“I already told you a little bit about my parents, but I didn’t give you the full story. They were drunks and monsters. We were dirt poor, and they spent every kopek on alcohol. I only kept Pyotr alive by stealing food for him. I did everything I could to keep the harshness of the streets from him.

He was a sweet little boy. When we were next to starving, I was feeding him and he wasn’t gaining any weight. I found out why. He was giving half his food to a stray cat who’d just had kittens. I was furious – I wanted to kill them all – but he cried and begged, so I relented.

He appreciated every single thing I gave him. I would steal a toy for him, and bring it home. I’d never tell him that, of course. He would have refused to accept a stolen toy.

Whatever I gave him, no matter how small or shabby, he’d light up like a Christmas tree. He was so excited and so grateful. That was my only warmth, it was the purist happiness I’ve ever felt, until…well, you.

The year that he was five, there was this one toy he really wanted, a stuffed fox that sang the alphabet. They were sold out everywhere. He never got that toy while he was alive.

When he was six and I was twelve, my father beat him so badly that he nearly died. I carried him in my arms, and walked miles until I got to a hospital. The police were called. My father was taken to jail. We were taken to a children’s home. It was horrible there, so we ran away and went back home to my mother.

Biggest mistake I ever made. It cost him his life. No, don’t argue with me.

My mother was furious with us. She had a sick love-hate relationship with my father. He had stabbed her, fractured her skull, knocked her teeth out, punched her until she miscarried again and again. She slashed him with a broken liquor bottle, and broke his nose with a chair leg while he was passed out drunk. He used to flaunt other women right in front of her, take them home and fuck them in their bed while she was locked out of the room, screaming and beating on the door. She would hunt the women down, cut up their faces or beat their skulls in with bricks.

She was so enraged that my father was in jail because of us, she got rid of us for good. And she made a profit doing it.

She sold us to a couple of men who wanted pretty little boys.

Pyotr was terrified. When we got in that truck I lied and told him that we were going to a nice new home.

That was the last day I ever saw him smile.

Jasha, Maks, Feodyr, Slavik, and a boy named Yakim – I met them all there. Your father and Vilyat came to inspect and approve the new merchandise. They don’t remember me, but I still remember them. Oh, believe me, I do. Every contour of their faces. The sound of their voices. Their laughter.

We heard them speak. They gave away quite a lot of information about themselves, because adults always underestimate children, and because none of us were meant to make it out of there alive.

We learned that they were from America, and that they visited Russia every couple of months. We learned that they didn’t personally sample the boys, because they preferred girls. We learned their last name. Toporov. It was burned into my memory.

After we were inspected, a few children were disposed of because they had venereal diseases. Your father did that. Took them out the back and shot them in the head, one by one, and we had to watch.

Then we were separated by age. The men who visited that whorehouse had particular tastes. They would want children of a specific age range.

They dragged Pyotr away from me. I fought, but they just laughed at me and beat me until I passed out.

We were there for a couple of months in total. It doesn’t sound that long, does it? You can’t imagine how long a couple of months can feel.

Yes, we were raped. Every day. Many times a day. We were beaten. Tortured. Starved. If we wanted to eat, we’d have to crawl across the floor and bend over for men to violate us. We were made to submit to unspeakable acts by adult men who laughed at our pain.

They brought in new boys on a regular basis, to replace the boys who died.

We’d been planning our escape since the day we arrived. We stole dull bread knives and sharpened them. We broke the furniture and made weapons from the sharp splinters.

The men had made a mistake, using street rats for their little boy whores. They thought they were being smart. They knew that nobody would miss us. And they liked our spirit; they enjoyed it more when we fought back. But they didn’t anticipate how wily, and sneaky, and vicious we already were.

Finally I got word from one of the other boys that Pyotr was sick. He’d developed an infection. We had to act right away if we were to have any chance of saving him.

Our plan was basically a suicide pact. We were as good as dead there anyway; we had nothing to lose. There wasn’t a single boy who’d been there longer than six months. Most had only been there three or four. The boys would die of sepsis, or the men would kill them for sport.

We planned to stage an uprising and kill as many men as we possibly could, and we’d get as many boys out as we could. We were deep in the country, but we thought we might just have a chance that some of the boys could escape and go to a news station and tell them what happened. We didn’t have any hope of going to the police; the local chief came to visit himself sometimes.

But we were more successful then we’d ever expected.

We actually killed all of the guards and clients. They weren’t expecting it, from children. We killed the first few guards, took their guns, and turned the guns on the rest.

Feodyr jumped in front of me and took a bullet for me. It’s a miracle he didn’t die.

We all ran for it. Pyotr had gone ahead. He was alone in the woods, in the winter.

He was killed by a starving wolf. The wolf was still feeding on him when I found him.

My bracelet? Made from the wolf’s sinews. I strangled that wolf with my bare hands.

You know, that toy fox – Jasha, get the fuck away from me – I give Pyotr that fox every single year. I buy him a nice new one and take it to his grave, or have it delivered since I’ve left the country.

Get her out. Get her out. Get her out!”

* * *

Jasha and his men rushed me out of there, and slammed and locked the door behind him. I heard Sergei roaring like a wounded beast.

I’d done that to him.

My family had done that to him.

“He’ll hurt himself,” I gasp.

“That’s why the room is padded.” There’s not a glint of softness or sympathy in his voice.

I stumble and fall.

Jasha carries me back to my room. Slavik clumps heavily along beside him. They seem dispirited, the life sucked out of them. They’ve just had the nightmare story of their past recounted, their humiliation and agony dredged up and displayed before a stranger. And their leader, the man whose strength has kept them going, is in the grip of madness.

Jasha sets me down on the bed and backs away. His expression is bleak, and he looks lost.

Slavik’s fists clench, and when he speaks to me, disgust ices his every word. “Now you know why we hate you.”

Jasha heaved a sigh. “She didn’t know. She was not part of it. She is no more guilty of what happened to us than we were.”

Slavik spits a stream of curses, then storms out of the room.

I lie on my bed, on my side. I couldn’t move if I were drowning.

There is no reason for me to move, to eat, to drink. To breathe.