Page 6 of Sinful Promise

3

DASHA

“Katsia, I can’t make it tonight,” I say loudly by my door. Moving deeper into my bedroom, I whisper, “Papa is home.”

“Shit. What the hell is he up to now?” My friend senses the disappointment in my voice.

I’m upset that he’s home, which means I won’t be able to go out tonight as planned. I’m pissed that my father continues to order me around. He always finds a way to make my life revolve around him. He’s in and out so much I’m dizzy.

“I don’t know. I hate to let you down.” I sit on my bed with my knees pulled to my chest and stare at my bare feet.

“It’s fine. I have the others to hang out with, but I wish you could go. I even picked a dress for you to wear.” I hear the sound of hangers sliding on a rod in the background and picture her putting something pretty back in her closet.

“I’m so sorry.” I hate apologizing because my father won’t let me have a social life. I make plans, but he cancels them. I want a job so I can get out of here. I want to make my own decisions and be an adult.

“Dasha, make dinner,” my father bellows from the dining room. I bet he’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking brandy.

He never says please, and I gave up expecting to hear a “thank you” years ago. He barks orders. Unfortunately, I have to follow them.

“I’ve got to go. Have fun tonight, and text me pictures.”

“I will. Later.”

“Later.”

I know better than to question the timing of our early dinner. It’s only four in the afternoon, and he wants me to cook. That’s nothing new. He expects me to do everything. He was away for a few days, the laundry piled up, and he’d never use the machine to do it himself. I have more clothes that need to be folded sitting in a basket next to Papa.

I walk down the short hall, glaring at the back of his head as I pass by. I clench my fists, my heart thumping in rage. He’s a control freak. I can’t wait for him to leave again. Maybe one day, he will leave and never come back. It might be my only way out of this hellhole.

I’m happy when he goes out of town with my brothers because I have the apartment to myself. We live on the outskirts of Minsk, where rent is cheap. The apartment is larger than most. I don’t know why we must live here because my brothers live in the city, and it’s expensive.

I’m convinced Papa wants to keep me hidden. It’s the only logical explanation. I can’t go anywhere without telling him. I can’t hang out with men, and I have few friends because of his controlling ways. Most women my age are dating or getting engaged.

I know English, but speaking it in the house would piss him off. I’d love to piss him off, but I don’t want the consequences.

I inform him in Russian that I’ll make a potato casserole. I’d love to try recipes from other countries, but Papa is used to our food. He’s overweight and never goes to the doctor. I begrudgingly love him, but I know he’s holding me back. I could take classes and work in technology. A job in tech would pay enough for me to share a place with Katsia.

Papa has an excuse ready for me every time I bring up a job. He says I’ll marry soon, and my husband will support me. I don’t want a man to support me. I want to get out and be on my own. I want to go to a club and dance instead of dancing alone in my room. When it comes to my personal life, he instinctively ruins my plans time and time again. I’m beginning to wonder if he has cameras hidden in the apartment.

How am I expected to get married if I’m not allowed to date? When I ask him about it, he shrugs and changes the subject.

I peel potatoes and wait for them to boil. I fold the laundry I washed this morning and stack the shirts and pants on the table, where he sits slumped over his glass of brandy. He gives me a critical look, meaning I didn’t fold them perfectly. No matter how hard I work, it’s never good enough for him. He’s never encouraged me to do anything besides graduate from school. I’m convinced he only let me stay in school because it kept me out of the way.

Why can’t he help with the laundry? I stomp into the tiny kitchen without a word. His eyes follow me. I’ve lived with his scrutiny my entire life. I pull out a cast-iron skillet and think about hitting him upside the head with it. I dutifully set it on the gas stove instead.

I adjust the burner for the potatoes and soothe my simmering resentment by daydreaming of the day I can finally leave. When he’s stressed, he’s worse and gets snippy. He hits the brandy earlier in the day and sips it late into the night. His words are slurred by the time I escape to my room to read my smutty books.

My room isn’t much, but it’s my sanctuary. I have a small TV and watch programs without my father standing over my shoulder, criticizing my choices. He thinks TV shows and movies from America and anywhere else in the Western world are all garbage.

Papa does odd jobs for a living, working mostly at night. He makes secretive phone calls. Last week, I overheard him telling my brothers that he dislikes the Volkovs family. I want to know why but know better than to ask questions.

They always say the less I know, the better. Papa has connections with elected officials who have a reputation for taking bribes. Bribes for what, I don’t know. Something nefarious is going on. I’ve always assumed he’s part of organized crime. We don’t discuss it, but I connected the dots before my seventh birthday.

Papa has an opinion on everything and tends to be a know-it-all. Even when he’s wrong, he never admits it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tracks my computer and my search history. Preventing me from working outside the home is his way of keeping me under his thumb.

I only get a break when he’s out of town. I wish he’d go more often. I wait on him hand and foot when he’s here. He says my mother had a drug addiction and left us, but I don’t believe it. One night, I heard him beating her and never saw her again. Did she run away, or did he dispose of her? I’m afraid to ask. I was only five at the time. He tells me kids don’t have memories when they’re that young. I disagree.

My family doesn’t socialize outside Papa’s group of friends. Friends? More like a band of thieves, really. They all dress in black, and what skin I see is covered in tattoos. I know they travel in and out of Russia. I know most of them by their first name. Some, like Andrian, I know by his last name, too, because he loves to throw it around. There are rumors he deals in human trafficking. I avoid him as much as possible. My life is nowhere near normal, but it’s all I know.

---