2: White Lies in Snow

Anya’s POV

I stand in front of the cracked mirror. The red dress clings to my hips like a bad memory. 

Too big at the waist, I have to hold it with pins. Too short at the hem, it shows my knees that shake. 

The silk is thin now, faded from too many washes in cold water. I see my ribs under it. My collarbones stick out. 

The color looks wrong on my pale skin. I look small. Lost. Like a girl playing dress-up in her mother’s old clothes.

I pin it again. My fingers shake badly. The pin is small and sharp. It slips. 

I try once more. I hate how the silk feels now. Rough. Cheap. Used. Like old rag. 

Once it was new. Soft. Shiny. Mama picked it. Said red is for brave girls. 

Once I was new. Clean. Happy. No pins. No hate.

Downstairs, voices. Papa and Igor. Low. Angry. Papa’s words come fast, like he is scared. Igor answers slow, like stone. 

“You promised,” Igor says. 

Papa whispers, “I tried.” 

A chair falls. Silence. Then Papa cries softly. I stop breathing. I hate his tears. They are fake. They always are. They make me feel small.

I take a slow breath. It shakes in my chest. One step. The wood is cold on my bare feet. Two steps. 

The stairs creak under my weight, loud in the quiet house. I stop at the bottom. 

My hand grips the rail. They do not see me yet. I stay in the shadow. Heart beats fast.

Igor leans on the wall. His coat is old. Buttons missing. He smokes. The smoke curls up like a ghost. 

Papa sits on the chair. Head in hands. His hair is gray now. More gray than last month.

Igor sees me first. His eyes narrow. 

“Why red?” he asks Papa, not me. His voice is rough. Like gravel. 

“Red is for whores. White is better. She will look pure. Like she is.”

Papa looks up. His eyes are red. Not from crying. From drinking. He rubs his chin. Slow. 

“Igor is right,” he says. “Change. The white gown. The one from your sweet sixteen.”

I open my mouth. Words stick. 

“Papa, I outgrew it years ago. It will not fit.”

“Then make it fit,” he says. His voice is flat. 

No room for no. No room for me.

I turn. My feet feel heavy. Like stones. Back up the stairs. One. Two. Three. I count them. Always count. The wood is cold. Splinters wait for bare skin. I do not care.

My room. Door shuts. Click. I lean on it. Breathe. In. Out. 

The air smells like dust and old perfume. Mama’s perfume. She left the bottle. Half full. I never open it.

Closet. I push clothes aside. Dresses I can’t wear. 

Skirts are too big. The white gown hangs at the back. Silk. Tiny pearls on the neck. I pull it out. Dust flies. I cough.

I step in. The fabric is cool. Smooth. I lift my arms. 

Zip. 

It stops halfway. I suck in my stomach. Pull harder. My skin burns. The zipper bites. It closes. Too tight. 

My chest pushes up. Too much skin. The skirt hugs my legs. I can’t breathe deep. I turn. Side. Front. Back.

I look like a doll someone squeezed. A doll with cracks.

I hate it. Hate how it shows every curve. Hate how it makes me look like a gift. Wrapped. Ready.

I open the window. Snow sneaks in. Cold kisses my arms. My neck. My face. I shiver. Good. Cold is honest.

I slip out the back door. Bare feet on ice. Sharp. I bite my lip. No sound. 

Next door lives Mrs. Petrova. Old. Kind. Widow. Her light is on. I knock softly. Once. Twice.

She opens. Slow. Her eyes are milky. “Anya?”

“Please,” I whisper. “A coat. Just for tonight. I am cold.”

She looks at my dress. At my face. Her mouth turns down. She knows. Maybe not all. But enough. 

She turns. Comes back with a fur coat. Brown. Heavy. Smells like mothballs and old flowers.

I hug her quick. Her bones are thin. “Thank you.”

I run back. Snow in my hair. On my lashes. I climb the window. Careful. The sill is wet. I slip. Catch myself. Close the window. Lock it.

I pull the coat on. It swallows me. Good. Hide.

Downstairs again. Slow steps. The coat drags. 

Papa looks up. His eyes flick to the coat. “Why the coat?”

I point outside. The window. Snow falls hard. “It is snowing.”

Igor stares. His eyes move slowly. Down. Up. Down. Over the coat. Over me.

I feel dirty. Like his look leaves marks. I pull the coat tight. Buttons cold under my fingers.

Papa nods. “Let us go.” He stands. His knees crack. He grabs his hat. Old. Fur peeling.

Outside, a black car waits. Shiny. New. Windows dark. I do not ask where it came from. I know Papa did not call it. Someone else did.

I slide in. Leather cold. Smells like money. Papa sits beside me. He smells like fear and vodka. The door shuts. Click. Like a cage.

The car moves. Smooth. Quiet. Snow hits the windows. Soft taps. I watch the city blur. 

Golden lights. People laugh under umbrellas. Warm coats. Warm hands. I want to be them. Anyone but me.

Papa whispers. “Tonight erases my sins.”

I turn. “What sins?”

He does not answer. Looks out the window. His hands twist in his lap. Knuckles white.

I look too. Streets. Lights. Snow. 

The Bolshoi appears. Tall. White. Gold lights. Like a palace. I danced here once. On stage. In white. With flowers in my hair. Not dragged. Not sold.

My throat hurts. I swallow. Nothing helps.

The car stops. Slow. Door opens. Cold air bites. Hard. My face. My hands. My legs.

Papa grabs my hand. Hard. His fingers dig in. Bones press bones.

He pulls.

I step out. Snow on my lashes. Fur coat heavy. Wet.

He drags me inside.