A/N: Here it is, calalily, as I promised. I know it took me more than long enough, but I finally finished it over the weekend. There's some very sad stuff here, and it gets a little weird, but I am confidant that you guys will like it. And so, without further ado, here is Mikki's story.
Madam Olga shut off the door of her office behind her; it locked automatically, leaving Mikki Kalishnikova trapped in the win
Madam Olga shut off the door of her office behind her; it locked automatically, leaving Mikki Kalishnikova trapped in the windowless room. He could hear the old bat in the hallway, playing nice with the policeman who had brought him back.
Not 'home,' but 'back.' Mikki did not have a 'home,' but this was here he lived. He and the other kids liked to call the place the Maximum Security Orphanarium, but it was really Madam Olga's Home for Unwanted Children. It was a name they hated, for they did not like to think of themselves as unwanted, but, really, that was what they were, or else they would not be at an orphanage in the first place.
Mikki froze, turning his attention to the door as the lock clicked open. He could hear the policeman laugh at something Olga had said.
"Lord knows a beating might straighten him out," he said, grinning. "Mikki shuddered, knowing Olga might well take the suggestion. Perhaps referring to the officer as a bourgeois pig-dog had not been in his best interest.
Olga giggled coquettishly and thanked him again, returning to her office as soon as he was out of sight. She sat in the big chair on the opposite side of the desk from Mikki. Madam Olga did not smile now, and her cold eyes betrayed a cruelty that only an unfortunate few ever saw.
There was silence, eachn waiting for the other to speak. Mikki turned away to observe the dying ficus in the corner. The room had no windows; how did Olga expect the plant to get any light?
Olga lit a cigarette and took a few drags, exhaling through her nose. Finally, she slammed her hands down on the desk and Mikki snapped to attention.
"Why did you try to run?" she asked in Russian. This sent up major red flags to the boy, as Madam Olga only spoke Russian when she didn't want her American employees to overhear. Her tone of voice was as cold as a Siberian winter. "We feed you, encourage your academic achievements, we let you play with your little friends; I have never objected to the way you dress, though I probably should."
Mikki looked down at his black shirt and pants, the chains hanging like unworn suspenders from his waist; the black combat boots, two sizes too big. What was wrong with the way he dressed?
"I treat you well enough, and yet you continue to defy me," she said. She took another drag and ground out her cigarette into the ashtray. "A small rebellion can lead to total revolution, Mikhail. I cannot have you regaling the other children with tales of your exploits and them following your example. However, if you refuse to behave yourself, then you are giving me little choice as to what to do with you. I have very few options here, and I want you to understand that."
"It's cold here," Mikki told her.
Olga blinked. "What? It's seventy and sunny."
"Emotionally, I mean. Everyone's so cold and distant," he said, and then blushed, unable to meet her eyes. "There are so many of us, and yet I am completely alone. That's why I left. I wanted to find the place where I belong. I wanted to find my home."
This is your home, Mikhail."
"This is not my home!" he exclaimed, still speaking Russian. "This is where I live! I hate it here, and I hate you. Why don't you just drop dead and let me go?!"
Mikki was breathing heavily. He could not remember when he'd gotten out of his cahir, but he was standing with his arms spread apart on the desk, palms down. Olga only stared at him with mild annoyance and relative disinterest.
"Are you done?" she asked. He nodded and took his seat. "Take off your shoes. Socks too."
Mikki searched her face for clues, unable to hide his confusion as he watched her light another cigarette. Still, he did as he was told, not wanting to make any more trouble for himself.
"Why?" he asked Olga, and she rubbed her temples and exhaled smoke through her nose. Olga kneeled and grabbed his left ankle. Mikki struggled to free himself, but the woman was larger than him and a former KGB agent besides. She clamped one hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, pulling him to the floor, pinning his waist between her pudgy thighs and digging her elbow into his chest. Olga positioned his foot in her lap.
"You should not have run away, Mikhail," she said, and ground out her cigarette on the sole of his foot.
Mikki lay curled up in the bottom bunk in the room he shared with his friend, an older boy named Demitri Ostrog. He was careful no to let his feet touch anything, wary of the searing pain that radiated from the little circles, smaller than dimes, which dotted the soles.
The pain he had felt before running was less real than what he was currently experiencing, more like a deep longing and emptiness. Now, more than anything, he wanted to escape, but he could not even stand from the pain.
Mikki cuddled the blankets closer to himself and wept silently for fear of being heard. Why had she done this to him? He knew Olga wasn't the nicest person in the world, but Mikki did not understand what happened, or why, and it frightened a great deal.
The door of the room creaked softly open, and Mikki wiped his tears, drawing himself towards the wall and deeper into the shadows. He became absolutely silent, listened, waited, and watched.
"Mikki?" croaked a distinctly squeaking voice. It was, thankfully, Demitri; Mikki did not recognize him in the dark, but the sixteen year old was a late bloomer, and his voice had been changing fairly drastically as of late.
"Mikki?" the voice repeated in whisper, turning on the light. "Mikki, are you there?"
"Whether I like it or not," he replied flatly, shifting closer towards Demitri, but he did not rise. Demitri raised his eyebrows; long ago, he had given up the top bunk to the whining Mikki after losing a poker game. He did not understand what the blonde was doing in his bed.
"No thanks; I'll stand," he said, concerned. "Mikki, are you all right? You're really sweaty."
