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Anastasia would've thought she had kept a pretty low profile ever since she travelled to America. No one know who she was, where she was, or what she was up to. She stayed quiet at a cheap hotel during her first couple days. It was no "chocolate on the pillow" hotel. The receptionist smelled of stale perfume and the tables had ashtrays instead of flowers. It was dingy, dark and cheap. Perfect. Anastasia kept her tinted sunglasses on and said nothing as the room key was dropped into the lines of her hand. She hid behind a cheap numbered door while the air conditioning delivered the virus more efficiently than room service. She travelled without noise over the dense carpet, littered with unvacuumed dirt and dark without illumination from the strip-lights above. Now they was just plastic casings on the crudely artexed ceiling, about as useful as a knife in a gunfight.The stairwell was just as deserted as the rest of the place. The third floor welcomes her with the hush of a graveyard but without the courtesy of the dead being six feet under. Already some watery light struggles through the window. She pulled her curtain closed.
The bed of cheap stripped pine with its rough canvas mattress was jammed into the corner of the long, drafty room. Without the large bed it would seem quite cavernous, perhaps with it's stone floor and corniced ceiling it might even seem quite grand to Anastasia, but like this it was reminiscent of the economy section of some clapped out train carriage. At opposite end of the bed the light shone dimly through the grimy mullioned window onto the grey bedding and the grey, dusty floor. Outside to the horizon one could only see where the grey sky blended into the grey of buildings. If there was a color to sum up life in the dormitory, grey would be it; an anthem for her life in a grey shabby tank-top eating grey food to the grey drone of silence.
That was until she had finally stepped out of her room one day, only to be welcomed by gunshots. She quickly grabbed the glock neatly strapped to her inner thigh and shot her rounds back at the two men yelling at each other in Russian. One of the men grew the courage to come tumbling towards her to pin her against the wall, but not before she had shot a bullet into his leg and gave him a nasty punch to the nose. He knocked the glock out of her hand, which she only returned the favour by tossing his gun to the side. The other man soon came barrelling towards her as well, tackling her by the waist just as she was distracted by the painful blows she was delivering to the other man who was already groaning in agony from the wound to his leg. Anastasia felt the air be knocked out of her lungs as her and the man went for a trip tumbling down the stairs.
Purple welts were formed and scattered across her abdomen like a disease. It hurt to breathe and she quickly wondered if some ribs were cracked. She quickly regained her thoughts and ability to move long before the man had did so and outstretched her leg from her seating position on the ground to jab him in the ribs with a kick. The man, about a foot taller than she, seized her leg and dragged her to him in a blink of an eye. Anastasia pulled out hair in handfuls, scratched, bit, kicked and head-butted, only to be handed a agonizing slap to her cheek that made her fall to the ground once again -- the side of her face stinging red with blood beginning a steady red stream down from her nose. She felt her hair suddenly be grabbed from behind her, causing her head to be violently jerked back as she stared down at yet another man who had been called by the others for assistance. Before she could react, she had a white cloth brought to her mouth and nose, cutting off her access to clean air as the head-spinning stench of chemicals filled her senses. She did the only thing she was capable of doing in that moment and jerked her limbs around violently, elbowing and kicking the men who surrounded her but to no justice, she soon felt darkness consume her vision.
---
There is something disturbing about this concrete box she was in. It had been engineered with absolute precision. The corners were sharp and straight.Someone designed this jail cell, they sat in a clean office under the glow of the natural sunrays and used their God given talents to create something so soulless as to constitute additional punishment. By the time a person is let out, if they are let out, they probably rarely recall their name and have lost most of their vocabulary. For the most part their sanity is shot, they swing between crying for the mothers and battling invisible demons. She could only imagine.
None of the guards talked to her, but she didn't need explaining. She knew exactly where she was and who brought her there. She heard screams from other cells and they paralyzed her, though she didn't react to them. Anastasia carelessly dragged her outstretched her feet from her seated position against the cool wall, the baggy t-shirt pierced with holes, stained with blood hung from her figure. Her skin had ruptured above the growing purple blooms. Every movement hurt. Bruises freckled along her arms and legs and her cheek was a nasty swollen crimson colour.
"I wonder how long it'll be until it's us making those noises." Anastasia raised her head, finally hearing the voice of the man she had been sharing the cell with the whole time. She searched his face, her eyes blank. "Not in like, a sexual way. Just that... What I mean is I wonder how long these people will keep us before they decide we're disposable." Her eyebrows only raised in question. He introduced himself, which Anastasia only stared at him blankly for a couple moments, deciding whether or not she should speak or just lower her head back down and remain silent, as if he had never spoken at all.
