Chapter Text
Freedom To Be Me
Svetlana stands by the sink. Watching the water soak into the washrag in her cold hands. Her hands are always cold. There’s not a thing in the world that can warm them. The water is steaming. The rag is soaked and still she stands watching.
She was twelve when her father sent her to St Petersburg. They call it sex tourism. Child sex tourism. As though that makes it sound nice. It’s okay to rape a child if it’s tourism. Fucking an unwilling twelve year old, it was just part of the travel bundle.
The first chance she got, she ran. On the streets was no better.
Shipped overseas on a shipping container. Seasick in the darkness. Bodies crashing and grinding together as cattle in the close quarters and a storm at sea. Vomit, shit, and piss making the floors slick as the ship crested wave after wave, she could hear it crashing. The anger of the ocean. Crashing on the decks. Girls were crying. Holding themselves through the shakes.
But Svetlana sat still. Silent. Stomach flip-flopping, mouth dry. Silent. Still. Waiting. This is not where she would die. She knew that as clearly as she knew her place in this world. From the time she was just a girl, ‘Svetlana, you find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You make babies. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You do motherly duties.’
It was the seed planted in her head by her mother. Her mother who cooked. Cleaned. Did wifely duties so loudly even in the small, cold flat in the middle of a Russian winter. She could hear her father, every night, grunting and panting through the thin walls of their two bedroom apartment. Paper thin walls. And her mother’s matched moans that to a small child sounded more like they were wrestling or fighting. Maybe mother was being murdered. But there she was every morning, cooking, cleaning. Doing motherly duties. With a pinched smile on her narrow lips. In the small orderly kitchen, only enough room for father’s drinking buddies to play their cards at the kitchen table and get rowdy drunk on vodka. Ivan was always too drunk to leave and the children’s room was where the drunk guests would spend the night.
Ivan was allowed to sleep on a blanket on the floor. It was so. It was always so. Until Svetlana was eleven and woke to the feel of his penis on her thighs. His rancid drunken breath on her neck, his hands on her budding breasts.
Soon after it was St Petersburg for her. A distraction to men. Always a distraction to men.
Sasha was the first face she saw exiting the container in the port of Chicago. Svetlana was the last out. Sitting in the back corner as the other girls, shivering and hurrying to the warmth and fresh air exited into their life of more misery and more penises always trying to get in where they don’t belong. Waiting to explode like sticky volcanoes, ugly fucking skin-sticks.
And here she is, eight years after being sent to St Petersburg to become a stop on the child sex tour, here she is standing in the bathroom wiping sticky volcano spew off her inner thigh.
A heavy fist lands not once, not twice, but three times on the door, “you have customer,” Anatoly’s deep resonant voice.
It’s early. Much too early for a third costumer.
Looking at her face in the mirror she sees tired. And resigned. She sees a woman who wanted America the land of opportunities. Not America the land of unwelcome penises, closed fists to the gut, open-hands across the face, and small minds. Not America the land of hand jobs, fingers in the ass, penises in the mouth, penises in the pussy. Not America the ugly. She wanted America the beautiful. America the choice.
But she never had a choice. Cook. Clean. Do wifely duties. Here, there, it doesn’t matter. They’re both cold, windy. Alone.
So she replaces the paint on her lips with a fresh layer. Straightens her purple dress over her body. Her body that will be used-up in no time. An old whore with nowhere to go. ‘Svetlana, you find man’. Always, always echoing in her head. The seed has become the plant, has become the flower, has gone to seed and blown away on the cold winter Chicago wind.
Anatoly is standing by the door with the keys in his hand.
She scoffs at him. A house call. This early in the day. Breezing past him with the clicking of her heals on the tiled floor of the massage parlor. Into the late summer air of a city of possibilities. Possibilities on every corner. If you’re willing to sell your flesh, that is.
He opens the door for her. She steps into the black SUV. Through the tinted windows she watches as the neighborhood goes from bad to worse.
“Where?” she finally wonders as the streets become familiar from last week.
“Milkovich,” he responds as he turns the last corner.
She swallows her objections. Objecting a week ago only got her backhanded across the cheek. So instead she pats her dress where she’s sewn the hidden pockets. A switchblade in one and a pepper spray bullet in the other. He bit her breast her last week. He’s not going to get a chance this time.
The unnecessarily large vehicle comes to a halt at the curb. Anatoly is too chicken shit to come in. Like a he’s supposed to. Come in and stand outside the bedroom door. To make sure, to know the client is following Sasha’s rules. But Anatoly is a pussy. He’s seen the collections of guns in this house. And the multitude of young dirty, loud-mouthed men that seem to crawl out of the woodwork when there’s a whore on the premises. Wanting a turn, always wanting a turn. All of them.
