Page 16 of Sapphire Tears

Would it have made a difference if he’d come clean from the beginning?

Yes.

Another creak startles me. This one was more of a squeak, actually.

“Adrian?” I call out. No response.

I shrug and slump to a seat on the bed. The nighttime is the best time to stare at the stains on the walls. They take on the wildest shapes when there’s not much light to separate fantasy from reality.

I squint and exhale like it’s meditation. Figures start to appear in the mildew. The outline of a proud chin, dark hair flopping over a forehead, and—

Squeak.

Thump.

That was a footstep. Now that I’m listening, more observations rush in. The drag of a foot over the dirty tile floor. The harsh rasp of a man’s breath. The smell of cheap aftershave.

I get to my feet and tiptoe to the threshold that separates the front room from the back. The door has long since disappeared, but whoever was here before us hung a clear plastic shower curtain across the opening. I edge right up to it, but I can’t see anything on the other side. Just more shadowy shapes. The boxy lumps of the laundry machines beyond.

For a few moments, there’s no sound. No shuffling. No squeaks or thumps or anything but silence.

And then—

I scream as the man on the other side lurches through the shower curtain like a monster in a horror movie. Hands outstretched and grabby, eyes lit from beneath by the bare lightbulb Adrian keeps on the floor next to his bed.

I stumble backwards, too terrified even to scream. Tripping over Adrian’s crate nightstand, I land hard on my ass. The arm I use to break my fall is my injured one, so more pain radiates through me and I can feel the wet heat of fresh blood trickling free.

The man stands over me. I don’t recognize him. He’s broad and burly, with a thick beard and beady black eyes. Clutched in his fist is an ugly, homemade knife.

Time slows. I cast my eyes around the room, hoping there’s a weapon close enough to grab. But it’s just an expanse of broken, dusty concrete.

Then I see it—the phone Adrian gave me. It must’ve fallen off my bed when I got up, because it’s lying on the floor just a few feet away. If I just scootch backwards once, I should be able to—

“Not so fast, girlie,” the man snarls.

He lunges forward with his empty hand stretched out and snatches me up by the roots of my hair. I want to let loose the scream that’s been building in my chest, but before I can, he shoves a greasy rag in my mouth to stifle it.

“Fight me and I’ll make this hurt way more than it needs to,” he breathes right in my face. “But be a good little kitten and it’ll all happen fast.”

I couldn’t respond past the wadded fabric even if I wanted to. So I just close my eyes, right as I see him raise the knife high over his head, butt-first like a battering ram, and then start to bring it in a brutal, swooping arc down towards me.

The pain hits my temple at the same moment my eyes seal shut. I have enough time for one last thought before everything goes black. Not even a thought—just a word.

A name.

A hope.

A prayer.

Kolya.

7

JUNE

It’s the sharp pang of pain that wakes me up.

I’m sitting on an uncomfortable chair. My ankles are bound to the chair’s legs and my wrists are tied behind my back. Another reason my injured arm is crying out for mercy.

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