You don't need other people's approval.

I don't clearly remember how it happened. All I remember is that I didn't dream it. It was real, as real as the burning sensation when you brush against a flame, mistress of heat.

I remember getting up like every morning, getting dressed, and applying makeup with a line of eyeliner and mascara.

I then went down to the common kitchen for breakfast.

My mum was different from other mums. We didn't do these mother-daughter activities. I couldn't remember our last shopping trip or our pancake afternoon; had it only happened once before?

When my mother was on her good days, she didn't provoke me in the morning.

His first words were crucial and decisive because they determined what kind of day had just begun. And the more time passed, the rarer it was to enjoy coffee in silence.

What is this outfit? You go to school, not prostitute yourself.

I glanced discreetly at my outfit. My lace-up sweater showed only a tiny patch of skin, almost competing with my black jeans and my Federation of Nuns-approved Derbys.

So I didn't bother to answer him and shoved a slice of bread in the toaster, almost to avoid giving him a spicy reply.

Over the years, I had learned not to respond to his daily remarks. Anyway, even the few times I tried to make her understand that I cared more about the color of Lady Gaga's nail polish than her opinion, she didn't want to hear anything.

My mother was a tenacious woman, a bit like dirt. Maybe I got it from her, my badass appearance.

"Come here, let's fight."

Yet I had to keep my head high; the pain was there. Hidden deep in my chest, and each of his words was like a needle.

Sharp, precise, and piquant.

When the browned piece of bread popped out of the machine, I vaguely heard him comment on how many calories a toast had.

You should know an important thing about my mother: although she has an incredibly inexhaustible stock of remarks, her favorite subjects remain my diet, my weight, my style of dress, and my dating.

Go figure why it seems she particularly itched to remind me every minute of my life how much better I could have been.

I put the knife aside once.

my piece of bread topped with slightly melted butter and bit into it eagerly.

Which obviously earned me yet another comment.

My lunch gobbled up faster than recommended by the diet channel in the background, I grabbed my school bag and slung it over one of my shoulders.

I left the house without even turning to the mistress of the place, who, without much surprise, did not sketch the shadow of a smile.

She could have pretended for once.

I walked quietly to my school, which was not very far from my home.

She could very well have led me, but I confessed that I was not so masochistic as to want to stay locked up in an enclosed place with her.

This little walk was, in a way, my minutes of respite between home and school.

Arriving in front of the establishment, I stopped, waiting for my best friend at the usual place.

Yet today something was not like the other days. The same routine stuck to my skin for six years. I knew at the fingertips all the adventures that punctuated my week from Monday to Friday.

On Monday, Carren skipped the first hour of math.

On Tuesday, a student would still cause a scandal because his girlfriend stuck to him too much.

Thursday, Daisy told us about her Wednesday.

Yet today, something upset my routine.

Black cars with tinted windows were parked on the sidewalk in front of the establishment.

Later I remembered that I should have been careful. But I didn't worry. Soon

Damen arrived, and I returned at the same time as him.

So? Does he ask me?

As usual, I shrug my shoulders.

He didn't have time to answer that we had already arrived at the height of our band. Friends since childhood, Daisy, Kristal,

Joshua, Damen, and I never left each other.

Hey ugly ones! I exclaimed, tapping Daisy on the shoulder.

"Speak for yourself," replied the latter.

"Come on, D, assume you're ugly," laughed Joshua.

Daisy pretended to groan, and I took her in my arms.

She was already freezing her face with the same expression when I refused to play hopscotch.

Go; it does not matter. D, the ugly ones can be happy.

"Well yes, look at Elie, she lives perfectly well," laughed Damen.

I laughed with my friends as I joined the class for our first lesson.

A few hours later, I came out of this huge building alone and was about to go home, morally exhausted by the resumption of classes.

Damen used to ride with me; he only lived a block away.

His perfect family had not resisted the heat of the summer, and he now had to take the bus every other week and go to another city to join his father.

I descended the few steps from the porch.

In the distance I still saw the same cars as this morning, but this time men were leaning against them, watching like predators the students coming out of high school.

One of these men finally looked at me and leaned towards his sidekick, nodding at me.

I have become paranoid.

I chose the moment when they all rose to come in my direction to recite a mental prayer all the same.

It was at the moment when they surrounded me, like a ring of fire, without my foot having moved a millimeter yet, that I realized that I must not only be very slow on the trigger but also really in the shit.

You are a slave when you are no longer master of yourself.

Elizabeth Rosefield?

"No," I answered, very unsure of myself.

Bravo, Elisabeth, a real child.