All but the one. The one with the dark hair and soulful eyes. Always choosing the right moment to slip through the door undetected by the others before his turn. Svetlana is just a rancid whore as far as he is concerned.
Anatoly’s hand appears in front of her face, palm out, waiting, “blade,” he orders without turning to make eye contact.
She hesitates. This man has no idea. No idea what it’s like to be ridden and groped, slapped, poked, prodded, hair pulled, bitten.
His fingers flourish impatiently in front of her face. She sighs, pressing the blade into his palm. Fingers moving again, “spray too Svetlana.”
“Fuck you.”
“Now,” his head turns, leveling her with an icy gaze.
Knowing too well what his fist feels like in her stomach, what his backhand feels like on her jaw, what his disgusting skin-stick feels like pounding into her from behind as he pushes her face down against the table. She hands it over reluctantly. Sucking on the insides of her cheeks quickly, puckering her lips and letting lose a dart of spit into his hand as she pushes the door open and throws herself onto the curb. Her middle finger in the air as the tires squeal away from the curb.
Straightening her dress. He’ll be back in an hour. One hour. Always.
Piece of shit. She clears her throat, from as far down as she possibly can, far enough to bring forth some of the sticky residue from her last client, rolling it around on her tongue and spitting on the hot pavement where the oil stain was left behind by that gas-guzzling flashy piece of steel, plastic, and rubber.
‘You find man. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties. You have babies. You do motherly duties.’
This is your lot in life.
Running her fingers through her teased brown hair, feeling the heat of the mid-morning summer sun on her bare shoulders. Smelling the garbage lined streets, listening to the screeching and clanging of the L.
Her eyes close for just a moment. Just one moment to gather her nerve. Anatoly is gone. What is to stop her from walking away? What is to stop her from getting on the train and never looking back? A whore in Chicago, a whore in LA, a whore in Russia. What’s the difference? Maybe she gets on a train and doesn’t get off until she’s on the West Coast where it’s always sunny and the wind is always warm. Maybe she gets work as a nanny for a rich couple. Maybe they provide room and board. And she cooks. She cleans. She does motherly duties. But never wifely duties.
Her feet start to turn. A step towards the L. What’s to stop her from climbing up there and throwing herself on the tracks? A second step and the sound of a door opening. A face appearing. All rough and ragged and hard weather. Stony and angry. Always an expression like the world has wronged him. Like all the faggots and blacks, the jews and muslims, the women and liberals; they’re all out to get him. They’re all out to personally attack him, destroy him. Tear down his walls and steal his guns, force him to pay taxes and treat his children like human beings. Every single one of them on the attack, wanting to force their way of life on poor white man. White, straight, christian man who was just born the right way. And every one else was born wrong.
Welcome to the land of choice.
A handgun in his grip as he jerks his head to the side. A cigarette pinched between his lips.
Fuck Anatoly.
She enters the house. Fully expecting the whole horde of them. Drinking, swearing, smoking, and all shouting for attention. He with the loudest voice wins the first round with the whore. Celebrating their latest scam. Or spending the drug money before it’s even counted.
But they’re not here. It’s quiet. She hears the door close behind her and she looks to the living room. The couch. The chair. The boys are bloody. They’re just boys. They’re nearly naked.
The orange one looks confused as his hands drop away from his face. The dark one looks amused, he knew this was coming. A half smile, knowing and resigned rolled into one. A look Svetlana is familiar with, a feeling she’s familiar with.
“That one,” as he moves behind the couch. The trail of cigarette smoke following him. The gun tucked into his pants.
She stands in front of the boy. He’s watching her eyes. He’s barely conscious but the pain is so raw and so heavy she cannot deny it. He knows. He knows what is about to happen. And that doesn’t make it okay. It never did.
“She’s gonna fuck the faggot out of you kid,” he leans towards his son’s ear, his hands on the afghan behind his head. The cigarette like a threat between his fingers. How many times has he put one out on the boy’s pale flesh? If she looked at the soles of his feet, how many round scars would she find?
He stands up straight, taking one step back and the cigarette rises, pausing midair while he appraises her hungrily, “ride him until he likes it.”
Burning white paper and chemicals with an orange tip floating across the air to his lips. She removes her dress. Looking at the boy. He is so young. And so afraid. It’s flashing in his eyes. His eyes that have never met hers before for longer than a passing glance. Now they’re locked on, as her dress rises over her head. Afghan orange, and brown, and white. Probably something his mother crocheted. Behind his head. His head that must be ringing with physical pain, racing with emotional pain.
“And you’re goddamn gonna watch,” the cigarette jabbing into the air like punctuation towards carrot boy.
