Page 54 of One of Them

Confident in my ability to protect myself, I even dared to counterattack.

That’s when he switched to weapons.

Scars covered my body. Deep stab wounds I refuse to erase. With no choice but to learn how to tend to them myself, some healed worse than others.

I submitted myself to this experience willingly. Some fucked up part of me allowed me to wear them proudly. Without a second thought. Never covered, they became an interconnected part of the handful of tattoos I got.

Not once have I thought about quitting. Never resorted to begging to be taken back to the compound.

What did I have to return to? An empty apartment and a meaningless life?

The thought of what one might consider a domestic life disgusted me. Failure wasn’t an option. Ilya was very insistent on seeing the training through. He had a shit ton of money, that much was clear. Why he wanted to invest it in me was the part I couldn’t make sense of. What was his motive? He hired the best of the best to pass their knowledge to me, of all people. Why not himself? I once again didn’t ask the right questions. I haven’t felt special, like once before.

I had an agenda of my own.

Uncle’s training finished half a year after living and fighting in the wilderness. I was losing my sense of humanity. Becoming one with the elements.

An obnoxiously loud helicopter brought us back to the compound where Ilya awaited, desperate to be brought up to speed with my progress. Given the approval of the teacher, we parted ways with a handshake. I watched Uncle drift away as I instinctively held both hands around my neck.

The first mission was to clear a compound north of the city, an act of retaliation for the killing of a Bratva member in cold blood. One of the lower-ranked gangs saw this as an opportunity and took it upon themselves to make their mark. They picked the wrong group to mess with. Ilya briefed me on all that needed to be done, and I agreed, feeling up for the task.

With a camera strapped to my chest, I stood in the compound. I was dressed in the outfit I stuck to whenever I was working: all-black leggings, a long-sleeved t-shirt, combat boots, and my hair styled in a single braid that swung with every move.

A Bratva member dropped me off at a nearby location. Guns and knives were my backup. My weapon of choice was a bow and arrow. No longer one of those wooden kinds used for hunting. The money my mother stashed for me came in handy, allowing me to purchase the weapon. A modern model with a sleek look and almost no weight to it. Ilya contracted a specialist to make all the customizations, the only other person I permitted to touch it. It had features and precision no gun allowed you to have. Sure, it cost me precious seconds to reload, but that’s not how I rolled.

The targets rarely saw me coming, and I often aimed from a distance. If I had to engage in short-distance hits, I commonly used knives.

Many reveled in the sounds the knife made when you sliced someone’s throat. Enjoyed their pain and suffering. In my mind, the targets were a task to complete, an object made of walking X’s marking the spots. It was a methodical process. I counted the hits in my head, one by one, until they totaled zero, and I was done.

Zoned out.

The first mission was a success. Ilya opened his favorite vodka to honor me, and I savored the taste.

The following week, the recording ended up being uploaded on the black market. The video served as a promo, and the inquiries poured in.

I was eighteen.

The inbox soon filled with jobs I was underqualified for, but I took them and learned on the go.

To this day, I recall where the marks were on my throat, even if they’ve long faded. I feel the powerful squeeze and the initial panic that overtakes you. I see the smoke coming from the gun my loving mother held.

The past had a way of catching up with you, even if you did everything to move on.

Yet, it didn’t haunt me; instead, it made me who I am now.

Stronger. Feared rather than fearful.

The kitchen was far too bright after the night I’d just had. As I turned the corner in search of breakfast, I was grabbed by the arms and gently pulled into the pantry. Alisa stood in the middle, her eyes glossy. Piles of snacks cluttered the counters. Half-bitten cookies, spilled Skittles separated by color. I briefly assessed the room before she spoke.

“Let’s go out.”

“Out where?”

“Anywhere. I wanna dance.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her face. “I never had a bachelorette party,” she pleaded.

I studied her closely. Whatever went down last night, Alisa was eager to forget. But what she was asking for went against everything Ilya instructed. Violated every safety protocol they’d put in place.

Good thing I didn’t work for the man.

---