Mikki would not look at him; his body was slick with his pain and fear. Instead, he let his chin fall against his chest as tears of humiliation rolled from the corners of his eyes, but he said nothing. Demitri reluctantly took a seat next to him. His eyes widened.
"Your foot!" he exclaimed, seeing the angry red circles. "Mikki, why did you run? I told you not to run! I warned you."
"I don't belong here, Demitri. Dammit, you might've accepted you're stuck, but I'm not giving up! I want out of here!"
"But running isn't the answer," Demitri told him sadly, shaking his head. He began to remove his shoes and socks, but Mikki was too upset to notice.
"They're wrong about me. They have to be! I can feel my family out there somewhere. I can't be alone. I don't want to be alone! I have to get out of here!!"
Demitri knew it would do no good to tell Mikki to calm down. He only waited. "After a minute or two, he spoke. "Do you know why Madame Olga did that to you?" he asked softly, not meeting the younger boy's gaze. Mikki only shook his head. "Because you ran, and so couldn't run again."
Demitri showed Mikki the bottom of his own feet, covered with many circular scars; many more than Mikki had, in various shades of beige and white, depending on order received. Mikki stared at Demitri's soles in silent astonishment and revulsion.
"It takes weeks for the pain to go away, " Demitri said, forlorn. His eyes were empty and defeated. "Olga's perceptive, Mikki. If she thinks there's even the slightest chance you'll run again, the split second your feet are healed enough to stand on, she'll burn 'em again. You have to stay. There's nothing you can do; nothing I can do…"
"Why is she doing this, Demitri?" he begged.
"Because she doesn't like to lose," he said quietly. "And she always gets what she wants."
Demitri held Mikki in a brotherly way, and when he finished crying, finally climbed up the ladder into the top bunk. He fell asleep quickly, emotionally drained as he was, but Mikki lay awake for hours.
Mikki Kalishnikova, in all his years as a parent-less child, had never felt so incredibly alone. Demitri was his idol, his inspiration, and he had all but told the younger boy to abandon hope. He didn't believe Mikki could make it on his own, or that anyone wanted him. The blow to his ego was devastating, but Mikki knew his friend was right: there was nothing he could do.
Mikki cried silently into the wee hours of the morning, the pitch black of the room pierced only by the distant neon glow from the casino signs. And though the dull ambient light touched his eyes, it could not chase away the shadows of his soul, nor could it calm the storm brewing inside of him. His tears fell like rain.
What could he do? Mikki was technically a ward of the state, bu Olga was the one who curentl;y held custody over every child in the orphanage. He could bide his time and try for California again, sure, but before he could get to the state line, the cops would pick him up and he'd be back to square one.
If Demitri would just help him, Mikki knew he could make it; Demitri had the controlled manner of a strong leader and understood the way other people thought. He could get a friend or himself out of any jam. But he had no confidence, no will, to defy Madame Olga. She had long ago broken his will, and he bowed to her, laving Mikki cold and alone in the empty blackness of despair with his hands tied behind his back.
'Helpless as a newborn child,' Mikki thought, 'and subject to none of the mercy or love.' This was absolutely true. Mikki swung his legs to side of the bed, resolved, and tenderly lowered his feet to the floor.
Mikki yanked his feet up on reflex, gasping from the pain, his eyes watering. The pain hit him in waves, like needle-sharp teeth continually gnawing on his heels.
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, Mikki was able to get himself under control and inspected his wounded extremities. The cigarette burns were mostly in his arches; there were a couple of burns on his heels, but the front pads were untouched. If he tip-toed, he could walk.
Slowly, delicately, Mikki tried again and managed to make it to the kitchen on the first floor.
There was a stronger ambient light in the kitchen, the street lights not far from the windows. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Mikki knew exactly what he was looking for. He completely bypassed the knife drawer, knowing the knives to be terribly dull, and went straight for the utility drawer; a drawer where various small tools—tea strainers, wire cutters, measuring cups, etc.—were kept. He hefted out a large pair of steel shears. The blades were well honed, sharp; these were a quality pair of scissors he was about to ruin.
Exhausted, angry, and depressed, Mikki eased into a chair at the kitchen table. He stared into the relative darkness, through the shadows, and listened to the night. There was no turning back, he knew, as he gripped the shears as wide as they would open. There was only one place Mikki could run where Olga could not follow.
Resigned to his fate, Mikki rested his left arrm on the table and ran the blade deeply across the flesh of his own wrist. The blood, warm and wet, fflowed and formed an ever expanding puddle on the hardwood surface. Already woozy, Mikki cut his other wrist, and the lights of Las Vegas, Nevada, faded from his sight.
In Long Beach, California, thirteen year old Vert Wheeler sat bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. "Don't do it!!" he shrieked. He breathed heavily, getting his bearings, and realized where he was. He shook with fear and adrenaline.
"Vert?" Major Jack Wheeler called, bursting through the door. "What's wrong, son? I heard you scream."
Vert stammered incoherently about an orphanage and a dying boy, but now that he was awake, he could not remember much of the dream. His father sat next to him on the bed and held him protectively. His wife—Vert's mother—had recently passed away. Now, Vert and Jack were all each other had.
"It's okay," Jack said, stroking the boy's hair. "It was just a nightmare."
"Dad…? I-I miss Mom."
"I know, son. I miss her too."
A/N: Oh, the sorrow. Feel the sorrow!! So, that was for cala-lily. All she said she wanted was a Mikki story, but I decided to do a sad and slightly effed up one. As always, read and review! Luv ya! FD