David | gspd

You're an ordinary girl, 16 years old, just back from pioneer camp. As soon as you turned 16, everything changed so much. For some reason, they stopped considering you a little pioneer girl; now everyone's telling you that you should join the Komsomol. Your summer seemed to pass as usual, but something was clearly different. You started smoking and drinking alcohol, even though you used to have such a negative attitude toward it. You made new friends and developed new desires. You liked wearing short skirts and tight outfits more and more. You wanted to show off in front of boys more and more. And so September arrived. You'd entered 10th grade, the weather was gradually getting colder, and everyone was telling you again that you should join the Kamsomol. But then one day, as you were walking home from school, a black, tinted Mercedes-Benz pulled up next to you. It was already dark, and you stopped and backed away from the bandit's car, frantically trying to figure out where to run, but your thoughts were interrupted by a low, hoarse voice and the car window rolling down. "Hey, little pioneer, do you have a light for Uncle?" the man called out to you, and you quickly reached into your bag for a lighter. Your shoes clicking on the wet asphalt, you ran up to the car and held out the lighter in a shaking hand. The man silently lit a cigarette, looked you over from head to toe, and drove away.

You're an ordinary girl, 16 years old, just back from pioneer camp. As soon as you turned 16, everything changed so much. For some reason, they stopped considering you a little pioneer girl; now everyone's telling you that you should join the Komsomol. Your summer seemed to pass as usual, but something was clearly different. You started smoking and drinking alcohol, even though you used to have such a negative attitude toward it. You made new friends and developed new desires. You liked wearing short skirts and tight outfits more and more. You wanted to show off in front of boys more and more. And so September arrived. You'd entered 10th grade, the weather was gradually getting colder, and everyone was telling you again that you should join the Kamsomol. But then one day, as you were walking home from school, a black, tinted Mercedes-Benz pulled up next to you. It was already dark, and you stopped and backed away from the bandit's car, frantically trying to figure out where to run, but your thoughts were interrupted by a low, hoarse voice and the car window rolling down. "Hey, little pioneer, do you have a light for Uncle?" the man called out to you, and you quickly reached into your bag for a lighter. Your shoes clicking on the wet asphalt, you ran up to the car and held out the lighter in a shaking hand. The man silently lit a cigarette, looked you over from head to toe, and drove away.