to sleep.
We waited outside the door and heard the bedsprings creak like they did when our mother was in the room. Our father’s grunts and groans blended with them. Irina’s soft cries broke my heart.
Katya snatched my hand as I raised it to bang on the door and covered my mouth. She dragged me to our bedroom and closed the door. Silently, she moved me to the bed, where she told me to sleep.
That was the first night I dreamed of killing my father.
Four years later, and I still want him dead.
His sick obsession with Irina continues. But last year, he stooped to a new low.
Every year, giant, scary men arrive at the village. They demand tribute from the poor families and give them little money in exchange. Their trade? The untouched eighteen-year-old girls. We only learned of their visits when our father came home last year and told Katya to pack a bag. I dared to question him. He cuffed me upside the head. The world tilted before I slammed into the wall. Katya scurried to do his bidding.
An hour later, a windowless, black van drove into our yard. Three burly men piled out while the driver remained behind the wheel. Our father rushed from the house and greeted them. They glanced over as he gestured behind him to where my sisters and I huddled at the window.
Terror gripped us when our father called for Katya. It was worse than when he called for Irina. We held tight to Katya. He charged inside and dragged her screaming and crying from our grips. A backhand to the face sent Syuzanna reeling. I ran after him as he yanked Katya through the front door.
The men eyed her appreciatively and expressed their approval. Like our mother and me, Katya has the same light hair and eyes, tall, and naturally slim from years of little to eat. One man took her by the arm and pushed her toward the back of the van, where another man opened the door. Her cries silenced as they slammed the door shut.
I shouted and ran forward, only for our father to stick out his arm. It caught me at the throat, and I fell to my knees in the dirt. Even as I gasped for breath, I cried Katy’s name.
Our father thanked the men for the bag of money and watched as they climbed into the van and drove off. I fell to my face and cried until no tears remained. Syuzanna and Tasha helped me to my feet and half carried me to the house. We passed our father as he left.
Hours later, he returned singing loudly as the front door slammed shut. Irina jumped from my bed where she stayed when he wasn’t around. Her wide eyes stared at the door. On cue, he called for her. Dejectedly, she left the bedroom. Fresh tears fell from my eyes as Syuzanna, Tasha, and I held Borya and Yeva close.
Now, it’s my turn.
During dinner, our father told me to pack a bag. My sisters peeked at me. The fork halfway to my mouth hung suspended as I realized the implication of his words. The burly men were coming for me. I’d never return, just as we’ve never seen Katya again. The fork lowered to my plate. Bile rose in my throat. The thought of escaping leaped into my mind. Then our father spoke.
“Unless you want Syuzanna to go in your place, you will pack your bag after you wash the dishes. Tomorrow morning, you will leave. Be thankful I gave you time to say goodbye to your siblings.”
He finished his dinner and called for Irina.
Now, as I glance at the few ragged clothes I own, Syuzanna tries to console me. Tasha watches, eyes shine with tears. I must be strong for them.
“Listen to me,” I say as I face my younger sisters as they sit on the bed while Borya and Yeva play on the floor. “Syuzanna, you are the eldest now. Take care of Tasha. Don’t leave everything for Irina to do. She has enough with Papa.”
“Y—Yes, Gala.”
“Tasha, be brave. Watch after the little ones.”
She nods as trails of tears glisten on her pale cheeks. Her brown eyes flick from me to Borya and Yeva. As though sensing the tension, they toddle to me and wrap their arms around my legs. As my belly roils, I swallow back a sob and crouch, then draw them into my arms. I bury my face in the black hair they inherited from our father. Closing my eyes, I inhale their soap scent to imprint it on my mind. I rise with them in my arms and place them on the bed.
