My Russian Baby Daddy

Prologue

At the age of fifteen, my life took a drastic turn. There were so many things happening at once that I wasn't sure exactly which was the worst. Though looking back now, it was probably for the best that these events had transpired. I wouldn't be who I am today without this push.

Several years ago we moved to Russia for my father's job. To be honest, I couldn't tell you exactly what it was he did. I thought it had something to do with sales. I guess in a way it does, but I learned the hard way just exactly what it was he was doing in Russia.

It was a huge cultural shock. We'd gone from living in Illinois, USA to a bustling city in Russia. Don't get me wrong. I was ecstatic with the change. I loved seeing all the new people, the buildings, and experiencing the food. Or what I'd be able to experience in secret at least.

My family wasn't like most. We didn't interact with each other on most days except when something was needed from another household member. My mother was very sick, which was another reason I was shocked we moved, and had been for quite some time. I didn't know what was wrong with her, but it had changed her quite a bit. It seemed as though mother didn't recognize me any longer. Everything I did was wrong and I had to be punished for it. This also meant that my interactions with others outside our home were restricted due to my mother's reality altering. She believed outsiders were there to do nothing but bring us harm. I would be raped, murdered, and left forgotten like a piece of trash somewhere according to her. It didn't help that she constantly watched the news and learned of all the wrongdoings people were doing around the world. She felt this validated her claims. Because of her ramblings and scares of the world, I was forced into homeschool; no longer able to attend public school. Thus, this forced me to take measures into my own hands and sneak out whenever I could. I needed the normalcy of the outside world. To interact with those who didn't have delusions.

This wasn't the worst of it though. My mother's punishments for infractions she deemed I'd partaken in sometimes resulted in me being unable to move for several days. At the very least I'm quite sore and moving slowly. Punishments ranged from kneeling in rice to being tied to a stool and left for hours. I also wasn't allowed food most days so I had to sneak crackers and bottles of water into my room to tide me over. The worst was when I was forced to strip naked and left in the dark closet of her room.

Father wasn't much better. Though his only major fault was his neglectfulness. He turned a blind eye to everything that was going on in the house. Work was always his main focus, usually leaving early in the morning and returning late at night. We rarely saw him.

My sister was the same. She stayed in her room most of the time blaring her music loudly to drown out whatever demons she was fighting with. Though whenever she did deem to come out of her room it was to cause trouble for me so that mother wouldn't notice she wasn't around. There were times I wanted to be so angry with her, but at the same time, I couldn't fault her for wanting to get away. Just wished I wasn't her scapegoat.

Moving to Russia proved difficult in the beginning. I had to learn a new routine, new house layout, and the best escape routes for solace. I'd taken to learning the language so I could understand those around me better, as well as some of the cultural aspects. It was a good thing I had since it helped me when I needed it most. When I found myself living on the streets and having to provide for myself.

Most kids at the age of fifteen are just learning to drive, having fun in high school with friends, and almost naive to an extent. While I can admit that I am naive to many things, survival isn't one of them. I'd been learning to survive since the age of six, but it'd taken on a new meaning now.

I'd snuck out of the house after a particularly brutal "punishment" from my mother after she'd claim I was being a whore. In the beginning her words had hurt but over the years I'd steeled myself to her insults. It helped that I knew her words were false. I was a virgin for crying out loud, not to mention that speaking to a boy filled me with anxiety. As much as I claimed to be normal and different from those in my family, I knew I was an awkward outcast. Whenever I went outside, I stayed in the shadows to observe those around me. If someone happened to see and approach, I took off in the other direction. My sanctuary was a nearby church cemetery. It seemed morbid, but I found solace in the quiet it provided. On occasion, I'd see the priest or nuns wandering about handling chores, but for the most part I was alone.