Boy is queer. Boy with beautiful eyes is queer. And this is the land of choices.
Freedom to be me. As she reaches for his underwear. The blood is distracting. Like mud dragged in on a boot tread across an otherwise pristine floor.
Freedom to be you. As he helps her lower the shorts. He’s weak from the beating.
Queer boy fought back. Queer boy is sick of father kicking him around?
As her knees meet the couch beside his hips his head raises, eyes landing on orange boy and his face twists. And Svetlana knows how this feels. An undesired body part coming near and touching your most private area. A body part you don’t want to feel breeching the surface of your skin. It makes you feel as though you’re being zapped. Like an electric shock when you’re little and you rub your stockinged feet along the carpet to build up the static before you reach out and touch your brother’s nose to jar him, with a laugh as you take off running. But no laughing this time.
No. Nothing funny or childish and silly here.
Queer boy fought back because father hit orange boy. As his blue eyes linger on the other boy, she sees it. He is the broken child cowering in the corner, only lashing out when the person he loves is in danger. Father can do whatever his cruel heart desires to his own children. But child will not stand by and watch as father harms lover. Child takes his stand and father hits. Again and again into his face with his heavy fist. Again and again until child is crushed down into couch cushions and bleeding, gasping for air. Again and the sickening sound of steel on bone. Lights out.
Lights barely back on when a Russian whore enters the room.
Father is still behind the couch as her hand slides up his thigh. His eyes flicker to hers and it takes the breath from her lungs.
Boy is queer and no amount of pussy is going to change that. Boy is queer and this is land of opportunity. Of choice. Of freedom. Burger King? McDonalds? What is the difference?
The difference is a father with a gun.
But this is a house full of weapons. This is a boy who is broken and bleeding and barely conscious. And no amount of pussy will interest his gay penis. Father doesn’t realize this as he watches. He’ll be coming around the edge of the couch soon to see. To see if gay penis is coming to attention for pussy. For pussy that is rubbing against it because that’s what she was called here for. Ride him until he likes it. What if he never likes it? What if he only like McDonalds with his orange hair and his big hands and his penis? What if he never likes Burger King with her layers and her folds and dark places that are musty and used up and she’s only twenty years old? Find a man. You find man Svetlana. You cook. You clean. You do wifely duties.
A man with black hair and sky blue eyes that are misting over with pain so raw it moves like a saw blade through Svetlana’s core. While his gaze lingers on her face. If penis is going to respond he better start looking at orange boy. What if it doesn’t respond? Will they all be on their knees on the linoleum, hands bound at the wrists, taking turns getting a bullet to the back of the head? Dead bodies wrapped in tarps and buried at the Southshore docks? Or cut up and dropped in acid? Or weighted down and dumped in the river?
A man who likes McDonalds.
Her blade and her pepper spray may be gone. But Anatoly is stupid. And she is not.
She looks beyond the boy who’s eyes are getting heavier by the second. On the verge of passing out. She looks at the old man who is watching her. Small man, small penis, small mind. Easy to control. The expression she wears like a mask taking her features. The expression she’s worn so easily since she was twelve years old back in St Petersburg with strange men with strange accents scanning over her like goods at a market place. The expression that says silently ‘take me, take me, I’m worth your money, take me, I want you, I need you’.
Find man. Cook. Clean. Wifely duties.
Fuck you Mama.
Eyes staying on father. Hand sliding across boy’s face, leaning into him. He’ll either give in to the pull of exhaustion and pain, or he’ll do something now. He’ll do something to take control, he’ll get one last burst of self-preservation and he’ll flip her over and fuck her until he can pretend she’s orange boy, or pretend he’s straight. Or whatever father wants.
Her index and middle finger find the base of boy’s skull. Behind his ear, soft place where neck connects to jawline. Gentle pressure. If boy takes control this will all be over. Rubbing deeply and evenly into his tissue, feeling his hands falling away at his sides. Just a push, a little push back into unconsciousness, back into the safety and warmth of falling, darkness that is comfort overtaking his mind.
Her eyes remain on the father as she emits a low moan, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. He’s eyeing her, exactly the way she knew he would. Like she is not more than goods at the market.
This house. It is full of weapons.
There are two of them now. Orange boy looks stupid. But maybe not so stupid. Maybe strong, maybe just gym muscles. But orange boy grew up South Side, then he must have something resembling survival skills. Orange boy can see clearly from his view on the chair, if he’s watching, that his lover has slipped back away to a different plane of existence. He can see that his queer penis has not responded, he can see that she’s not even trying anymore. Just rocking and rubbing for the sake of show, for the sake of showing father.
‘And you’re goddamn gonna watch,’ was what father said. Is orange boy watching?
