Notes from My Captivity(40)

He scowls and ducks away. The mother turns to me, her expression severe, as Clara continues patching her dress with the clothing of the dead. I look away. The mother scares me almost as much as the intense, angry older brother, who I’ve just decided to call Scowly because Killer is probably too on the nose. I wonder if she thinks I’m going to take her boys away. I want to reassure her that I have absolutely no plans to wear a wolfskin wedding dress any time soon.

I picture that scene and almost smile at the thought of standing at an altar made of beaver tusks with Woody by my side.

And then suddenly I have an idea.

I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t escape on my own. I’m weak and woods-dumb, and I have no supplies, no food, no technology, and a broken arm. But I am a girl, last time I checked, and this boy has probably never seen a girl in his life besides his sisters.

I’m going to do what I never bothered to try to do in high school. I’m going to make a boy fall in love with me. And instead of a date to the prom, I’ll win my own survival.

Clara and her mother keep cutting potatoes, unaware that I am sitting here with a new, devious strategy in my heart. To get Woody to swipe right, Siberian style. Then convince him to take me back to civilization, all while managing to avoid the attention of Scowly, the older brother, who looks at me like he’d like to bash my brains out against a tree. Not so much the romantic type. Somehow in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve convinced myself that Scowly acted alone when he killed the crew. Woody and Clara seem too gentle and the mother, too frail.

At least that’s what I tell myself. I have no way of really knowing what happened out there, and I’m guessing no one will be holding up a hand to confess.

Just then, Woody’s face appears in the window again and he throws me a quick, soulful glance. I wave at him, just the merest turn of my fingers, before he disappears.

This could work.

That night, just before the family sits down to dinner, Clara approaches me with a plate of rabbit stew. They all watch me as I take my first delicate spoonful and then throw caution to the wind, driven mad by the smell and taste of it—the meat rangy, the soup stock watery, but who cares it’s food it’s food it’s food. I drop the spoon and attack the stew with my fingers, devouring the rabbit meat until it’s gone and then throwing back my head to drink the contents of the bowl. When at last I pause for breath, I look up to see the whole family staring at me with horror.

Apparently I’ve violated some kind of Siberian Emily Post manners guide.

“Ofitsiant,” I say, which I think is the Russian word for delicious, then I realize, too late, it’s the word for waiter.

I have just accused them of cooking and eating a waiter.

I shrug and smile apologetically.

Scowly scowls, and the rest go back to their dinner.

They glance at me once in a while but don’t speak to me. I mostly keep my head down. After dinner there is a time where they all go to their own activities: The women sew, Scowly stalks out to hobbies unknown, and Woody reads what must be the giant Bible Yuri Androv reported. Its pages are blackened and torn at the edges. That book would go for seven cents on eBay, tops. I’m wondering where in that Bible it says, “Kidnap and murder.” Come to think of it, people in the Bible weren’t very nice.

As I watch him, I take the time to mentally go over all the blogs I’ve read on Tumblr about how to make boys notice you.

Always look your best! Okay, let’s see, I’m half-drowned, half-starved, in the same clothes I’ve worn since two days ago, my hair has dried funny, and I just pulled a tiny leaf out of it. Hmmm, next.

Show an interest in the things he likes! I look over at the Bible. Other hobbies: hunting, gathering, kidnapping. Okay, I’ll try.

Don’t forget to play a little hard to get! Right. Well, since I’m a prisoner in his hut, I’d say he’s got me.

By now the past twenty-four hours have caught up to me. Later, I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as the family prepares to turn in for the night. Scowly and Woody bed down near the front door. The women throw down blankets near the stove. The mother drops something made of animal fur and points to a space on the floor by the wall, no more than two feet wide, where I suppose I am to sleep. I quickly obey.

The candle flickers, putting off a musky, animal scent, and the mother reaches up, takes it off the table, and blows it out, leaving everything dark around me. I hear some prayers, some of them guttural and sullen-sounding—Scowly nagging his god—and then all is quiet except for the breathing around me. Through the paneless windows, I can feel a cool breeze and see the stars in the sky. As my eyes adjust, I can make out shapes in the dark.

I wait, listening to the breathing deepen. Before I know it, I’m asleep.

I awaken with a start, sometime in the night, minutes or hours later. I’m in a hut with the same family who were once part of the darkness around me, tantalizing and frightening. Now they are more real, and I am less. Stripped of my possessions, my family, my friends, and my world. Unable to speak and be heard. Made mostly of shadows and fear. My broken arm heavy in its clumsy cast. I know the dark Siberian woods are full of danger, but dark Siberian huts don’t seem like day care centers, either.

I glance over at the sleeping figures. Woody is closest to me. The glow of the moon lights up his face. The light accentuates his high cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw. Give him a haircut and a shave and a week of hot showers, and he might be Instagram-ready.