My Stockholm Syndrome

Dedicated to Richie and her cynicism, which is why there is no despondency in my life. It is very difficult to find someone who is not just supportive, but who also understands and shares ideas. Thank you for sparing me from this search. Thank you for your invaluable advice, for your vision and sense of character. Know this: I genuinely consider you a co-author, even though you refuse to make it official.

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

Ernest Hemingway

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events and geographical locations is purely coincidental.

Prologue

Gasping for breath, I raced through the woods, weaving through the trees. My heart was pounding frantically as if it was going to explode. Wet branches whipped my cheeks but I ignored them, dashing through the brush. I didn't even realize it was raining and that the grass was wet until I ran into the clearing and fell down. The camera on the pole in the middle of the clearing slowly turned in my direction. Another, on a special crane, came down to get a close-up of my face. I was tempted to give the invisible viewer the middle finger, but it could have cost me my life. This was not the time to play Katniss Everdeen. Not wasting valuable seconds, I jumped up and ran again.

In three days I had explored the area only partially: I barely remembered this sector of the forest. I hesitated at the fork in the trail and turned to the left. I almost fell into the hole of a wolf trap: slowing down sharply, I slipped on the wet ground and fell, inertia dragging me forward. The distance was enough for my legs to overbalance, pulling me into the trap. Imagining the sharpened stakes below, I grabbed at everything within reach and hung on the edge. I tried to get out by pressing my toes into the trap walls, but the rain was making my shoes slip. There was a scream in the distance, interrupted by a gunshot. I pulled myself up again, whimpering in pain: two fingernails were broken and splinters were stuck under the rest of them. ′′Think positive,′′ I was trying to urge myself on. A shot means a hunter, and a scream means death. And that death means that at least one more killer's daily limit is exhausted. It really doesn't take much in this life to become a cynic. Just three days of running through the woods from armed degenerates eager to kill you. Another push and I climbed out of the trap for good, falling on my back with a sigh of relief. I was alive. But the smile was immediately wiped off my lips by the crackling of a broken branch: they were close. The hunters' footsteps were barely audible, but I knew he was among them. He was following me, raising goosebumps all over my skin. I have felt his presence since the first day of the hunt. And here it was again, the quintessence of danger and fear…

There were three pursuers. They were approaching from the right, and there was nothing I could do but go past the trap deeper into the woods. I had hardly run five meters when a bullet chipped a piece of bark off the tree in front of my face and made me freeze. I got the message, I was not allowed to go that way. I rushed to my left, but another bullet stopped me again. I could see the gamekeepers encircling me, but I kept darting from side to side, twisting and weaving. They weren't going to kill me today. They were just trying to scare me, as they routinely do. The circle tightened, and another pirouette brought me too close to one of the gamekeepers. He swung his rifle at my ankle, knocking me down. Well, that was that. This is it. I knelt without raising my eyes, and could see two silhouettes on both sides. The cold metal touched the back of my neck. I couldn't see their faces, but I knew exactly who was behind me, and whose gun was pointed at me. Jason.

′′Freeze.′′

The warning was unnecessary: in his presence I was afraid to even breathe.

Chapter 1

A clod of dirt thudded on the lid of the coffin and crumbled into dust. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rest in peace. This latest blow put an end to my list of woes, because there can be no more grief. I have no one else to bury and no one else to mourn for. I don't believe in curses, only in depression which is now my constant companion. In the last six months I had buried everyone I cared for. First my uncle and my brother, now my grandfather. I never knew my parents, they died when I was a little over a year old, and my grandfather took us in, my brother Dmitry and me. The ex-submariner was strict but never used a belt to bring us up. We never stood in a corner either since my grandfather's authority didn't even allow for any thoughts of naughtiness or caprices. He was always an example both for us and for his younger son, who also served in the Navy. It was no surprise Dmitry followed in his footsteps and went to Kamchatka to serve in the navy. He was in the same crew with his uncle… and died with him during the submarine trials. The scandal was muted and nothing leaked to the press, but my grandfather lost the will to live and faded away in six months.

′′Dina,′′ Vika tugged my sleeve quietly. She saw me shaking, and tried to calm me down. ′′Dinka, let's go.′′

She hugged me and mumbled something comforting, but I had no sense of her words. I let her take me away and woke up, or rather, gradually roused from my stupor back in the apartment. The same apartment whose mortgage had been paid off by the benefits provided by the government after my uncle and brother vanished. Except neither I nor my grandfather needed this apartment any longer. He couldn't live here anymore and I didn't want to. No, I didn't want to, but stayed there anyway, slowly finishing the stock of cereals and canned food and washing them down with copious amounts of tea.

In the second month of my voluntary confinement, Vika gave up. Her impending marriage had reprogrammed her brain into a single thought: everyone around her must be happy. I, naturally, failed to fit into this scheme. Long conversations about the fact that life went on were fruitless, and my friend plotted a new plan.

′′You're about to have a nervous breakdown,′′ she droned on and on, removing all reminders of my relatives from the shelves. ′′Or worse, gastritis. Go to the seaside for a couple of weeks, you'll look like a human again.′′

′′I'm fine here,′′ I muttered, stubbornly putting the pictures and souvenirs back in their places.

