The Girl With Dead Flowers in Her Hair
By Eric Christ
Sergei Nikolsky finished with a grunt and rolled away. As he fumbled with his clothes, Nalya Akhmatova pulled down her dress and buttoned her blouse. She sat up and started to straighten her hair out of habit, then remembered it had been shaved off upon her arrival in camp six months earlier.
“You should act more lively,” Sergei said as he laced his valenki. “It’s like screwing a corpse.”
Nalya stared at his boots as she shivered in the early autumn chill.
Sergei stood and stepped closer. He put on his guard jacket and nudged her cheek with his thigh. “Maybe I’ll inform Pavel of my dissatisfaction with your performance and refuse to pay him. What do you think he’d say?”
She hunched her shoulders and pulled away. “He would not be pleased.”
Sergei grabbed her chin and swung her face around with a cruel twist. His eyes gleamed under the darkness cast by the brim of his cap. His breath smelled like stale cigarettes. “He will beat you. Do you want that?”
Nalya jerked her head back and forth. “No,” she whispered.
“Then do what I say. Next time, move like a normal person.” He squeezed her chin harder. The calluses on his hands scraped against her skin. “Say you will do this.”
“I will.” Her voice broke into a whimper.
Sergei threw her backward and she landed in the mud next to the barracks. Her head smacked against the wall. He kicked her in the stomach and disappeared around the corner.
Nalya lay against the building. The rough wood scratched her skin through the holes in her clothes. She waited until she caught her breath and her head subsided to a dull throb before clambering to her feet. She wiped the worst of the mud off her dress and followed after him.
