Page 52 of Shadows of the Past
"He wasn't interested in the offer," I say, feeling heat crawl up my neck and spread across my chest.
For several seconds, while I fidget with my gun and check twenty times that it's loaded, I feel his gaze on me. Unable to wait for another rejection, I rush to add, "Please forget what I said. I think this place is making me lose my mind."
A lie because the place isn't to blame. I'm human, and it's not fair that they can go out and satisfy their needs while I can do nothing.
"Juls, it's not that. He'd rip out my liver and spleen and make me eat them if I touched you," he explains in the tone a parent uses to make a child understand.
"For that, he'd have to care, Akim."
I hate how much frustration I packed into that sentence, but I can't help it. That's how I feel.
"I think that's exactly his problem. He cares too much and doesn't know what to do with those feelings."
I try to listen and repeat to myself that Akim is right. Maksim isn't indifferent—he just doesn't know how to handle emotions like the rest of us, and instead of facing them, it's easier to ignore them. But this wall between us feels like it's suffocating me more with each passing day.
"Yesterday we found another child at the edge of the forest. This time it looks like they put up a serious fight against their attacker, which is probably why he's so on edge. We couldn't identify the perpetrator from the DNA."
"¡Ay Diosito! But there hasn’t been an attack for over six months," I say quietly, remembering the nights we spent watching to see who was luring these children out and killing them so brutally.
"Yeah, something's rotten here, Juls. I don't know why, but something feels completely wrong. How about later we go to the flower shop and you pick out some sunflowers, then we can get ingredients and you can cook some tacos al pastor? I think we need a little normalcy to recover," he suggests, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
I know the cruel things Akim does too. Two months ago, I found him in this same barn where we train, interrogating a soldier. The man was missing both hands, and Akim was cauterizing the wounds. When he saw my pale face and how I froze, his only response was, "So he doesn't bleed out too quickly." Yet this man wants to brighten my day, and since my chances of leaving here alone are zero, I accept.
During training, I try to pour all my stress and frustration into my targets and the punches I throw at Akim. At some point, I'm sure I'm sweating from head to toe, and only when I feel my muscles about to give out do I step back and call it quits.
Before heading back to the house, I ask him to show me some photos of the child who was killed this time, and he's right. The signs of struggle are clearly visible on the body. Either the attacker is losing patience, or the children are becoming more skeptical.
We've tried to warn them, but they're just kids. If someone tricks them with the promise of escaping this hell, they all accept.
When I enter the house, I hear a scream from the basement and already know what's happening. They've brought in another convoy even though there are still people from the last group down there. Too many children. Too many victims.
For two years, we've been trying to infiltrate the inner circle to find out who Ivan's "suppliers" are, which accounts and routes he uses for important shipments, but without success. The last mole ended up disfigured in the Oka River. How the hell he got there, even we don't know.
Move, Julia.
In all the months I've been here, the only times I could have tried to escape were when either Maksim or Akim took me off the property.
I knew what it meant if I ran. After the spectacle with Aleksandr two years ago, any mistake, any slipup would be pinned on Maksim, and I didn't want to cause him any more trouble. So I closed my eyes, ears, and soul to all the terrified screams, all the blood, all the beatings I witnessed.
I throw myself into the shower, trying to wash away the day's unease and frustration. I checked on the girls yesterday, and they were fine. My uncle seems to be managing with two eight-year-old firecrackers, and at least that's some consolation.
I search for something more feminine to wear, just for this occasion. I feel like I've become one with cargo pants and black or beige T-shirts, but somehow they've become part of who I am. After putting on a pair of jeans, boots, and a red knitted sweater, I stand and look in the mirror. My face is more mature thanwhen I first arrived here, and I look into my own eyes, searching for a trace of my father.
Te extraño tanto, Papá.
There are days when I can't breathe thinking about them. Days when I wish Martin's punch had dragged me into permanent darkness. But I'm here, and I'm trying not to lose myself. For them.For him.
I didn't even notice I wasn't alone in the room anymore until two gray eyes appear in the mirror. I don't flinch because his presence is always an antidote to my anxiety. It's his detachment and the way he seems unaffected by anyone and anything that makes me hope I'll be like that someday. Because I feel too much. I want too much.
"Where are you going dressed like that?" His tone is meant to be curious, but I don't miss the note of suspicion.
"Akim said we could go into town to buy some flowers and ingredients for tacos al pastor," I recite without any emotion in my voice.
He doesn't deserve my emotions.
Something in his features tenses, and I can't help the way my heartbeat doubles.
Do something, Maksim. Anything.
