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Ironically, my younger self would be disappointed in me now, as I’ve been praying for anyone to save me from this place.
I’ve been locked in this house for four days now, in my own luxurious Russian dungeon with a menacing visitor every night. Strangely, I welcomed any company to ease the loneliness creeping up on me. What chilled me the most wasn’t his nightly visits, but his demeanor. He’d arrive silently, hand me a picture frame, then leave.
The first night, it was a photo of me as a child, happily eating ice cream on the porch of our old house.
The second night, he left another photo—me and my old Persian cat on our big beige sofa, its paw in my hands.
On the third night, I couldn’t bear it anymore. I begged him to let me go, but he ignored me and left another picture on the bed. This one was from my 4th birthday, wearing a blue and white floral dress and holding a small white cake with “Happy Birthday!” written in blue frosting.
Birthdays never meant much to me, but that one was special. I got my first telescope and spent the night learning about the stars with Dasha.
After spending hours looking at Sirius and Polaris, she laid me down on my bed, pulled up my pink covers, and told me a story about Alexander and the Wolf.
According to the tale, a king’s orange tree was being robbed every night by a sneaky bird. The king promised his kingdom to whoever caught the bird. All his older sons failed, so the king asked Alexander, his youngest, to succeed. Alexander stayed awake all night, and upon seeing the bird, attempted to grasp it by the tail but only managed to catch one feather.
The king, disappointed but true to his word, declared that whoever caught the bird would be his heir. The older brothers chose an idle life, but Alexander took the second path, and a gray wolf devoured his horse. Exhausted, Alexander accepted the wolf’s offer to carry him. The wolf brought him to a field where the bird was and warned him not to touch its golden cage. Alexander caught the bird but tempted by the beautiful cage, set off alarms and was captured.
The king of that village agreed to free Alexander if he brought him the gray wolf’s head. Distraught, Alexander confessed his disobedience to the wolf. The wolf, having befriended Alexander, forgave him. As they sat by the fire, Alexander expressed his desire to make his father proud. The wolf advised him that the only pride worth seeking was his own.
Under the stars, Alexander, overwhelmed with sorrow, woke up, approached the wolf, and with trembling hands, stabbed him in the stomach.
The wolf whimpered and whispered, “Whatever reward is given for betrayal; loneliness is the only true prize.”
After completing both quests, Alexander became heir to his father’s throne but lived a life full of regrets.
Eventually, with a heavy heart and a darkened soul, he took his own life.
Moved by this sad story, I asked questions and shed tears, but Dasha would kiss my forehead and remind me that loneliness is the hardest form of misery, and that people can be the roots of our bliss.
As beautiful as some of these memories were, I had to remember that the past was long gone. I needed to focus on the present and accept that Dasha had betrayed me and my mama. I had to find a way out of here, hopefully alive.
Dasha was only allowed to bring me food in the dining room. She couldn’t stay or talk to me. Most of the time, she wouldn’t even glance at me, but when she did, her eyes would soften and a corner of her lips would lift slightly, giving me hope.
However, I’d force myself to look away and finish my food before returning to my solitary confinement.
I had to remember that I couldn’t trust her anymore.
She was a traitor. A backstabber.
She was part of the reason I was stuck in this lonely place. With her help, we could have escaped and gone back to San Francisco.
In her beloved fairytale, I was the Wolf, and she was the boy who would sacrifice anything to survive.
Feeling drained, I climbed into bed, pulled the covers to my chin, and closed my eyes in the hope of a restful sleep.
As I began to drift off, the sound of keys clacking, and the lock opening made my stomach drop. I got up just as the door opened, revealing a wary and frail Dasha.
Speaking of the devil.
Her attention was focused on me as she walked into the small room. Her mood was odd and unsettling, sending chills up my arms. I didn’t know what to expect, so I stayed frozen and stared at her, tightening the thin black silk robe I had found two days ago on the bed.
“Follow me.”
I scoffed. “Why? So you can take me into the woods and murder me with your kitchen knives?”
Her gaze narrowed, and she planted a hand on her hip, clearly annoyed. “Sofiya, if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve put cinnamon in your draniki this morning.”
“Did you?” I asked, still wary.
