Before
Alina
The chill bites into my bones as I peel back the edge of a greasy pizza box, my heart thumping against my ribs. Yara's small hands, nearly lost inside the sleeves of her too-thin coat, rummage beside mine, disturbing the rotting waste that fills the dumpster. Me and my daughter, once again scavenging for scraps, because that’s our life now. Our new normal.
"Mama, I'm hungry," she murmurs, her voice muffled by the layers of clothing that are barely enough to keep the cold at bay.
I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting back the sting of tears. "I know, sweetheart. Me too. We'll find something soon, I promise." The words come out more confidently than I feel, even though my stomach is hollow.
Yara nods, her bright eyes scanning the decaying trash with an intensity that shreds my heart. She shouldn't have to do this—no child should. No human should. And yet, here we are, our lives reduced to this moment, this heartbreaking necessity.
The stench of spoiled food and despair hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the fetid odor. We’re shadows in the encroachingdusk. Ghosts that aim to blend into the background as we take only what we absolutely need. It's never wise to stand out here, for any reason, let alone when you're unprotected and vulnerable. Alone.
The guilt gnaws at me, sharp-toothed and relentless. My Yara, who once knew warmth and fullness, now digs through garbage because of me. Because I chose to run from a gilded cage, where danger was served right next to untold wealth and other things dreams are made of. Unfortunately, sometimes the more we learn about dreams, the more we realize they're actually nightmares.
"Did you find anything yet?" she asks, hopeful. Her eyes light up as she pulls out a half-squashed loaf of bread and turns it in her hand to admire it like it's treasure.
"Good job, baby." Pride wrestles with the pain in my chest. She's so strong, my little girl—too strong for her tender years. But it's my fault she has to be.
"Let's check if it's still okay to eat," I say, brushing off the worst of the dirt and other debris, inspecting it for signs of mold or spoilage.
Her stomach growls, a small sound of suffering that stabs at me. I tear a piece off, examining it in the fading light before handing it to her.
"Here, eat this while we look for more."
She bites into it, a muffled thanks escaping between chews, and my soul cracks a little deeper. Polite and well-behaved, even while she's starving. I'd imagined a different life for us, one filled with laughter and love, not lurking in the shadows, hungry and hiding.
I have to make this right—for Yara. I'll build us a new life, far from the clutches of men like Luchenko, whose opulent meals were laced with silent and not-so-silent threats, punishments and obligations. This is all on me, and I won't let her down.
"Thank you, Mama. That tasted really good," she says after she finishes her bite, her voice a beacon in the gloom. I don’t deserve her politeness, her appreciation. This little girl, so pleased with a stale piece of bread out of the dumpster, for goodness' sake. It’s just not right. I draw her close, wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders, vowing to myself that this will be the last time I hear her stomach roar.
"Come on, my sweet girl," I whisper, kissing the top of her head. "Let's keep looking."
Together, we turn back to the task at hand, searching for sustenance in a world that seems determined to break us. But we won't shatter, not as long as we have each other.
The cold seeps through my threadbare coat as I rummage deeper into the refuse, and my fingers are numb.
Despite being bundled in every layer she owns, Yara shivers beside me, her small form huddled against the harsh cold. Streetlights flicker above, casting long shadows across the alley that seem to mock our desperation.
"Remember when we lived with Luchenko? We had nice food, Mama," Yara's voice trembles, not just from the cold but from a longing for a past that was never truly ours.
A lump forms in my throat as her words trigger a flood of memories, and because I know that her mention of his name must mean she's really starving.
I feel some relief that she calls him by his last name, not the more conventional title he prefers. Grateful that children are like mirrors, reflecting what they hear often enough that they eventually start saying it themselves and even come to believe it.
Grateful that Yara is a smart girl, fascinated by long words she can roll around in her mouth, rather than simpler sounds like 'dada'.
The grand dining room under Luchenko's roof, where silver platters overflowed with delicacies, is a stark contrast to thescraps we claw at now. But those meals came at a price, because under each nourishing, delicious bite lingered the taste of fear and control.
"I know, baby." My voice is steady, but inside, I'm reeling, struggling against the guilt that threatens to overwhelm me. "But that came with its own dangers..."
I push aside the memory of Luchenko's steely gray eyes watching us from the head of the table, a silent threat in his every glance. His presence, a suffocating force that turned every nutritious dinner into an act of survival. His cruelness, unrelenting.
The way he began to look at Yara as she grew older, unsettling. Revolting, even. I try not to think about those times, and I pray she never remembers the darkness we emerged from. Let her remember the good food, the warmth of the heaters, having her very own room. The abundance of clothing and toys and music that made her feel spirited and carefree.
Yara looks up at me, the innocence in her eyes tearing at my resolve. "Are we going to be okay, Mama?" I know she doesn't ask me these questions to make me feel worse. She feels a joint sense of ownership with me, an obligation far beyond her years to help get us both out of this situation and into something more stable and secure.
"Hey, look at me." I tilt her chin up, forcing a smile that feels like it might shatter. "You deserve a true childhood, away from all this. I’ll make us a better life. Just give me a little more time."