Her hand falls from pretty-eyed boy’s face to the couch. Weapon. There must be a weapon somewhere. Her left hand sliding through his hair, keeping his head level so father does not see he’s unconscious.
He shifts, he’ll step around front now. He’ll see this show is false. She keeps the panic from her eyes. What will happen? He kills his own son in front of lover? Kills lover in front of whore? Kills whore for simply existing?
Or she can maintain control. Her fingers slip through the blood starting to crust in boy’s hair, reaching out for father’s hand. Lifting it off the couch and sucking his fingers in her mouth.
Right hand contacts a string of balls on couch. Kinky little rainbow boys.
Shit. No hammer? No screwdriver? No bat? Not even a hypodermic to stab in his eye?
Poop-place-beads will have to work for distraction. She pulls them closer, sliding half under sleeping boy’s leg. She wants to look at orange boy, but turning her head away from father will tip him off. This has to happen quickly when it happens. Her left fingers are climbing his wrist as she sucks his fingers deeper into her mouth, drawing back only to lick and twirl her tongue.
Stupid man. Stupid ugly man. With stupid ugly skin-stick. And his stupid ugly skin-stick is guiding his useless brain as she guides his hand to her breast. Smiling coyly at him as she licks her lips, sliding her fingers through her hair, snagging her hoop earring. Hoop earring with spring loaded blade. Small blade. More like needle. But enough to put in that dark bullseye of his pupil.
The cancer stick in his left hand, her breast in his right. The gun in his pants. The blade in her left. Deep breath, easing up on her knees to get closer to father. Angry little prick of a man. Butt-beads in her right.
The left hand jabs, the right hand swings. Eyeball stab and a good smack to the temple with queer son’s sex toy.
“What the fuck?” he sputters, hand rising for his eye. Not gaining his bearings soon enough to reach for the gun before she launches off the couch. Crashing into him as she struggles for grasp of the pistol. This piece of shit has no problem hitting woman. This she knows. And this she feels. But gun is in her hand, even as his fist is connecting with her ribs.
She does not want to shoot. Too much attention, the sound of gunfire. Bearing down on her shoulders with all her weight into his chest on the floor. Even as her ribs are cracking with the hard blow of his angry fist. But she has the gun. It’s in her hand and she’s gripping with her right hand at his throat. Not enough to block his air, but enough to make the panic rise in his chest, enough to make his left hand grip her wrist as she jerks the gun out of his pants. Sitting up now, gaining the angle to slam the gun down on his face before he can block.
Fuck being skinny young woman. Not enough weight behind the swing to knock him unconscious. Only enough to stagger him. Caught off guard but not broken.
Where is carrot boy? Useless McDonald clown.
She reels back and swings again, but this time his left hand has grabbed hold of her hair. Jerking her head to the side, throwing her off balance. The connection is strong but not strong enough and his right hand is gripping her fingers over the barrel of the handgun. Twisting her wrist. She must let go, or her wrist will snap.
His hands are on the grip, his finger is on the trigger. This is where she dies. Not in that shipping container. Not on the streets of St Petersburg. Not on the streets of Chicago. But in the home of a child abusing, sexist, homophobic piece of shit.
But Svetlana has been the raped enough. She will not become the rapist. If it means her life. So be it. America. The land of choices. Freedom to be me. Freedom to be a whore with morals. Freedom to be you. Freedom to be a gay boy with an orange love and a hateful father.
Maybe this is enough. Maybe she is dead whore with bullet in her head. Rolled in a tarp and thrown in the river. And maybe father needs son’s help disposing of body. So maybe son doesn’t get raped today. And maybe by the time they’ve disposed of the body they’ve come to understanding. Father will not go to prison because son helped hide crime. Son will not be fucked straight by a whore. At least not today.
And maybe this is enough. Maybe this is more than cook. Clean. Do wifely duties.
Suddenly a rush of movement and a jolt into her shoulder sends her spilling over to the side. A gunshot sounds and the sickening smack of wood on flesh and bone. It happens again. Or it echoes in her head. She’s unsure. Liquid splattering on her face as she turns. The sound of skull shattering. Her eyes close but she hears herself shout, “enough.”
Carrot boy kills father? Little pretty-eyed queer never forgive him. Does not matter what father does to son, son still loves.
“Enough!”
She hasn’t told her body to move but it does. It acts like a shield between orange boy and father bleeding on floor, “enough!”
There’s a detached glow in his eyes but it recedes when he focuses on her face, the bat halts on his backswing. The momentum enough to bounce off his shoulders while the adrenaline fueled self and lover defense starts to recede with each blink.
Her left shoulder feels strange, her ribs are aching, and her head is spinning. What now? The same question is painted across the green irises of the orange boy looking down at her. What now?