“Yeah, well lack of physical and mental stimulation doesn’t exactly lend itself to good sleep,” I answer truthfully.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t do that thing men like Mikhail do where they pretend they’re amused so you feel small for having a backbone. I turn my back to him as I scramble up some eggs andput some bread in the toaster. I purposely ignore him the whole time, making a show of it. He doesn’t deserve peace anyway.
When my food is ready, I plate it and sit down across from him. He’s still reading on his phone, also making a point not to look at me. I swear, though, when I look down to take a bite of my food, I can feel him watching me. I look up, hoping to catch him in the act, but he’s still looking at his phone.
We eat without speaking, and it’s strange how comfortable it feels. There’s no tension at all, and I realize with mild horror that we’ve settled into a routine.
Mikhail tried to force me into a routine in his home. When it was clear to him that I wouldn’t be pushed into his ridiculous regimen, he lashed out. It started with locking me in my room for days at a time, then escalated to violence. He could never control me, and he hated me for that. So, instead, he tried to break me.
Is that what Viktor’s done? Have I broken without even realizing it? Or, maybe, this is what peace really feels like. No shouting. No plates breaking. No berating me with the cruelest, most vicious words.
The more attention I pay to the silence, the less peaceful it feels. It makes me uncomfortable. I keep waiting for him to say something, to start a conversation with me, but he just keeps reading on that damn phone. I sigh loudly, but he doesn’t look up. I clatter my fork, and he either doesn’t notice or he pretends not to.
“What’s so damn interesting?” I finally ask, hating that I can’t sit in silence for five damn minutes.
“Do you really want to know?” he counters. “It’s pretty grim.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve heard worse,” I answer honestly. “Especially if it concerns Mikhail.”
He nods at this and sets his mug down slowly. The movement is controlled, measured, like he’s aware of how much space he takes up even when he’s doing nothing at all. He’s always like that, and I hate that I clock it so easily. I hate that my body responds to him subconsciously.
“He’s closing in,” he finally says as casually as possible. “It’s likely only a matter of time until he finds us.”
“Then what?” I ask, suddenly wishing I hadn’t asked.
“We’re monitoring the situation,” he says carefully. “At present, we don’t think there’s anything to be worried about. Just relax.”
“I am relaxed,” I say, though even as I do I can feel the tension in my neck and the straightness of my spine. I couldn’t be further from relaxed, and we both know it.
“Maybe another afternoon in the garden would do you some good,” he says, distracting me. “You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m Russian, of course I’m pale,” I shoot back, unable to stop the laugh that rips through me. “It’s an unfortunate condition of our existence.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “I just think a little sun would do you some good. It can get stuffy in here.”
He doesn’t know the meaning of stuffy. He’s never been locked into a small bedroom for days, with only occasional protein bars passed under the door to keep you alive.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I say, looking back down at my plate and trying to block out the memories.
I hear him hum under his breath, and I feel like he wants to say something else. I never really know what he’s thinking, which is probably for the best. Still, I wish he would just say whatever’s on his mind and stop keeping me guessing.
I swallow another mouthful of coffee and let it scald my throat.
“Another good idea would be you learning how to make a decent cup of coffee,” I say after a while. “This shit is undrinkable.”
“And yet, you’re drinking it.” He smirks. “It must not be so awful.”
“It’s the worst coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” I deadpan. “Prisoners get better coffee than this.”
“I didn’t realize you were so well-versed with the penal system.” He laughs, and it’s such a bright, all-consuming sound. It almost makes the space feel cozy.
Then a car door slams outside and we both flinch, reminding us how tenuous this peace is. Both of us glance toward the window at the same time. The movement is so synchronized it irritates me, because it reminds me that we’re trapped in the same rhythm whether I want to be or not. Viktor’s eyes narrow, and I watch his hand shift slightly on the table, subtle and ready to reach for a weapon.
“It’s not him,” he says, looking at me carefully.
“I didn’t think it was,” I tell him, although my heart is pounding in my chest.
It took me no time at all to realize that I likely wasn’t going to survive life with Mikhail. Between the restrictive diet and his obsessive control, I knew that marrying him would be a deathsentence. That was never clearer than the day he had me pick out my wedding dress.