The man who had asked me the question sighed.

Of course he knew who I was. The question was just politeness. This kind of man should never hit the wrong target; that was for sure.

He gestured to two men who each took one of my arms. Faced with this unwanted contact, I let out a high-pitched cry.

The superior of these men turned to face me.

He was so close I could feel his breath hitting my face. Without realizing it, I felt a spike against my lower stomach. Looking down, I saw a sharp, sharp knife.

One more cry and I'll shove it into your uterus. You, who always wanted a big family, wouldn't you put your only means of realizing your dream in jeopardy? he asked, a sadistic smile floating on his thin, not very hydrated lips.

Shocked by his threats, I didn't struggle the least bit when they ushered me into the black car.

In my head I tried so hard to understand how he could have known something so intimate about me, him, this man with the closed and unknown face.

How could we be so cruel? Threatening someone in this way was not only punishable by law but also very sadistic.

Elisabet, we are dealing with a disturbance.

The rattle of the lock on the armored car snapped me out of my brief reverie.

I was now a prisoner.

The kidnapper once again turned to me; he looked at me, and when he laid his eyes on me, I felt dirty. I felt like this stranger had a complete lack of values. That was also the only reason that kept me from rebelling as I had been so used to since I entered adolescence.

"Very well, mistinguette, we are going to talk a little, you and me," he began.

For an answer, I spat on him. It was certainly not very feminine, but I was against it.

In a split second he jumped on me and put his imposing hand on my neck.

Lying on the seat of the huge car, with him on top of me holding me by the neck, I seriously began to wonder why I was there.

Wild as I like them, he said, hiding his head in my neck.

I tried to struggle with what little strength I had, but it did nothing.

I thought I was going to be raped on this seat when suddenly the driver intervened.

The boss said not to touch her, and I don't want to be an accomplice to that, Ivan. Drop the girl.

Slowly he turned his head towards the driver. A staring game then began, a duel of lions.

My attacker turned his gaze and fixed it on me.

Don't worry, Carl, I was just clearing up a few things with our friend.

He eyed me, every inch of my face violated by his unhealthy eyes.

First you will keep very quiet, okay?

I swallowed my need for rebellion for once, realizing that it was my only way to survive.

Yet I did not lower my gaze; I held his dark, evil eyes.

You're going to be very nice until we get there; otherwise, I swear your body will be marked by me.

Leaving me as white as he was worried, he straightened up and sat down next to me.

You'd better sleep, Bella; we still have long hours of driving ahead of us.

As far away as possible from him, leaning against the left door, I watched the landscape passing by to the rhythm of the car, and little by little I fell asleep with my head against the door.

Feeling of helplessness that has haunted me since my birth.

I woke up to an unpleasant bump on my shoulder.

Something, or rather someone, was shaking my shoulder angrily. Slowly I opened my eyes and emerged. My door was open for Ivan.

Sleeping Beauty is awake, he laughs.

I glare at him and get out of the car.

Without my understanding why, a huge private jet was in front of me. I looked at the steel bird; I had never seen a plane so close before.

Damen has always been passionate about aviation. Suddenly something tightened in my stomach.

Where... where are you taking me?

Mademoiselle has lost her confidence, it seems. Come on, honey.

I will not move until I am told where I am being taken.

"Very well," he breathes before signaling to his henchmen.

Once again they approached me like emotionless predators. anyone, just someone.

The man groaned, and one of his colleagues came to hold my legs.

RELEASE ME, UGLY SNOT BALLS!

No matter how much I screamed at the top of my lungs, nothing helped.

Twenty minutes later I was tied up in the air, heading for the unknown.

At first I looked out the window in order to see any clue as to which direction we were going. Then, once I realized that it was really useless, I had, once again, fallen asleep.

When I woke up, the plane had landed, and, outside, it was early morning.

Standing Ivan spoke in an unknown language with a man.

I tried to understand what they were saying, but inevitably I hadn't been able to translate anything at all.

What did you expect? You don't even know what language it is!

After having finished discussing with the man, Ivan turned to me, and with the hand he beckoned me to follow him.

Anyway, I had no choice, so, like a Labrador, I followed him.

The wind whipped my face, sending my hair flying all over the place.

Once on dry land, my captor turned to me with his arms outstretched.

Darling, welcome to Russia.

If they want to dictate my life to me, I'll make a mistake in every sentence.

The moment his sentence was understood by my poor brain, I thought I was going to collapse.

I, Elisabeth Rosefield, had just been kidnapped and taken to Russia against my will.

How the hell am I going to get out of this mess?

In... in... in Russia? But fo... why?

