Moscow, Russia. April 1946. 2 years before Jules' encounter.
His breath was rattling next to my neck, tickiling with every rusty exhalation of breath. I could feel his body hot with adrenaline, almost on the verge of flames, pressing onto mine. He had no mercy. And that's what I liked about him.
His lips were desperatly pressing against my neck like raindrops, never ending. His hands were traveling down my body like waves, and before neither of us could help it, we had stumbled on my bed. It was ironic, was it not, having my bed covers be an innocent shade of baby pink, when I had clearly outgrown that impression.
I was not a little girl anymore. No one was there to tell me who I should and shouldn't be. The man in front of me would prove to my intact innocence that I was independent, that I could control my body and mind in which way I ever pleased.
"Be mine," he breathed heavily as his hands sneaked under my skirt.
I stiffled back a laugh, and not because I was nervous, but because he had just proved my point. I could do whatever I wanted, and essentially, could drive someone into doing something I pleased.
His hands were now brushing through my back, massaging my innocence away. Then, his fingers hastily finished unbottuning my silk shirt. I let my neck fall back, absorbing the heat of the moment like a bath sponge.
He then threw away his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing a pair of muscly arms. His abdomen was outlined by a very well maintained six-pack, however, it was starting to drench in sweat from the excitement.
I ruffled his hazel shaded hair with my fingers, almost pulling at it as he kissed my neck. Before I realized what was going on, we were hidden under the covers, skin on skin.
I wasn't a little girl anymore.
And he would find out, one way or another.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The morning rays were now sneaking in through the curtains. They splashed like a golden cascade on his cheeks, which were slightly reddened from the cold. He was gorgeous, and regardless of what people thought, of what he thought, I would have my way and live like I wanted. Next to him, next to the man I loved, next to the man that unvelied the woman that was hiding inside of me.
I rested my head on my hand, while I pulled the covers across my chest. I breathed in his scent: he smelled like burning wood in a cold, snowing day. Well, he let out that scent now, because the day we had met, it had been gunpowder that had flooded our nostrils.
It had been 5 years ago, a time when our country was immersed in the terrible World War II. I was only tweleve back then, but even then, I understood how serious the war with the Nazi's was. Father had already expected Hitler to attack the Soviet Union, but nobody wouldv'e thought they had the guts to attack on Winter. The soldiers weren't trained for that whatsoever. But by the time it was December, the troops were already 19 miles from Moscow ready to attack.
The image is still clear as water inside my head.
And not only because of the attack on the city, but also because of mother's illness. We never deciphered out what she had in time, the doctors couldn't even buy us enough time to say our goodbyes. But, as an innocent girl, all I wanted to do was help my dying mother. The only real feminine figure I ever had in my life.
I also still remember the brown velvet coat I wore that day, the one I was barely able to reach from the hanger on my dresser. I recall dragging a stool all the way from the kitchen up into my room. If there was one thing I knew my mother didn't want me to be, was cold.
So I grabbed my coat, and stormed in little steps, with my braids bouncing by my side, into the cold morning. Mother was sicker than ever that night, she was screaming of pain in her sleep. I thought that some warm bread would make her feel better as she was always sneaking bread into my room whenever I had nightmares.
Somehow, my feet were able to carry me out by the backdoor without anyone noticing and when I spinted across the street, I was gleeing with triumph. I would get that bread for my mother. I would stop her anguish and cure her. I would be by her side.
As I walked, my breath heaving already, across the Red Square, I could already see the bakery. I knew Madamme Rutila would be looking at me with questioning eyebrows, how I managed to get out into the streets by myself, with no guards, but that was the least of my worries. I pulled out a few Russian rubles out of my pocket and paid for a warm, golden loaf of bread.
I had done it, I had the bread, I would cure mother. But what I didn't expect was a man, dressed in a green uniform with a black and red icon proudly stamped on his chest. I had to run.
I knew that sign, I knew whose side he was on. And it wasn't ours.
My chest was blocked. No air was evacuating my lungs, and neither was entering. I remember feeling cold to my bones, and it wasn't because it was 50 degrees Celcius below 0. It was because of the gun he was pointing at me, the one that was threatening to take my life away.
He knew who I was. The amusement that wrinkled his eyes was a proof of that.
This was the end.
But then, a handsome boy of about 14 came scurrying out of the shadows, cursing in Russian at the man with the gun. He came sprinting towards me, literally risking his life for me.
I shouldn't have left in the first place. How could I be so naive? Did I really think that a loaf of bread could magically save my mother's life?
The boy from the shadows sprinted towards me and knocked me off balance before a bullet could penetrate my skin. I heard his gun go off numerous times, but a bullet never reached me.
And that was because it wasn't his gun going off anymore. I dared to look up, and found the man that had almost taken our lives lying lifeless on the ground. Three Russian guards had killed him.
The boy had saved my life. Artur.