"Anastasia Petrovna." Her voice was hoarse, her Russian accent stringing through her words. "We'll mostly likely be able to recognize each other by our screams instead of our names in no time." She smirked slightly, the lighthearted joke rolling off her tongue like poison as she realized the situation they were both stuck in.
The bed of cheap stripped pine with its rough canvas mattress was jammed into the corner of the long, drafty room. Without the large bed it would seem quite cavernous, perhaps with it's stone floor and corniced ceiling it might even seem quite grand to Anastasia, but like this it was reminiscent of the economy section of some clapped out train carriage. At opposite end of the bed the light shone dimly through the grimy mullioned window onto the grey bedding and the grey, dusty floor. Outside to the horizon one could only see where the grey sky blended into the grey of buildings. If there was a color to sum up life in the dormitory, grey would be it; an anthem for her life in a grey shabby tank-top eating grey food to the grey drone of silence.
That was until she had finally stepped out of her room one day, only to be welcomed by gunshots. She quickly grabbed the glock neatly strapped to her inner thigh and shot her rounds back at the two men yelling at each other in Russian. One of the men grew the courage to come tumbling towards her to pin her against the wall, but not before she had shot a bullet into his leg and gave him a nasty punch to the nose. He knocked the glock out of her hand, which she only returned the favour by tossing his gun to the side. The other man soon came barrelling towards her as well, tackling her by the waist just as she was distracted by the painful blows she was delivering to the other man who was already groaning in agony from the wound to his leg. Anastasia felt the air be knocked out of her lungs as her and the man went for a trip tumbling down the stairs.
Purple welts were formed and scattered across her abdomen like a disease. It hurt to breathe and she quickly wondered if some ribs were cracked. She quickly regained her thoughts and ability to move long before the man had did so and outstretched her leg from her seating position on the ground to jab him in the ribs with a kick. The man, about a foot taller than she, seized her leg and dragged her to him in a blink of an eye. Anastasia pulled out hair in handfuls, scratched, bit, kicked and head-butted, only to be handed a agonizing slap to her cheek that made her fall to the ground once again -- the side of her face stinging red with blood beginning a steady red stream down from her nose. She felt her hair suddenly be grabbed from behind her, causing her head to be violently jerked back as she stared down at yet another man who had been called by the others for assistance. Before she could react, she had a white cloth brought to her mouth and nose, cutting off her access to clean air as the head-spinning stench of chemicals filled her senses. She did the only thing she was capable of doing in that moment and jerked her limbs around violently, elbowing and kicking the men who surrounded her but to no justice, she soon felt darkness consume her vision.
---
There is something disturbing about this concrete box she was in. It had been engineered with absolute precision. The corners were sharp and straight.Someone designed this jail cell, they sat in a clean office under the glow of the natural sunrays and used their God given talents to create something so soulless as to constitute additional punishment. By the time a person is let out, if they are let out, they probably rarely recall their name and have lost most of their vocabulary. For the most part their sanity is shot, they swing between crying for the mothers and battling invisible demons. She could only imagine.
None of the guards talked to her, but she didn't need explaining. She knew exactly where she was and who brought her there. She heard screams from other cells and they paralyzed her, though she didn't react to them. Anastasia carelessly dragged her outstretched her feet from her seated position against the cool wall, the baggy t-shirt pierced with holes, stained with blood hung from her figure. Her skin had ruptured above the growing purple blooms. Every movement hurt. Bruises freckled along her arms and legs and her cheek was a nasty swollen crimson colour.
"I wonder how long it'll be until it's us making those noises." Anastasia raised her head, finally hearing the voice of the man she had been sharing the cell with the whole time. She searched his face, her eyes blank. "Not in like, a sexual way. Just that... What I mean is I wonder how long these people will keep us before they decide we're disposable." Her eyebrows only raised in question. He introduced himself, which Anastasia only stared at him blankly for a couple moments, deciding whether or not she should speak or just lower her head back down and remain silent, as if he had never spoken at all.
"Anastasia Petrovna." Her voice was hoarse, her Russian accent stringing through her words. "We'll mostly likely be able to recognize each other by our screams instead of our names in no time." She smirked slightly, the lighthearted joke rolling off her tongue like poison as she realized the situation they were both stuck in.