Page 41 of Volatile

Stupid cunts. They don’t realize that I hate the attention more than they do and I’d rather cut their husband’s dick off than touch them.

I can’t even escape into the bathroom with the rumor mill already staking their claim on that space. It’s fitting considering they’re full of shit and the bathroom door is in my periphery. One of the Bratva princesses steps into the hallway and she quickly rushes back inside when she sees me. I’m not a teenager anymore, I’m a fucking adult, a grown woman, yet they still have the power to make me small and insecure all over again.

Marta can’t hide her giddiness as she walks over. She pointedly looks beside me to highlight that I’m alone, and I think peaceful thoughts so I don’t punch her in the fucking face.

“Did he leave you already?” she asks. “Mama thought you’d be smarter this time and manage to get one of them to stick around.”

I drain my champagne and look around the room while she steps closer and says, “Whores are for the night, not for life.”

Fuck her. Stupid fucking bitch. I hate her and I hate myself more because she can get under my skin. But I refuse to show her that she does or give her the satisfaction of having any power over me, so I fire back, “Shouldn’t you be focusing on your husband instead of another man?”

Or me.

She’s been obsessed since I was seven years old and every second word out of her mouth is my name. Back then it was stupid things like pulling my hair in the playground, it progressed to cutting it when I wasn’t looking during class, but the incessant fucking bullying got worse when I was forced to live with the bitch. Her need to torment me isn’t something she’s grown out of now that we’re adults either. It’s got stronger with each passing year and her preferred tactics are psychological which is why I leave all the assholes to their dick-measuring contest and swap my empty flute for a full one before I go into the garden.

The darkness is good; it’s never fully black with the city pollution and the external lights are dim, making it perfect to be alone. I lived here from twelve to eighteen, but it’s never been home. I hate the atmosphere and the air in the place as much as the people.

A group of men disturb my peace as I step onto the terrace. They’re standing with my stepfather. I turn right, hiding at the side of the building so he can’t touch me. The stupid fucking dress rides up and pulling it down is pointless, but I still try as though I can magically find more fabric to cover myself.

It’s all a game of showing me that my only worth is in my body, and it’s made to be an accessory for my mother. Pawn me off on some rich fuck in the hopes he beats me to death as she so lovingly told me growing up.No man will tolerate your disobedience, he’ll beat it out of you, and I hope you realize then that I’m doing this because I love you enough.

Stupid fucking cunt.

Marta isn’t even my first bully and I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother criticized my sonogram since I can never do anything right in her eyes. I was probably fucking born wrong too and came out of her sideways.

Dress shoes tap against the slabs, and I can breathe as they move further towards the doors, until my stepfather’s voice reaches my ears.

“She always dresses that way then blames me for looking.”

I didn’t fucking choose this dress, your wife did.

My mother knows what he’s like and she’s sick enough to hope he can manage to get his dick up so she can use it while staring at me. His brother’s voice forces a shiver to work up my spine and I flatten against the wall.

“I regret not taking her before she allowed every suka to get a taste.”

I’m going to throw up. My eyes close as I slow my breathing, and the brick scrapes against my shoulders with my attempts to get smaller physically while they do reduce me to nothing verbally.

“She was a whore before she came into my house,” Borya laughs and his brother joins in. It tapers off into a whistle as my step-uncle finds humor in tormenting a fucking child.

“You should have heard her on your wedding day.” He takes a deep drag of his cigar and I pray he chokes. I’m not fortunate enough because he says, “She started screaming, playing the innocent and scared little girl after teasing me during the dance.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been the same perverted bullshit since I was twelve. Comments on my body, eyes lingering too long, standing too close, and coming into my bedroom when I was on the opposite end of the house. But I want to scream and hot pressure builds behind my eyes with the urge to scream. I wasn’t fucking teasing him, I was trying to escape while a grown fucking man was grinding his dick into my twelve-year-old body and my mother slapped me instead of fucking listening to me.

When they finally shut the fuck up and bore themselves recounting everything they want to do to me and how I’d enjoy it, I can breathe again. Their steps don’t linger as they go back inside, and I sink into the wall. My hand trembles as I bring the champagne flute to my lips and little droplets cling to the crystals on the awful dress I’m wearing. It’s cold and dark, isolating, and I want to run to…someone, anyone. Just have someone who sees me as a person rather than the constant objectification. There’s never been anyone who has, but my stupid mind argues that Tali does. He wants to know things about me, but I shut him down; I trade my body before he can request it.

There are no sounds of anyone talking on the terrace and I tell myself that Vitali will be able to take this away. That it’s fine because it’s my choice to fuck him and we’re both trading parts of ourselves. I give him a release and he allows me to soak up his goodness as I push away from the wall.

I make it one step out into the dim external lights when my entire body goes rigid at Borya’s eyes on me. Straightening my shoulders, I tilt my chin in the air and walk with steady legs I don’t feel. He’s between me and the door and there’s nowhere for me to run, but I’m not a kid now and I’ll be fine. The ugly fuck moves into my path and his cologne is enough for bile to move up my throat. His hair is fully gray now, not just his head, but his mustache is all white too, and his eyes have lightened with old age.

None of that makes him less disgusting as he picks up a piece of my hair between his first two fingers. He rubs the strands together as though he’ll get his fucking wish granted as he gives his unwanted, unneeded opinion. “You looked better blonde.”

And you’d look better under six feet of dirt, but we don’t get what we want.

I can’t control my tongue with the knowledge that there’s no one around to hear me and slap his hand away.

“Don’t you mean as a child?”

His hand whips out, grabbing my face as he shakes in fear of someone overhearing. The stupid fuck doesn’t have a holster, there’s no weapon for me to use, and I push my hands into his jaw to create distance, but it has him jolting my body as he roughly slams me against the shadowed wall.

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