Chapter 17: Operation Vulture.
It felt like a nightmare that never made sense, or like an explosion going off for the first time. You see the fires, you can feel the heat of hell burn off your hair before incinerating your skin, but you don't move. Because even though you know you're about to die, you also know that running is only delaying the inevitable, not stopping it. This is what it was like. I could feel the tip of my toes burning slightly from the constant drag of my bare feet across the concrete floor. I could feel the skin underneath the nail being pulled back by a millimetre. I remember seeing linear flashes of dull yellow light from the ceiling. I remember the weight of my head feeling like a ton of bricks due to the concussions and lack of sleep. I remember feeling their grips on my arms as my biceps screamed in pain to be relaxed, the dried-up blood and dirt making my pale skin look three shades darker than I am. My banging head, throbbing eyebrow and pulsating lip made me only fantasize about what I looked like now, eighteen months later from torture.
What I don't remember is exiting the building, I don't know when we stopped walking through the corridor, receiving that first breath of fresh air. I don't remember my body hitting the cruel metal of the van, and I don't remember the ride itself. Was it an hour's drive or just around the corner? And I don't remember being thrown out due to my long overdue stay.
The sun felt like ignorant bliss, my eyes were screaming for someone to turn off the lights, but my malnutrition was dancing in a ceremony of happiness for finally being outside. I wasn't even allowed time to reminisce in the pool of golden liquid. As soon as I tasted an ounce of freedom, they immediately yanked it away by shoving me closer to a tall yet wide building unit with the Soviet symbol shining high and above. Almost as if it was an emblem. The two men who oversaw babysitting me edged me closer towards the front of the building until I couldn't see the symbol nor feel the glory of the sun anymore. Once I was close enough to the door, they stepped back in an eerily way of unison leaving me deserted and confused as I turned around to face the gate and sunshine. I could just run. But I know I'm not strong enough for that. Even if, by some miracle, adrenaline happened to kick in these guys would have me back here in less than three minutes. It wasn't worth it. I need my strength.
"Operation Vulture," eventually spoke a familiar voice from the shadows as he came from around the corner on my right. His accent was thick yet light and airy on the throat, he was American, although I had no recollection of who he was, "or as you'd know it as--"
"--Operatsiya Stervyatnik." Responded another man, this time predominantly Russian, this time someone I was familiar with. I turned around to stare at the building, it was kind of anti-climactic, "Did you know it was only used once during the war? And then once again during the revolution? This was America's first and only collaboration with the USSR, but it is magnificent." Ranted the American but none of it made much sense, "Where am I? Why am I here?" I say dazed looking at Mikhail but the American speaks, "Did you not listen at all?" He responds almost frustrated leaving me stunned. I don't even know how to respond. What do you even say in a situation like this? There is absolutely nothing to say at all, "You really don't recognize me at all, do you?" He snarls pathetically at me as my anger slowly bubbles over to fear, his rigid old voice straining to form words in my head. I couldn't help it. I don't even know how my train of thought led to that moment, but I just kept wondering is this how Jo felt? Is this why she felt the need to say sorry in her dying moments? Did she already feel the piercingly cold waters striking at her lungs long before hearing the gunshot?
"What does he mean, Mikhail?" My words shake beneath me, and as hard as I try to muster control of the fear I fail gracefully while being gently cornered into the building. For a moment I stared into his orange hue eyes with a tiny hint of green. Trauma cannot be mistaken, not even under false pretences. His voice is older which is probably why I didn't recognize it at first, but his eyes still have that unmistakably cruel glare, "You..." a whisper escapes my lips creating a suffocating bubble surrendering my already crumbling world, "Yes, I knew you'd remember. Eventually. All I had to do was wait." He says almost too fast for my comprehension before continuing his story with no hint of remorse, almost as if he was recalling his favourite childhood memory, "Unfortunately, as much as I enjoy this reunion, this stay is long overdue." For a moment he looked away snapping his fingers at the men who brought me here, "Ubey yeye." He responds suddenly switching to a Russian accent like he's been practicing for this exact moment, "No, wait! Please wait!" I yell out even though I know it's pointless as they grab my arms once again effortlessly dragging me away. I suddenly feel like a deer in headlights. I'm scared of the car, but nothing tells me to run away or to fight back. I just let it... hit me, "Don't worry, Aleekseeva. It'll be quick." He replies with a smile that makes my blood run cold.
My body hitting the hard concrete felt like electricity coursing through my veins with an old friend saying goodbye with sorrow. Something in my brain had switched, despite feeling like I was on the floor for an eternity, I was on my feet replaying those moments in my head. Except this time, I was chasing after my own life instead of the love of my life, "Mikhail! You better pray I don't get out of here! Violence for violence is the language of beasts, you hear me!" My voice shook with anger fueled with fear as every bang I cursed upon the door grew louder, "I will make you wise beyond your suffering!" I bellowed one last time before shattering into a pile, my hands still touching the door before turning around. Crying. Praying that this is some sick joke.