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“One snowy night, my mother woke to use the bathroom and heard me crying. She saw my father touching me and tried to intervene. He became enraged and chased us with an ax. That night, he killed my mother and sister.”
I pictured a young Dasha, feeling scared and alone, and my heart ached.
“I don’t know why I couldn’t be brave like them,” she said, her voice choking with emotion. “I hid under the car and prayed he wouldn’t find me.”
I reached out, gently placing my hand on hers. “You’re not a coward,” I assured her. “You were just a child. You did what you had to do to survive, and there’s no shame in that.”
Guilt was etched on her face, her burden almost tangible.
“Sometimes, I wish I had died with them,” she confessed quietly. “It’s so hard to keep going, knowing I couldn’t save them. I feel like I don’t deserve to be alive.”
“Your mama and sister wouldn’t want you to feel this way,” I said gently. “They’d want you to keep living, to keep fighting, and to move forward." I brushed a tear from her cheek. “What happened next, Dasha?”
With a slow nod and tears welling in her eyes, she began, “My father never faced consequences for killing them. His best friend, the chief commander of the village police, helped him avoid arrest. I hid under his car for hours until the police found me and took me to the hospital. I stayed there for three weeks, and my father never came to see me.” She scoffed bitterly, continuing, “His mother, a kind woman, came to live with us afterward. But when I turned 13, she passed away from breast cancer. So, it was just my father and me again, alone.”
I gasped softly. “Oh, no…”
She continued with a sad smile, “The abuse didn’t stop, though it happened less often. I tried to get him drunk so he’d pass out on the couch and forget about me, but sometimes that didn’t work.”
She then recounted a dream she had on her eighteenth birthday, where her mother led her through a field of sunflowers and urged her to avenge their deaths.
“I went to the market and bought three types of dried herbs—chamomile, linden, and verbena. I mixed them, boiled them, and made a sleepy tea. I also picked up his favorite steak, ready for my plan.” My heart raced as I braced myself for the rest. “I made the tea and served it with the steak and roasted potatoes in a peppery sauce. He had no idea what was in it. I watched him eat and drink, feeling a mix of satisfaction and justice. Finally, I’d be free. He soon started to doze off and eventually passed out. I then took the same ax he’d used from our garden years ago. I…”
I gently interrupted her, my voice barely a whisper. “Please, stop. I can’t hear any more.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to understand why I did it.”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm myself. “I understand, Dasha. I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”
She sighed and reached out to hold my hand. “Thank you.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, lost in our thoughts.
Then she spoke again, her tone softer. “You know, after that night, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I could finally breathe. But the guilt and shame never really went away.”
Nodding, I fought back tears, feeling deep sorrow for the little girl she once was. My heart ached for those who endured similar experiences but still found the strength to carry on.
Needing fresh air, I decided to step outside. “I think I need a walk,” I said. “It’s just… a lot to process.”
She smiled gently and squeezed my hand. “Of course, take all the time you need.”
I stumbled to the kitchen door, my hands trembling as I pushed it open. Stepping into the garden, the cool breeze brushed against my bare feet, carrying the scent of damp soil and flowers. Leaves rustled softly overhead, and birds sang in the distance.
Emotions churned inside me—deep sadness, burning anger, overwhelming guilt.
How could anyone hurt a helpless child like that?
I clenched my fists, trying to calm myself with shaky breaths that did little to ease the turmoil. Finding a soft patch of soil, I sank down, feeling its dampness seeping through my clothes. I buried my face in my hands, hot tears slipping through my fingers.
Images of the innocent baby haunted me, the weight on my chest growing heavier with each heartbeat.
Lost in grief, time slipped away, broken only by my stifled sobs.
The crunch of footsteps behind me shattered the stillness. I turned to see Volk, his usually composed face now showing raw, unguarded anger.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?”
“I needed some fresh air,” I replied, shivering as the frosty night air bit at my skin.
