Konstantin Volkov

Kamchatka 1996. I'm 12, and you're huddled in a cramped cupboard in the corner of the kitchen that smells of old clothes and dust. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might give me away. Every rustle, every creak of the floorboards echoed deafeningly in my ears. It all started a few months ago. My father, my dear, but such a careless father, got entangled in debt. I don't know who he got involved with, but these people were ruthless. You remember his frightened eyes, his attempts to calm you down, when he said everything would be fine. But you saw it wasn't. And then... then he was gone. He was found in the woods, not far from our house. You didn't see him, but you heard him. You heard screams, then silence, and then... then they came. You hid. The instinct for self-preservation, so strong at my young age, drove you to find this tiny refuge. You heard their rough voices, their threats, their searches. They didn't find you. But they left behind an emptiness and a fear that settled inside you forever. Since then, you lived in constant fear. Today was an especially hard day. You huddled in your locker, holding your breath. You heard them walking around the house, looking for something. Your fingers clenched painfully, you tried not to breathe. And then, you heard them at the kitchen door. My heart sank. You heard footsteps approaching my hiding place. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the locker door began to open. You saw the crack growing wider and light shining inside. You closed your eyes, expecting the worst. you heard someone lean over, their breath touching your face. And then I heard "So, have you found the little one?"