HER EARLIEST MEMORY WAS OF THE weight of a gun in her hand. Nearly half her size, she remembers how her arms strained under the bulk of it as she trembled in terror. Her mother had been beside her, heavily pregnant and sobbing as she clawed at the arms of the Mirtovorty man holding her back.

Though the memories have faded with time, she has not forgotten the feel of a gun in her hands, or the resounding noise that came when she pulled the trigger.

It is the memory of her executing her own father that often haunted her on the darkest nights. Try as she may to bury these fragmented echoes of the past, on the days when the nights were long and consuming, she recalls the resignation in his eyes.

Like her, he knew that death came for them all in the end.

At only seven years old, Tatiana found herself burdened by the guilt of his death — a consequence of his own actions, actions she did not fault for him, because she would have done the same thing. When faced with losing life or limb in war and being by his family's side, he chose the latter.

Tatiana did not fault her father for this anymore than she did not resent her mother for blaming her for his death.

It is because she cannot sleep that Tatiana finds herself in the company of a homely young man by the name of Ivan. A pale, wispy thing with a nervous disposition. He had always been a welcomed change to her usual patrons. Only a few months older than her, but not yet old enough to be drafted into the war, Ivan frequented the bawdy house during the late hours, hoping to catch her unoccupied.

He treats her with a kindness that is unexpected in such an establishment, but Tatiana was thankful for it during times like these.

Ivan is below her, flushed and softly panting with each cant of her hips. He calls her name in a voice that is sweet, and had her heart not hardened over the years, Tatiana could have loved him for his sincerity.

Her hands caress the gaunt edge of his cheeks and he sighs, irises glazed over and hands wavering in their grasp of her hips. "Tatiana," he sighs out her name, expression gentle with affection that she had only known from a rare few. "Please."

She smiles down at him, cupping his face between her hands and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You did well, Ivan," she praises – for that is what he hungers for most of all. Not the warmth of a supple body above or beneath him, not to control her or demand her pleasure. He wanted only to be acknowledged, and Tatiana indulged him. "You did so well, my love. Take your pleasure, it is yours."

His eyes settle onto hers, a warm umber that gives her pause. His lips find hers and she falls into it with a desperation that is so natural, one cannot help but think it true. When his body shutters beneath her, and the thundering echo of his heart resounds against her breast, Tatiana kisses him once more in parting. "You did well."

The smile that Ivan gives her is one that is she familiar with. It drips with adoration, with so much love that she feels as though it may consume her had she been someone so easily swept into such romantics.

"Tatiana," he begins, and she shushes him. They lapse into a silence that is not disgruntled, and yet as she slips from the bed and dresses in her chemise, Ivan's eyes follow her with a longing.

She knows what he wants to say, what he would have said: "Let me take you away from this life."

There was a time when such words would have swayed her heart into beating faster, when she would have grasped at the opportunity given and left this hedonistic house and all its demons behind forever. But the opportunity never came. The men she entertained looked at her and thought of the different ways they could break her. They sought her pleasure, her pain, her submission, and she had given so much of herself up to them that little remained of the girl she once was.

"I'll see you out," she tells Ivan as she hands him his clothing.

He fumbles as he dressed, flushed from a rejection he knew waits on the tip of her tongue. Tatiana leads him from her bedroom and back down into the main hall. Though it was well into the night, men were still seated at the tables. The emblems of their military coats give her a pause as she considers the group before she turns to Ivan with a hand outstretched.

Even in the lively lounge of the brothel house, the sound of the silver coins being deposited into her hand seems to echo too loudly.

"Can I see you again, tomorrow?" Ivan asked, a tremor to his voice, as though he expects to be slighted or turned away.

"You must save some of your money for your sisters, Ivan," Tatiana tells him. "They have only you and your mother to rely on for food and shelter."

"But I —"

"Go, now, before your mother worries."

Ivan looks over his shoulder several times as he walks away from the bawdy house, his gaze conflicted, and hands clenched. When his figure rounds a corner and vanishes from her sight, Tatiana breathes an inaudible sigh and returns inside.

The military men had begun another round of drinks. There were young girls draped across the arms and laps of all but one. His uniform was that of a Komandr. Dark, tousled hair and sharp, blue eyes. Eyes that were focused on the boy in front of him.

It was the new boy. Madam Nazeer had brought him to the house only a few weeks prior, and already there were many who sought his company. He was pretty, this boy with large grey eyes and pale wheat-coloured hair.

Perhaps it was because of this colouring, Tatiana mused as she watches the way he smiles coyly at the Komandr. In Korisovo, such pale features were a rarity.

The longer she watches them, the more she cannot help but think how the boy almost looks like her friend, Vasily.

"Have you finished for the night, Tati?" inquired a lilted voice.

Tatiana turns to look at Yara. She smiles at the young girl and sweeps a hand through her unruly auburn curls. "My sweet Yara, why are you awake at such an hour?"

"Madam Nazeer asked if I could bring her tea," Yara states. "Have you had dinner?"

"I have no appetite."

Yara peers up at Tatiana, a crease between her brows. "Did you have a bad dream?" She asked quietly, worry in her soft green irises.

"No, no," Tatian says reassuringly. "Ivan came seeking company." She toys with the silver coins in her hand minutely before handing a portion over to Yara. "Give it Madam Nazeer for me, rabbit."

Yara stares up at her, a small furrow to her brows before it smooths away, and she nods. "Will do, Tati."

Tatiana sweeps her into a parting hug, holding onto the small girl for a moment too long to breathe in the soft scent of her hair. Yara reminded Tatiana of her younger brother and how it had been almost a month since she last saw him.

