My Hong Kong or Russian Doll

Goodbye Russia!,Part 1.

I'm a Russian spy, a Russian spy! I screamed at the top of my lungs as they shoved a bedpan under me and injected some kind of junk into my arm.

"We'll see who wins in the end," someone muttered in response.

Around me stood a group of Chinese men in white coats, gripping my arms and legs as I writhed on the table. They shouted in Chinese while inserting something between my legs.

Power cut... the words flashed through my mind before everything faded to black.

You might be wondering-how did I end up like this? Easy.

Buckle up.

You ask, Where are we going?

Come with me-to my Hong Kong, the city of lust, depravity, and shattered dreams.

Let me start by saying: this story is based on true events. And like any typical story, it all began with a morning phone call from my friend-my god-sister.

"Mary, I found the perfect job for you! You don't have to do anything at all. You can easily make $5,000 a month, stay at my place, and my boyfriend will even pay for your flight! It's an amazing opportunity, just come."

Did I think about it long? Did I ask what kind of job it was? Why? Where? How?

No.

I didn't even bother to Google the country I was flying to. I didn't care.

I just wanted to get out-out of Russia, away, anywhere.

Let's get acquainted. I think my portrait is important to this story.

I was 22 years old. I didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't do drugs. I graduated high school with honors, earned two vocational degrees-one in law, one in chemistry-and was working toward my law degree at university. I worked as a florist, a psychologist for a team-building company, and wherever else I could.

I was 164 cm tall, weighed 57 kg, fit and athletic. My hair was long, curly, angelic. My lips-a perfect pout. I was cheerful, energetic, and ready to move mountains.

At the time, I lived in Moscow, working tirelessly as a florist. I stayed in my boyfriend's tiny communal apartment with his mother. He was 30, a chef at a high-end restaurant, where we first met-my first job in Moscow was as a waitress. I worked 12-hour shifts, with only four days off a month.

Why?

A not-so-happy family story. A father who was a drug addict, a mother he had driven to disability, and a younger sister-two years my junior-who was still in university. She needed help, but more than anything, I wanted to help my mother.

I wanted to escape poverty, to support her. Her disability pension was barely enough to survive.

And I had a dream-to become an actress.

I burned for it. Lived for it.

I thought if I saved enough, I'd fly straight to Los Angeles.

And now-this perfect offer.

$5,000 a month?

Wow.

I'd work for a couple of months, renovate our apartment, and then chase my dream.

As I packed my suitcase, my boyfriend's mother muttered, "Once you make money, buy yourself some proper clothes."

That one sentence said it all.

I didn't even own decent clothes. Just scraps.

And no one cared where I was flying.

Why?

Not even my boyfriend.

I was as free as a bird.

He didn't even come to see me off. Looking back, he probably didn't care even then.

But I didn't realize it at the time.

The taxi was loaded, and as I sat inside, my friend Nadia's words rang in my ears:

"Mary, if you go there, you won't come back the same."

Pfft. What nonsense.

How could I change? It's me.

I looked at her and thought, "You didn't change. You're fine."

I'll tell you who Nadia is later, and her story, too.

But for now, my eyes were fixed on Moscow as it faded behind me.

And then, the long-awaited plane.

For the first time in my life, a small-town girl sat on a flight from Moscow to Hong Kong, clutching a tiny English phrasebook and carrying big, bright dreams of a dazzling future.

Goodbye, Russia.

Goodbye.