Lada Ivanova, a simple girl and yet so incredibly complicated.
On the day of her marriage, she had been the happiest woman on the planet. She did not know this mysterious Pjotr Ivanov, but she trusted her father's judgement. He had inherited a house. It was small, but enough for the two of them and future children. Outside was a patch of land, where she could grow anything she wished. Her dreams however of a loving home were only temporarily. The very same night, when they had returned to their home Pjotr had hurt her. She knew he was drunk, and blamed it on the vodka.
"I can not believe this is going to be our home." Lada was gleaming. To everyone else their cabin did not look like much, but to her it represented a future. A family. Pjotr being much taller than herself and significantly stronger pushed her up against the wall. She was not gleaming anymore. "What are you doing, that hurt." she winced, as she could feel his cold hands travel underneath her dress. "Don't talk." he ordered her as he pressed her even harder against the logs. His hand was holding her neck in place, and his grip tightened ever so slightly with each thrust he made. Lada whelped in pain as he entered her, and could feel her hot tears stain her cheeks. That had been the very first time he made love to her. If that was how one was supposed to make love, she did not like it. It hurt.
These memories replayed as she watched her husband walk out of the gate, an axe resting on his shoulder. She felt guilty for looking forward to watching him leave in the mornings, but when left, she could finally feel at ease. All the time she stepped on eggshells, waiting for him to snap at her. It could be only a hitting, but sometimes it escalated to something far more severe. Lada sighed and stepped out into the cold morning air. The sun had begun to rise in the distance, and the rooftops in the village of Minebna were bathing in the warm glow. The village in itself was tiny, and only peasants lived here. The women stayed home working in gardens, taking care of the livestock and cooking. The men on the other side worked with timber further down the road, led by a larger company. The pay of course could be better, but they did not afford to complain. Although the village was small, and only about 80 people lived there, Lada did not know any of them. Her husband had forbidden her to contact any of the villagers, even though someone had known her as a child. Lada Ivanov had simply disappeared from society. The people thought of her as strange.
Grabbing her handmade basket, she walked out of the gate, and into the forest that was bordering their lawn. All her life she'd been interested in plants. Her father had taught her the basics of gathering, and her mother had taught her about gardening. On her way through the uneven terrain, she stumbled across a patch of blueberries, and picked them. Although this was not the purpose of her trip, she could simply not leave it be. She put down her gun, and sat down in the middle of the blueberries. They stained some of her blue dress, but she did not mind. She stopped and looked further along the moss-clad forest floor. A red streak ran past her and up a tree. This reminded her of their desperate need for meat. She picked up the gun and fired two times. The squirrel fell motionless to the ground.
Lada was fully aware that a squirrel would not do in the long run. Pjotr ate like five men, and were bad at sharing. This had left his wife abnormally skinny, instead she took the chance to eat while he was not there. In her little garden it was mainly potatoes, and it remained the main source of her nutrition. She was very happy about her garden. Along with potatoes one could find carrots, kale and some medicinal herbs. People walked by, while Lada was standing bent over the soil. Her apron was covered in muck. "Good morning Mrs. Ivanov." It was her neighbour Mrs. Kuznetzov. She was a large woman, with nothing to do with her time but running around spreading rumors and gossip. Lada smiled at her and returned to her task. "I heard you and your husband had fun yesterday. It was quite late wasn't it?" Lada's body froze. The woman had not the slightest idea about what was really going on inside those four walls. Pjotr had come home drunk as a sailor, thrown a chair in the wall before he had his way with her. Mrs. Kuznetzov looked at her with a smile on her wrinkled face. "I am sorry if we bothered you." she answered politely and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Nonsense. Tell me, why don't you join me for church this afternoon." She wanted to scoff. Everyone knew that she never attended church. Personally she believed that God had left her a long time ago, and she had accepted her faith. "I apologize, but I must refuse." she said and put potatoes into the basked with the berries and squirrel. Mrs. Kuznetzov looked down at her with a raised brow, her black eyes filled with judgement. "Sure." Lada watched the elderly woman make her way down the dirt road, before finding someone other to torture with her presence.
As the sun again was on it's way down behind the trees, Lada retreated into the cabin. On the stove stood a pot of squirrel meat, potatoes and carrots. She had eaten all the blueberries herself. Now all she needed to do was wait for her husband to return home. Her senses were sharpened. She sat there listening carefully for his steps outside the door, so she could be prepared to face him. Was this how marriage was supposed to be? Was this her life from now? She asked herself these questions every day, and knew that there was nowhere else for her to go. Pjotr would find her wherever, and God knows what he would do to her then.
The sound of heavy steps on gravel was heard outside the door, and she wiped a tear from her cheek.