I press a finger against the groove in the concrete beside my bed, with slight pressure I slide my finger up to the metal slat that begins my bunkmates bed. I like the feeling of the rough mineral grating against my flesh. The twinge of pain I feel when I move my finger a little too fast is almost comforting. It's honest. It lets me know exactly what my parameters are in one simple sensation. I like honest. Though, when we really mull it over, honesty isn't as black and white as we make it up to be. Its messy.

When my second born pressed his large finger against the glass accussing me of seperating us, should I have been honest? What should I have been honest about?

Perhaps, I should be honest enough to tell him that he has the luxury for his skin to press against a smooth, kind, forgiving surface and able to walk away once he's done vomiting hate towards his mother.

Perhaps, I should be honest enough to tell him that the parent he's so devoted to, the parent who, according to my son, is the epitome of family loyalty was too weak to protect his wife.

Perhaps, I should tell him that though I agree I am held in captivity for mistakes that I have made that it is not for the reasons he believes they are.

The first year in America was difficult to say the least. We struggled to find jobs, we struggled to keep jobs, we struggled to eat, we struggled to live. As Russians, it wasn't to far off from life before but at least then we had familiar faces and culture to depend on. But over time we proved ourselves as dependable employees to slowly earn enough to survive, then enough to live and finally just enough to save. Dimitri became close friends with the one other Russian in his road gang six months after our move into States life. He told us of "Little Russia", a tiny neighborhood in a shady part of town. We would have to sleep with our savings underneath our pillow and be wary of constant police patrols but we would have friends close by. We would finally have a little corner to fit in, in an opportunistic but unforgiving country.

We found our courner and we became ourselves again. Well, for the most part.

I don't know if I ever loved Dimitri. As the father of my children and the man who helped me escape, of course there is adoration. He really did become my family and my friend. But love as in romance? No. I never loved him. I was never really attracted to him either. It wasn't his looks that put me off really. It was his inability to grow, to become something better. It seemed the minute we were somehow able to finally get a stable home and a weekly burger in his belly the fire in him was gone. His fury was gone. One day I looked up at him from the kitchen table and knew the man who gently squeezed my hand as we were allowed to pass the U.S. border had died long ago. He never had to look like an Adonis or fuck like its his profession. That's not important. But I need fire. I need heat. I need passion and he lost it for it never to come back.

But Ganya, oh Ganya. He was fire and fury and fear and agony and passion. He was a power that could be so consuming. People would speak his name in Little Russia under hushed breathes but you could still hear the rumble of power carrying his name. I was nothing and he knew I was nothing but he still found me intriguing. I think it's because I could keep eye contact with him and I was probably the first woman not willing to talk to him about the petty distractions they expect us to love.

He entered our business door before we could even unpack a box. There were rules to be set and he didn't have time for pleasantries. Dimitri was plopped down on a milk crate in our back room and I was shooed off to make tea. As I stood by the kettle with my finger nervously tracing curve of a tea cup, I eyed the men surrounding my husband. From what I could hear, they kept it simple. They were on top and we were nothing. They would have a hefty cut of all our profits and if we pay up there will be no issue. If we fail to give them the money there will be issues, issues we never want. Half a world away and there we were still nervously answering to men we probably had a drink with in our school days, who would now happily break our legs and eat our food.

The kettle whistled and I turned away but could feel someone watching me. Piercing blue eyes burning a whole into my back. Nervously, I set up the tea cups and pour in the steaming liquid. I was just about done placing the cups onto the the tray when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and yelped.

I do not yelp.

Ganya towered over me. He gave me a half-smile.

"Can I help you?" I asked, weakly attempting to bite back the annoyance in my voice.

"What is your last name?"

"Rezni…"

"Maiden."

We stared at one another for a moment as we sized one another up.

"Nikovnova"

His half-smile grew into a full grin.

"Your brother. He's studying at Tomsk?"

"I…yes. How do you know this?"

"Your brother was a school mate of mine. My Uncle is a professor at the University."

I simply nodded, unsure of his motive.

"Your mother allowed me to join you for supper a couple times when my parents were arrested. I remember you were fiery back then."

I softned at the memory of my quiet, caring mother. My trance broken when he leaned in and a puff of his breath brushed against my skin.

"….glad to see it has not left, little Galya."

I shuddered.

"Tea my dear?" Dimitri called to me

Galya plucked a cup from its saucer and took a long sip, never breaking eye contact.

"Mmm red tea" he hummed "I do enjoy red."

With he turned and walked away. In that moment, I knew I had been marked. I knew Galya had picked up a brush to change the color in my life in large strokes. I just wish, even more so now, that my colors didn't have to bleed onto the canvases of my boys as well.