Roots

Roots - Prologue

Roots

By: Sarah-Laney Long

Prologue

 The Girl Who Lived

It was an eerie, silent of the early morning of the seventeenth day of July in nineteen-eighteen. Too, quiet in fact. The windows were covered with black tar, so no one could tell if it was night or day.  Somehow though, I knew that it was in the very early of the morning, perhaps around three or so. Despite the circumstances my Mama, my Papa, my three older sisters and younger brother were all fast asleep in the corner of the tiny room.  I was sure several members of the house staff that were placed a few rooms down were asleep also.  But I wasn't.  Something was going to happen at any moment, I could sense it. I just knew that today was going to change everything, and for that I knew I would not be able to sleep for the rest of the night.

My eyes shifted around the dim lit room, the only light coming from the open door which led into the secluded hall.  I began trying to still think of a way to escape this room, yet thought of nothing. It was hopeless escaping from this room; there wasn't a secret door, there wasn't a window that would open, and every door was guarded by a communist soldier, who I was sure to have been told to kill on sight if any of us were to attempt to escape.  As I stood up quietly I gathered my shoes and slowly approached the large thick wooden door where the same night guard stood, whom everyone called Bolshevik. This man was not really a man, but yet a boy who despite always having a gun in his hands, I did not come to fear like the others.  Perhaps it was because he did not have the same hint of anger, but only loyalty in his eyes. Whichever it was, he always gave me what I asked for, or tried to at least; my mind quickly remembering the moments of whispered conversations from nights past that took place between us.  Focusing back on the present, as I continued to approach him he quickly glanced to the right and left looking for the other guards, as he saw one down the hall taking a short nap against the column he relaxed a little giving me somewhat of a comforting smile.

"You are up early your Highness; you should go back to bed." He said in Russian.  My eyes glanced up at his young features; he couldn’t have been that much older than me, even though he was near Papa’s height.  His hair was a dark shade of brown that was always covered by the traditional communist hat, and the rest of his slim but well built body was covered in the normal communist soldier uniform I have seen most of my captors wear.

"Sir, please I have not slept yet, and I do not plan to tonight. Please I must go to the bathroom; I am not feeling so well." I replied, giving him a small smile of plea, knowing that the last bit was a white lie.  I only wished to stretch my legs, to get out from the dark prison. He quickly assessed my words, looking at my facial expression, and whether he believed me or not, something made him sigh just a little, giving me a slight nod.

"Ah, um well I can see if one of the guards will escort you, step back and wait here." He pointed back against the door frame as he whistled to the napping guard. 

"Brakov, come here for a second." Bolshevik said, briefly looking back at me before shifting his focus on the tired guard now walking towards us, mumbling something under his breath as he tried to stifle a yawn.  This soldier, was a good bit shorter than Bolshevik, and was slightly heavier set, yet still well built.

 

When he finally reached to where I was standing, the new guard, Brakov, looked down at me with pure hatred, for what I did not know, only that my surname was Romanov.