It happened again and again until they gave birth, and then again. They became cows that we milked. When Vladim asked me to take part in it, I refused at first, but I couldn’t keep it up. I did what I had to do and then puked right after. I didn’t understand how he could do this without any regrets.
But then I saw him holding his own daughter for the first time.
And all I saw was the greed in his eyes. The endless hunger for more.
He didn’t want her love.
He didn’t want her for himself.
The moment he looked at me, I knew it … He was going to make her grow up as a servant.
From that day on, I struggled with every daily chore.
Now, I watch the girl grow up from behind glass, wondering what she thinks of us. There are so many more like her, but she’s his daughter, which makes her special. Except not to him.
Years pass, and another one is born to the same woman. Mother to both but caring for neither. All they do is sit in the room and sew clothing for the servants. She doesn’t know how to be a real mother; she was never taught to be one. After all, she grew up as a servant herself. Just like the girls who’d never know what it meant to be real kids, to grow up with other kids and just have fun.
It breaks my heart just looking at them. And here I am, thinking Vladim would change if he saw it too—that he might snap out of it—but seeing the girls only makes him worse. It makes him see them as liquid cash in human form.
The more days that pass by, the more I’m starting to feel I can’t do this anymore. I have to act.
So on the day that he’s out hunting for more girls (which he does every month, just for sport), I take the girls out of their bedrooms and escape.
I pull them through the maze of corridors, far away from anything they’ve ever seen.
“Where are we going?” the oldest one asks.
I don’t respond. She wouldn’t understand anyway. I’m not taking her mother; she would only call the others and sound the alarm. She’s trained to do so. But these kids … these kids can still be molded. They can still be saved.
I run as fast as I can, not looking back as the realization of what I’m doing sinks in.
I’m betraying Vladim. I’m taking his children away from him.
I’m doing it because it’s the only thing I can do.
Because after all these years, I have to do something right.
So I keep going. Even when the alarms go off. Even when the girls start to cry.
They don’t want to come along.
“I wanna go to Mommy!” the youngest one says. She stops in her tracks and so does the oldest. “I don’t wanna go.”
“You can’t go to Mommy right now,” I say, turning around to face them. “You have to trust me right now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll take you somewhere nice and safe. It’s so beautiful out there. Don’t you want to see the grass and the butterflies?”
“Grass?” the oldest one ponders.
“It’s green and soft. I could show you … if you come with me,” I say.
After a few seconds, she nods, and then so does the other one. I grab their little hands and say, “C’mon.”
We run as far as we can until their legs can no longer keep up, at which point I lift them up. It takes all my strength to carry them, but once we’re outside and sunshine bursts from the clouds above, I know we’re going to make it.
But then I hear the door slam a few feet to my left. “Stop!”
I don’t stop.
I start running, as fast as I can, hoping I can outrun them.
I’m fast and young, so I should be able to.
Except it didn’t occur to me that Vladim might have already returned with his squad … all of whom are just as fast as I am.
I run across the asphalt and into a nearby street. My muscles hurt from the sheer pressure while holding two girls, but I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Not when I’m this close to fixing what I’ve helped start. Not when I’m this close to actually making a fucking difference and doing the right thing.
I rush across the next few streets without thinking, but when I look over my shoulder, a whole pack of people is chasing me. And one of them is Vladim.
“Get back here, you fucking cunt!” he yells, running after me.
People on the street look at us as if we’ve lost our mind.
I couldn’t ask them for help, even if I wanted to. They wouldn’t believe me if I told them what’s going on, and by the time they do, I’d be dead.
So I keep running, keep going, until my legs can no longer carry me, and I fall over, covering the kids’ heads.
“Fuck!” I yell.
“Mister, they’re coming,” the oldest one says.