Shooing the girl back upstairs and out of the leering sight of the military men, Tatiana glances once more at the Komandr and his entourage before leaving the scene. Outside, the air had cooled considerably. And she considers returning to her room. There it is  warm and familiar and filled with light.

The patrol men had not yet lit the oil lamps along the stretch of narrow street. With the dark shapes of the shops and homes outlining the deep indigo sky, Tatiana listens to the rowdy laughter inside the bawdy house and the din of conversation that slips from the darkness surrounding her.

She does not know how long she sat there, lost in thought. She was minutely thankful at the sound of approaching footsteps. It gave her respite from her recess of her own mind. Tatiana glances up and blinks owlishly at the person who heads her way.

It was Vasily.

Like the first time she had met him, he took her breath away. He had always been beautiful, this lithe young man with silvery-blonde hair and eyes that look as though gold was melted into the iris. He was strange and quiet, this boy she had tentatively become friends with.

At his close approach, Tatiana smiles and calls out to him coyly. "Moya lyubov, will you not even look my way?"

He stops mid-step, glancing over his shoulder to settle his gaze on her. He seemed to have been lost in thought, yet he smiles at the sight of her. It is small, but kind.

"Tatiana, it is good to see you again."

Tatiana stands to greet him; her arms open in welcome. Vasily does not embrace her, not right away. It is only when she drapes her arms around his shoulders does he do the same.

He smells of blood and sickness, Tatiana thinks. Vasily withdraws, taking with him the warmth Tatiana had leaned into. "You smell of medicine," Tatiana states. "I hope they were not working you too hard."

"Is it an unpleasant scent?"

"No, but I am sure you would prefer to not smell of sickness," Tatiana says, tucking her arms into his. "Come, I will let you bathe in my room."

Vasily tilts his head in the direct he had been headed. Tatiana peers up at him. "Do you need to be somewhere?" she asked of him.

"No," Vasily said.

Tatiana nods and leads him into the brothel. At the sound of the door opening, the military men turn to face them. The Komandr straightens his lax posture and Tatiana tightens her hold on Vasily's arm. She had seen that look in the eyes of so many men: ravenous hunger; dark and obsessive.

"I did not take you as the sort to visit such an establishment, Vasily," He says, brushing aside the young man who had been whispering into his ear. He draws near, stopping only a breathes away from Vasily.

"If you wanted company, you need only ask, Vasily," Komandr Yankovsky purrs.

"I did not come for company," Vasily said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "I am visiting a friend."

The Komandr glances over at Tatiana, his expression hardening at the sight of her. "I did not know you made friends with whores."

"Don't be crass, Yankovsky. You cannot indulge in their company and shame them for it. It is hypocritical, even for you." Vasily turns to Tatiana and inclines his head toward the steps. "Shall we go?"

Tatiana almost smiles at the dark expression that twists the features of the Komandr. He stares after them as they ascend the steps. Tatiana imagines it is only his pride that keeps him from chasing after them.

Her bedroom carried the faint scent of jasmine and lily, the incense burned halfway and the room dimly light by the low embers of the fireplace. Tatiana opens the smaller door that leads into the bathroom and beckons Vasily to follow her inside.

It is simple but clean, and as she runs the bath and scents it with oils, she watches Vasily from the corner of her eyes. He is quiet, perhaps even melancholic. He stares at his palms, face up and fingers bent at the knuckle.

"Do you have blood under your fingers?" she asked of him. She runs a hand over the water, sighing at the heat that warms her flesh.

"Yes."

"Blood always leaves a stain, if left for too long," Tatiana whispers. "And always leaves behind the memory of violence."

Vasily looks at her and Tatiana was, for the first time, rather unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. It is sharp and burrowing, as though he was stripping her of flesh and bone and seeing what lurks beneath it all. "Are you alright, Tatiana?"

Tatiana nods absently, turning off the tap and standing up from her perch on the edge of the bath. She indicates for him to get in, leaving the room as he undresses and returning only with a towel and bottle in hand.

"I'll wash your hair for you," she offers, setting the towel down and sitting on the edge of the tub again. Tatiana combs her fingers through his hair, marvelling at the colour and texture of it before applying shampoo to it.

"Something is bothering you," Vasily said, his head tilted back and gaze aligned with hers.

Tatiana smiles slightly, her gaze downcast, and focuses on the movement of her hands. "I had a nightmare," she admits, "though it is better called a memory."

"Of what?"

She hesitates. Tatiana had always wondered what he would think of her, this friend of hers that she had only known for a few months, if he knew she was a murderer. "Of the day I killed my father," she says at last.

Vasily does not respond, not right away, and it makes Tatiana uneasy. "Did he deserve to die?" he asked in the end.

"No. No, he did not deserve to die."

"What did he do?"

Tatiana stops what she is doing, a shadow of grief crossing over her face. She remembers the resignation in her father's eyes as he stared down the barrel of the gun. She remembers the weight of it and how her body threatened to buckle beneath it. She remembers her mother's despair and how it had mangled her.

"He left the war to be with his family," she says at last, bitter, and resentful. "He died because he deserted the Second Army to be with his pregnant wife and young child."

Vasily's eyes look away from her to the window that looks out into the alleyway. Tatiana tries to gather what remained of her composure as she washes the soap from his hair. As her hands slip over the slope of his shoulders, Vasily grabs them and gives them a squeeze.

"It was not your fault."

"It does not feel that way," Tatiana says, lowering her head to rest her cheek on the crown of his damp hair. "When faced with my death and that of my mother, I choose to end my father's life." Her voice hitches slightly. "I have always wondered if it was right, what I did."

"You had no choice," Vasily said. "You were a child."

"Was it right, what I did?"

"It was just."