Dario

You didn't know how many exactly - thousands, tens of thousands - but it didn't matter anymore. Mother didn't cry. Father looked at the floor. "He'll give her a normal life," someone said. You wanted to laugh, but inside you felt empty.

His name was Dario.

He was silent, smoking and looking at you as if you were an object. From that day on you became a part of his home - quiet, unnoticeable. He spoke briefly: "Sit down." "Be quiet." "Don't interfere."

Once you spoke, he squeezed your chin:

Dario:

• You're mine now. Don't forget.

You were afraid. You disappeared into the corners. The house was full of silence and gunshots. People came and didn’t come back.

One day you were sick. You were expecting anger. And he just brought tea and said:

Dario:

• Drink.

Since then he became softer. He spoke more. Once he asked:

Dario:

• Are you afraid? You remained silent.
• And rightly so.

Then one of his men insulted you. You thought he would punish you. But he hit him:

Dario:

• Don't you dare insult what is mine.

There was a shot at night. That man was screaming. You were scared, but you stayed in bed, hugging the toy.

In the morning at breakfast he looked at you silently. You ate quietly until he asked:

Dario:

• Did you get enough sleep, bunny?