You Will Pay

Every day, Mr. Gorda walks his white poodle from precisely 7:15 to 7:30. When he comes back, Ms. Rony leaves to get to work. When she does, the gardener everyone calls Stanley goes outside to mow what's left of the lawn. The few patches of grass still here died before the American Revolution. Literally. There was a battlefield here, a turning point in the war. All that's left today is a small stone memorial that no one visits. Why should they? There isn't even a museum. The day is still, the sky gray. Not cold, not warm, not dark, not light... Just gray. Even the forest doesn't have a scent. Not since I showed up.

Every day, I sit by my window, looking at the neverending stillness in our town. It's not much of a town, really. Just a few apartment blocks in the middle of nowhere. But sometimes that nowhere feels like it's alive. And watching.

I turn away from the window and look around my apartment. Calling it an apartment is an overstatement, as it has only a mattress, a stove, a fridge, and a small bathroom. The wooden floor creaks under my bare feet, as I walk to blow away the dust from my table, coughing as its tendrils rise into the air. The only other furniture I have is a chair, a tiny little fellow with chipped-off green paint that’s been in my life longer than I can remember. I don't need more anyway. I know no one and no one knows me, so my house doesn't have to be presentable. My house, not my home. I left my home behind years ago. Burned it to the ground. A few tears slip from my eyes, but I wipe them away angrily. I'm happy this way, after all. I don’t need to answer nosy questions. 

I sit down on my chair heavily. I only left my house once a week to go shopping for the necessities. That's part of the reason I hate Saturdays. I don't indulge in small talk or even talk to the cashier, which makes everyone think I'm rude and impolite. But little do they know. I watch as the dust slowly floats back down to settle on my hair and the table. My nose starts to itch, but I stop myself from sneezing. I can hear every step my neighbors take in their homes. That means they can hear mine too.

I stare at my door, wondering if I'll ever paint it. It needed renovation about thirty years ago. The silence is almost deafening. It was hard to bear after living in the busiest city in America, but I’ve grown accustomed. I hear stairs creak faintly. Someone must have walked into the apartment. I frown and glance at my red clock. 8:00. No one’s supposed to be home at 8:00.

The creaking grows louder, now accompanied by thumps. Every beat of my heart is followed by a thump, even as it grows faster. I live on the fourth floor, the highest one. The ruined stairs and dirty walls are usually enough for people to stop climbing, but this person kept going.

I swallow nervously. Change is not welcome in this town. Change means trouble. Change means you have to run once more. I hold my breath. The noises stop. 

I listen intently, but I hear only the scurrying of mice under the floorboards. Just as I slowly relax, there's a knock on my door. I stand in a second and stumble backward, tripping on my chair and slamming my back into the wall. The chair falls with a loud thump, but I keep my eyes on the door. Whoever knocked knows I'm here now. The room seems to be contracting, wanting nothing more than to suffocate me. My breathing rapids, but I force myself to calm down. In and out. In and out. 

The knocks repeat. This time, I compose myself and walk cautiously towards the door. I take off the rusty lock with shaky fingers. The door creaks as I open it. A man in an elegant suit is standing in front of me, leaning on a black suitcase.

We stare at each other for a moment. I try to picture what he sees: a young woman in too-small jeans, a ripped shirt, and a surely crazy look in her eyes. I clear my throat and smooth down my hair.

“Um… Hi,” My voice comes out like a squeak. I haven’t talked to anyone in… I don’t even know.

“Hello,” The man answers cautiously. He smiles at me, but I notice that his eyes are as cold as an iceberg and just as welcoming. “I’m new to town, and I was searching for a room. Do you know where I could find one?” His voice is melodic and seems like he's used to people following his orders. New to town? A room? I don't like it.

He looks at me expectantly and I realize I'm staring. I clear my throat, looking away. I feel his piercing gaze dig holes in my skull.

“There are no rooms. This is a small town, and hardly anyone has visitors. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” I say curtly, starting to shut the door. He slides his polished shoe in the crack. I close my eyes, trying not to panic.

“Miss... Yelena, is it?” No. He knows. He knows my name. "It's very nice. The Russian version of 'Helen'. You do know the story of Helen of Troy, yes? She was the cause of the Troyan War, which killed thousands. I'm sure you weren't named after her."

“You have the wrong person.” I can’t keep my voice from shaking. I have been running for two years. I can’t talk to what's left of my family. I have no one. I can barely afford to feed myself. Isn’t that enough?

"Oh, no, I don't believe I do," He continued. "It took us years to track you down, Miss. Yelena. We never get the wrong person."

“Sir, remove your foot from the door,” I whisper. “Please.”

He just laughs. “You are going to pay for what you’ve done.” He slides his foot away. “Good day, Miss. Helena. This won’t be the last time you see me.” His footsteps slowly grew fainter, and I crumble to the ground, head pounding.

“So this is how it ends,” I whisper, closing my eyes. I don't want to run anymore. Get up, you useless girl. My father's voice hissed. Are you a Rostislavovich or not? He said 'girl' like it was the worst curse imaginable. I always hated that, but now it was the only thing that got me moving. I heaved myself up and looked around. I don't own anything except a backpack and the clothes on my back. I don't have a phone or any legal documents. Burned along with the house. Now, all I had to do was run.

I rush towards the window and watch as the man enters a black van. It speeds off almost immediately. The coast is clear.

I hurry back towards the door and throw it open, only to be welcomed by the man's suitcase. A light ticking noise filled my ears. I closed my eyes, knowing what that meant. One tear slipped out.

"До скорой встречи, отец," I whisper. Then, everything exploded.