You will know it one day; for the moment, follow me and shut up.

No, no, no, and no! I won't move until I know where you're taking me!

He approaches me with military steps and pulls out of his belt the blade he had already pointed at me.

I'm fed up with your childish whims; you shut up and move on. I've already been far too patient with you, so now either you obey or you're going to start to hurt.

I swallow hard and try to breathe.

I have no doubt that he would dare to carry out his threats.

In fact, I was even surprised that he hadn't done anything yet.

I am without the slightest opposition. Even though I don't recognize the person I am, I feel that my survival instinct has muted my desire for rebellion.

But I don't blame myself, knowing full well that without it I would already have scars on my body.

I climb against my will into another armored car, which very quickly engages on the highway, closely followed by a procession of a few cars.

We've been driving for a while when the driver asks Ivan in my language where to take him.

In the brothel

When my mind was reassured by the call "house," an alarm rang in my head. My brain had just understood the entire sentence.

They were driving me to a brothel.

WHAT?

And yes, honey, now you work in Russia, he laughs.

YOU CAN'T FORCE ME TO BECOME A WHORE! I screamed trying to unfasten my seatbelt.

I was seriously starting to panic when, suddenly, without my understanding anything, my cheek hurt.

Touching the ladder with my right hand, I realized what had just happened.

The bitch had just slapped me.

I gave him a dark look. He, not the least frightened in the world, started to speak:

"No need to look at me like that, darling; you were going hysterical," he sneers. If indeed I can force you—well, technically I can't, but the boss can.

How so? I asked.

You are his property, and like all the girls he owns, you will end up as a whore in a brothel.

Her laugh makes me want to stick two fingers down my throat and throw up. To throw up my life and the world I've just been thrust into.

Now I was someone's thing. A man I knew neither Adam nor Eve.

But I wasn't going to let it go. If these men thought I was going to accept that without flinching, they didn't know me.

Because if there's one thing I don't accept, it's not being able to decide my own destiny.

Then after all, there's nothing to lose; anyway, I've already lost everything.

I have to pee.

After a long time of reflection, working my neurons to find a solution, a plan, anything that would get me out of this huge mess, I had finally found it.

I was going to run away.

Not now

Do you want me to pee on the seat?

Serge stops at the next station.

The new driver nodded.

Ten minutes later he parked in front of a gas station.

I opened my door and headed for the public restroom.

Before I got into the ladies' room, Ivan grabbed my arm.

"You have 5 minutes," he said, standing in front of the door.

I went into the public toilets.

I pulled out a flat barrette that held a stray lock of hair in place and crouched down facing the door.

Fortunately for me, I had the dirty habit of always losing my keys. Because of that, over the years, I had become a master in the art of lock picking.

In less time than it takes to tell, the door was locked.

Then I tried to open the little window that looked out on the back of the building. As she refused to suffer, I had to, in record time, find a way to break her quietly.

Think, Elisabeth, think fucking.

Miraculously, when I saw the toilet, a brilliant idea germinated in my mind.

I flushed the toilet and ran to break the window quickly. After a few kicks, the thin glass gave way.

The shards of glass fell silently to the ground, their scenic melody hidden by the sound of the flowing water.

I tried to get out through the window, and despite my mother's criticism of my weight, I had no trouble getting out of this station.

I fell to the ground in a position as unsightly as it was unusual, but I didn't care. The main thing was that I was outside.

Realizing that this freedom would be short-lived if I did not put as much distance between these men and me, I started to run, not along the road but along the gardens of the houses built along the road.

I was running out of breath, turning right, left, with no map, no plan.

Despite my disastrous physical condition and my repeated bad grades in sports, I never stopped running. I no longer had the impression of being followed as I walked, regaining regular breathing.

Despite my assassin side points, I did not rest; I may have stopped running, but I did not stop walking.

After what seemed like several hours, night fell.

What am I going to become? I am alone, without money, in a country whose language I do not even speak.

Whining I didn't see the person in front of me, and I ran into him.

If you want to identify someone, look at the way he treats those who are inferior to him and not his equals.

He was a man in his thirties with a plump face and small square glasses.

He spoke to me in Russian, but I did not understand a single word of his tirade.

"I don't speak Russian," I say in my language.

No problem, I speak English! "Exclaims the chubby fellow with a hideous Russian accent."

I smile stupidly at him, not knowing what else to do.

Are you lost? he asks me.

somehow

Follow me, my little lady; my Inga has prepared a beef treat!

Even though I've always learned not to trust strangers, this stranger seemed less dangerous to me than Ivan and his men.

