Lola Smirnova - Twisted

We walk out of the club, breezing through the crowd of overdressed and over-painted girls who are rocking the dance floor, moving as seductively as they can.

Poor men! The humane way would be to put a billboard at the entrance, something similar to those black and yellow warning signs with a skull and crossbones, with the heads-up underneath it: Danger! Hunting in progress!

When we reach his black BMW with darkened windows, he opens the back door for me and helps me to drop down onto the seat.

A wave of overpowering fear strikes my insides when I see the other men, two in the front and one on my left. All three of them are silent, with brutish smirks and rudely evaluating stares. My body shakes from the sudden overdose of adrenalin that fills my lungs with the heavy air of danger. Even my slow, intoxicated brain grasps it – it’s not going to be a fun ride. I jerk in the hope of getting out of the car but the only exit is blocked when Mehmet possessively gets inside and sneers, ‘She is perfect for tonight, a skinny and loaded little whore’.

They all grin. The car takes off.

‘Where are we going?’ I’m freaking out, but still try to keep my voice untroubled. ‘Where are the other girls?’

Before I finish my words the elbow of the one on the left flashes in front of my eyes. The piercing pain from his strike to my face knocks me out.

The rude dragging brings me back to consciousness. The one who’d hit me throws me over his shoulder as if I were some gazelle he’d just wounded while hunting. I try to understand what is going on. I struggle to open my eyes. The first thing I’m able to focus on is the trail of drops of my own blood on the streetlamp-lit paving. The pain and fear surges back, reminding me of what a fuck-up I’ve got myself into.

Holy crap… it’s sore… please don’t hurt me any more… please let me go…

I don’t know how long we were on the road, but the quiet, fresh air and noises of the crickets tell me that we are somewhere outside Istanbul, probably in one of the nearby villages.

Please… please… please… somebody… help me…

I hear them speak Turkish but the inflamed pulse in my head makes it impossible for me to concentrate and catch what they are talking about.

We walk up a short flight of stairs that probably leads into a dwelling. I am too weak to lift up my head but even hanging upside down I can see the doorframe, the dark corridor, the badly lit room with a couch and chairs. My carrier takes a few more steps and then throws me off his shoulder onto the floor. My head hits the floor; a loud ‘Aaargh!’ breaks through my lungs, followed by a sprinkle of tears of agony and despair.

The one that was driving approaches me and stands so close that the toe of his shoe touches my face.

‘You will have to be a good girl tonight, my darling…’ He squats, grabs my hair in a fist, pulls my head up, turning my face to his, and smirks, ‘I must tell you I don’t like noisy little whores. Although you are lucky to have hit the jackpot tonight, to find out what it feels like when four horny dicks are digging each of your holes at the same time.’ The bastard interrupts himself with evil laughter, looking very pleased with his little psycho speech. ‘And most likely you will not enjoy it much, but I warn you… keep it quiet and you may stay alive.’

‘Hey, Nizam,’ Mehmet’s voice calls from another room. ‘Get in here and have a few drinks with your friends. Leave that whore alone for now. We have the whole night ahead of us.’ I hear laughter and the clinks of glasses.

Before he gets up, he squeezes my hair harder, distorting my face to an excruciating grimace while showing me his teeth. ‘You will have to be patient, my darling.’ He hurls my head back so it hits the floor and knocks me out cold again…

A splash of cold water onto my face brings me back to consciousness. I return to the horrifying reality very slowly, feeling more and more pain with every second.

‘Stay still, Julia.’ I recognise Mehmet’s voice. It’s calm and friendly. He is sitting on the couch with his elbows resting on his knees and looking down at me, ‘It’s going to be a long and rough night for you, so let me help you to reduce the pain you are about to go through. Besides, it looks like your nose is broken so sniffing is not an option for you right now.’

There is a small black bag in his hands. He unzips it and takes out a syringe with a rubber tube. I shrug away in a weak attempt to object, but the movement only whips up my agony.

He cords my arm and gently injects me, disregarding my faint supplication that’s smeared with the blood and tears from my face.

The warm and persistent wave enters my body, as if it’s not a two-mil syringe but a bathtub filled with bubbly hot water that’s been shot inside me. I close my eyes and drown in a pleasant world, one so generously quick to take over the reality that’s poisoned with terror and suffering.

Hi my Poppy-seed,

What is going on? You are really making me worry now .

You don’t answer my emails any more. I tried to call you today too and your cell is off. Please answer me asap.

We are back home. So happy to see mom and papa .

The only thing that keeps me sleepless is you .

Please Jul! Let me know what is going on.

Love you a lot.

xxx

I come alive, shivering. I am freezing. It is so cold that my numb body is unbearably sore. I am lying on the ground and bright sunlight is hurting my eyes. As I force myself to lift up my head, in extreme pain, I see nothing but miles of tall, dry grass around me.

I look down at myself. My sweater is ripped in a few places. My skinny jeans’ fly is not closed. They are not worn properly, hanging below my thighs. There are no panties or shoes at all. I am camouflaged with stains of blood and mud. I don’t even want to imagine what my face looks like – it’s bloated and covered with curdling blood, which I feel as I wince from the sun’s rays.

The memories of last night start flashing through my head, sharp, distressing.

They didn’t kill me… I am alive…

Despite that I am cold, hungry, injured, and have no idea where I am. I cannot believe I am alive. I don’t remember much of what happened after I was shot with crack or heroin, except for some short moments of coming back to consciousness and witnessing every kind of twisted sexual abuse they were coming up with.

The terror, humiliation and pain were all damaging, but the worst experience, it turned out, was the fear of death and then, when the terror exhausted me completely, the comprehension and acceptance of the fact that I was going to die. I guess now I know that there is only one thing that can be worse than death, and that is to wait for it – the absolute certainty that your life is over while you are still breathing.

I start crying, but my body is so dehydrated that there are no tears. As I slowly get off the ground and pull my pants up, I hear the noise. It takes me some time to understand where it comes from. There is a road! And there are cars! I can call for help!

I walk quickly, ignoring the piercing ache that each step brings me. I hug myself, trying to warm up and stop the shivers, which pitilessly worsen the pain.

I wave, but none of the first three passing cars stops. My desperation and self-pity turns my tearless weeping into a wild howl. My vision is blurring, so I feel even more lost and isolated than before. I try to wave more cars down but with no success, until I run into a police car, which pulls off as soon as the cops see me.