My country, my pride, had been stolen from me. Wonderland no longer belonged to me. I was virtually extinct, held captive by the man that I'd come to hate the most. The man looked innocent enough, violet eyes that captivated you, a sweet smile, light hair that sagged slightly in front of his face. His appearance was all an illusion. He'd ground my country to dust. I despised him.
Yet here I was, stuck with him. His captive.
I had yet to speak a word to him. He rarely attempted to speak to me. Come to think of it, the only time he ever attempted to start a conversation with me was when he brought in my dinner. The rest of the time I pretty much never saw him.
I mostly spent my time, sitting around twiddling my thumbs and missing what I couldn't have. I wanted a book, a song, ANYTHING that could bring a sense of normalcy back to my life. I wanted to rock out to Blood on the Dance Floor. I wanted to read a new book. I wanted to write my feelings down on a stupid piece of paper.
I heard the door opened. "Good evening, Ramneet." I snarled my nose at the sound of my name. I hated when he talked to me as though we were friends.
Damn that Russian bastard.
He set down a plate of fish, carrots, broccoli, bread, and water. He sat on a stool and ate a bowl of borscht and chewed on a clump of bread, smaller than mine. When he was finished, he just sat there and waited for me to complete a meal I had yet to touch. I'd known from the last several days that he would just sit there and wait for me to complete my meal, no matter how long it took me to give in and eat. I glared at the empty wall space for twenty silent, agonizing minutes. I could feel him staring at me.
"You're being difficult," he said. "If you eat, I'll go away."
I balled my hands into fists, and gritted my teeth.
After a few more minutes, I ate my dinner. His hand suddenly reached in front of me, and I yelped, flinching away from it. The hand grabbed my plate. I listened to his footsteps fade as he walked away from the room.
I shrieked in frustration, throwing myself on my mattress and buried my face in my pillow, beating my mattress wit my fists. My frustration with myself grew every day. I would not be afraid of him, I would not be afraid of him, I would not be afraid of him. Never again. Of course, no matter how many times I told myself this, it changed nothing. I feared him. He'd crushed my country.
He'd taken everything from me.
… I would be his prisoner forever...
I felt a tear stream down my face. I hated crying, it made me feel like an idiot. It didn't ever help anything, it wouldn't change my situation.
I needed to get out of this room, but I knew I couldn't. Not because the door was locked, which it wasn't. Not because I was injured, which I wasn't. But because he was out there.
The gray door opened and I jumped, hearing myself gasp. He dropped a box onto the floor next to the door, then looked up at me. "они принадлежат к вам."
For a long time, over an hour, I paced the room, wondering. Look in the box. Don't look in the box. Look in the box. Don't look in the box.
Look in the box.
I peeked over the top. In the box were my notebooks, my pencil case, my books, my CDs, my stereo. Everything that had once defined who I was. Even a large sum of my clothes were tucked inside the large cardboard box.
Grabbing a set of clothes, I peeked out of the door, looking both ways to assure that I would not run into the Russian again. When I was sure that he wasn't coming back, I rushed quickly down the hall and entered the bathroom. I showered, and dressed in a Tokio Hotel T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans.
I ran back to the room, and put a CD in the stereo. After a bit of rummaging, I found my ear buds. I turned the music as loud as my ears could handle and grabbed a random book from the box. Cut by Patricia McCormick.
My eyes blurred. I closed them and felt the salty liquid escape between my eyelashes. Everything just felt so normal for the first time since I'd been here.
He was being nice.
Why?