Neither one nor two, I followed him up and followed him to a small row house not far from where I jostled him.

He opens the door of his house and hangs his coat on the coat rack.

Inga, we have a guest! he shouted.

A woman came out of what must have been the kitchen; she had an apron on and was doing the dishes by hand.

She called out to me in her mother tongue, but her husband told her that I spoke English.

Well, young girl, did you get lost?

More or less

Don't worry, you're going to explain all this to us, but before you go sit down, you must be hungry.

On her soft and maternal words, I pulled out a chair to sit down on. The house was small but very warm; it was decorated in a very kitsch way, yet we felt good there.

When the so-called Inga came into the dining room, it was to carry a large saucepan. She lifted the lid, and a tantalizing smell escaped. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I had not eaten since I was in company. couch.

Inga served me a plate of ratatouille while her husband asked her why she hadn't made beef.

You're never happy, Donatello. Inga sighed.

We start to eat; I hold myself back so as not to throw myself on the food. I'm so hungry.

Hey, Knopka, You look hungry. How long has it been since you've eaten?

Since Monday

Olala It's Wednesday night! What happened to you?

An intuition told me to trust this family who had taken me in, and then, as if I had known them for a long time, I told them everything.

From the beginning to the end of my story, neither of them interrupted me; sometimes Inga let out "ohs" or "ahs," but she never interrupted me.

That's how I ended up on this street; I finished.

My God, Elisabethchka, that must be atrocious, my little darling! She said, taking me in her arms.

I'm sure it's a trick of these delinquents!

"Donatello, shut up, don't push her around like that," his wife reproached him.

Enough to? I asked.

Nothing at all; we'll talk about that tomorrow. For the moment you must be exhausted. Come with me; I'll show you the guest room and give you some clean pajamas.

I smiled at her and followed her.

After climbing a cramped old white wooden staircase, she led me through an old hallway decorated with yellowish patterned wallpaper.

She opened a cracked white door and turned on the small lamp. The latter illuminated the room filled with a small, simple bed with a mattress bordered on the left side by a bedside table.

Sorry, it smells a bit musty; it's been a long time since anyone slept here. Apologies, little lady.

No problem, it's so nice of you to host me!

She smiled at me and took a pair of folded pajamas out of the only wardrobe.

There are some clothes in this closet. "It belonged to my daughter," she said, putting the pajamas on the mattress.

When she bends down with difficulty, I notice for the first time that this woman, who at first glance seemed so strong to me, is actually weakened by age and by life.

Rest

She rubbed my arm before leaving. This gesture reminds me so much of my mother. She and I have never been very close, and her only marks of tenderness were summed up in these arm rubs. But that was only with me.

My sister was her pride. With her eldest daughter, she was truly a mother. I always grew up in her shadow. No matter how hard I tried, she never noticed me.

I wasn't good enough compared to his first daughter.

I sighed at the memory. No matter how tough I was answering teachers and drinking alcohol on the sly, I had lacked maternal love.

I tried to appear strong, with a heart of stone, so as not to show that this heart had been broken.

I drew the little yellow curtains, busying myself to avoid thinking about all those injuries, and put on my pajamas.

I slipped under the cold blanket and fell asleep in this unknown house, in this country that was not mine.

I woke up to the sun filtering through the thin yellow curtain. I got up and went down to the living room as I was used to. I had been staying with Inga and Donatello for a week. They had been so kind to me. welcoming me when I had nothing.

On the stairs I stopped by the loud voice of Inga to draw two words.

My first name is Mafia.

It didn't take me more to make the connection. These delinquents whom Donatello criticized yesterday were the mafia; they were those who were looking for me. In any case, it wouldn't have taken long for me to understand. Who, on the other hand, as a member of the mafia, could thus possess girls and force them into prostitution?

I went back into the living room; when they saw me, they stopped arguing.

"Oh my little Elisabeth, I hope you slept well. Come over here; I prepared breakfast," she said, leaving the living room to go to the dining room.

I had lunch with them in a good mood. I was really beginning to appreciate this family, which was still unknown to me a few days earlier.

When I had finished eating, Inga showed me the bathroom, and I washed.

When I stopped the water in the shower, I wrapped myself in a bath towel and went to the room where I had slept. In the wardrobe I took inventory of the few clothes that were stored there and managed to combine an outfit that I put on once the curtains were closed.

Once dressed, I fell into the closet on a notebook, certainly the diary of the famous girl, and hung above a pink ballpoint adorned with a pompom.

At the sight of the notebook, I had finally found a plan to get Inga and Donatello out of this mafia affair, which could harm them.

I seize the object.