But I hadn't been able to save my mother's. When I came back home, her pale face was already drained of all color. She had left me. Now who would come into my room at night, to brush away my nightmares with every touch? Who would bring warm bread to my room when I couldn't sleep? Who, out of all people, would manage to fully understand me as she did?
And it wasn't father, it wasn't Madamme Rutila.
It was Artur that made me feel alive once more.
And wrapped under the covers, breathing lightly, he had never made me feel more alive than now. I was so lucky to have him by my side. I knew that he was the one. He would treat me like the only one, he would know how to treat me with delicacy, how to take my innocence away without it hurting. And even though it had hurt, I was glad that now he was part of me.
I could feel my heart fluttering in excitement inside my chest.
He left out a moan. He turned around to face me, and smiled.
It had been that smile that had won me over. That row of perfectly aligned teeth had been the giveaway to my heart.
"Good morning, beautiful," he greeted, as he ran his fingers through my hair with a tired delicacy.
I didn't want to utter a word. Words wasn't what I needed. I needed him.
I flipped my hair to one side, and closed my hands around his own. I stared into the sea that were his brown, chocolate eyes and grinned slightly. I took the time to stroke his cheek.
I didn't mind the cold. The heat that irradiated his body was enough of a warm embrace to keep me going.
"Anastasia! Breakfast is ready." A voice echoed from downstairs.
I couldn't care less.
But then, I heard heavy footsteps approaching in the hall. The characteristic creaking of the wooden floor wasn't that of the maid. I could've recognized the striding of those hefty boots anywhere.
It was him.
"Artut, get dressed, now!" I grouched at him, as I pushed him off me with already shaking arms. He protested, but nevertheless, he got up and picked up his clothes and hurried off to the bathroom.
I ran to my dresser, pulled on a silk night robe and brushed down my hair with my fingers. I had seconds left before he opened the door. I sprayed on some perfume to disguise his smell, and tried to rub the bruises on my neck away, but obviously, that didn't work.
The door handle creaked.
"Anastasia Stalin! You, young lady, are late for breakfast. May I remind you what the most crucial rule in this house is?!" he barked at me angrily, stressing on 'crucial' since he had repeated this exact same questions for over a hundreth times now.
I looked down at my feet, feeling some heat on my cheeks because under the night robe, I was literally wearing nothing.
I looked up, trying to sound casual, and replied in a tiny voice that hid nothing. "Discipline,"
"That's right. I expect you to be punctual to any place. I wouldn't expect any less of you, being the daughter of myself," he demanded, almost in a robotic tone. His face wore an expression as hard as stone.
"Father, I was already going down, I just needed to get some shoes on," I said.
"Really?" he questioned, in an excentrical tone. The hard expression had drained from his face. That couldn't be any good. "I know you are disciplined, Anastasia, you know," he left the sentence hanging in mid-air. For a second, I thought he was going to leave. "But, you know, I understand you desire to be this rebel. Do you seriously think I wouldn't notice?"
All color left my face. I could feel it slipping down my body like cold water. He couldn't possibly know.
"What, father? I told you, I was already coming down!" I reclaimed.
He came eye-to-eye in front of me. I thought for a moment he was going to slap me. He couldn't have possibly found out. He had already been asleep when I had cautiously allowed Artur into the house. But he had never done this before.
His hands traveled to the knot that secured my night robe. And he untied it, revealing my naked body. The night robe was already sprawled on the ground, next to my feet.
I wanted to hide, I wanted to drag my night robe back around my bare back. But I couldn't. I was frozen.
"You have disgraced our family, Anastasia!" he screamed at my face with no mercy, "You are seventeen and have no right to do what you did last night! Do you really believe me to be this stupid? You really think I couldn't predict what you wanted to do? And I warn you, Anastasia, I don't let whores live under my roof!"
Tears were already trickling down my face. He was my father, but I couldn't bring myslef to accept that right now.
"But, Papa..." I began.
A cruel silence fell. Soreness succumbed.
"Artur," he yelled at the bathroom.
The doorknob turned, and his face appeared behind the door. He was already fully dressed in his uniform. I turned around, and saw his face tense in unpleasant surprise. He strode slowly across the room, stopped next to me, and then muttered:
"Yes, sir,"
"If you ever as much place another finger on my daughter's body, I will personally kill you, and then send my daughter out into the streets to raise your baby. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir" he repeated.
Artur was already leaving, when my father stopped him with his hand.
He took a step closer to me, and then, without a pause or a question, slapped me hard across the face.
I let out a scream, and crumbled to the floor naked, with no one to blame but myself.
But if there was one thing I knew, was that he was a monster.
- - - - - - - -
Guys... This was so hard to write for me. But, Anastasia's situation had to be portrayed to the audience.
Please comment what you thought, and if you liked the chapter or simply would like things to get better for Anastasia, leave a vote.
Xoxoxo
Maria