′′Remember Olga from the second entryway?′′ Vika kept up. ′′The divorce left her swollen with tears until her older sister made her travel to Goa. She came back a different woman – cheerful, enlightened…′′

′′…and knocked up by her yoga instructor.′′

My comment was ignored. In turn, I ignored another moralistic statement about a change of environment.

′′You need a splash of excitement!′′ Vika argued, waving her hands. ′′Stop being carried by the wind and suffering! You'll get stuck eventually.′′

It was useless to explain that I wanted to get stuck, because the idea of shaking me up was firmly planted in Vika's head. She went through all sorts of therapeutic vacation ideas and every day emailed me links with last-minute travel offers, and when she realized that I did not check my inbox, she began to bring printouts.

′′No one's going to make me go to any of those therapies or gymnastics,′′ I pushed the stack of sheets aside, not bothering to read them.

′′Right,′′ Vika suddenly agreed. ′′Old ladies with their daily discussions about ailments are not the best company for you.′′

So health resorts were crossed off the list and my friend switched to websites with extreme tourism. Now the tables and the dresser were covered with a thick layer of booklets describing rock climbing, rafting on mountain rivers, biking, and diving. Excuses that I had no experience in climbing, paddling, or diving were useless. Vika persisted, and I continued to rebuff her, dreaming of marrying her off sooner and having Sergey suffer from excessive care.

On the eve of the wedding she smiled slyly and showed me a plane ticket.

′′Krasnoyarsk?′′ I was surprised. ′′I thought you were going to spend your honeymoon in Egypt…′′

Vika laughed and, seeing my puzzled look, explained:

′′It's for you!′′

I was taken aback and couldn't find anything to say before my friend began to talk enthusiastically about a resort in the coniferous forests.

′′It's the perfect place, away from the city and the crowds. No cell phones or computers, not even TVs. If you want to hide from the world, do it there,′′ she handed the ticket to me. ′′Get some fresh air, get some sleep… and come back with peace of mind.′′

Her voice trembled, and I couldn't say no.

′′Thank you for giving up the diving idea,′′ I hugged Vika. ′′Extreme is not my cup of tea.′′

She sniffed her nose in response.

Though I had made an exception for the wedding, I was still reluctant to leave the house and waited until the last minute to depart. I even schemed not to check in beforehand and arrive at the airport late. My friend however was smart enough to foresee this and volunteered to see me off. I had to put up with the idea that I would have to go for at least a day and began packing.

′′Take comfortable shoes,′′ Vika admonished, scrutinizing the contents of my closet.  ′′You have to walk before you go to bed′′.

I pulled out my old sneakers.

′′A couple of sweaters, some spare jeans, some underwear,′′ she kept going through the shelves. ′′Warm socks, a windbreaker…′′

′′What's that for?′′ I grabbed the makeup bag away from Vika.

′′Just in case.′′

′′And a curling iron?′′

′′Just take it!′′

A quarter of hour later I got tired of squabbling and let her pack my suitcase. I didn't think I'd need any of it but Vika didn't need to know that. Neither did she need to know about my plans to return earlier. At the airport I waved at her for a long time from behind the glass in the security area until they announced boarding. The flight was rough – an infant was crying non-stop in the seat next to me – and by the time we landed, I could only wish for a chance to sleep. Dragging my heavy suitcase behind me, I headed for the terminal exit. A sign with the name ′Selina′ flashed in the crowd of people. Great, I made it.

Instead of a greeting I got a printout from a smiling girl.

′′The interview is scheduled for tomorrow but in the meantime, please check this.′′

I froze in surprise, looking at my own application form: D. I. Selina. Age: twenty-four years old. Height: one meter sixty-eight centimeters. Eye color: brown. Hair type: brunette. Length: medium. Mother: deceased. Father: deceased. Close relatives: none.

It looked like Vika had filled it out for me. But she was prudently silent about the interview. Will I really have to talk to a psychologist? I tried to call my friend, but her cell phone was out of range.

′′Is the information correct?′′ The girl asked, taking back the sheet.

′′It is, but…′′

′′Wonderful,′′ she took me by the elbow, pulling me aside. ′′Then let's get you on the bus, you need to rest after the flight.′′

I was tired, so I didn't push it. It was no use hanging around the airport waiting for the return flight since I could leave the resort at any moment. I'll do it with a clear head after some much needed rest.

On the bus, they loaded my suitcase into the luggage compartment and offered me tea. I gratefully took a plastic cup and leaned back in my seat, looking around. I had no energy left for anything else after the flight. There were others with no less sleepy faces, mostly foreigners, clearly suffering from jet lag. Looking at them, I started to yawn more often, and eventually dozed off.

I opened my eyes to see the shabby houses of an unknown village float by outside the window. After texting Vika and getting no response, I dozed off again and woke up after dark. The bus was turning off the highway. The group was dropped off at a hotel without any signboard that looked more like a private home. My legs were buckling with fatigue and my head was pounding. Once in the room, I collapsed on the bed. My suitcase was brought to the room, followed by dinner. I passed out before I had eaten anything substantial.

All morning my head felt congested. After an early breakfast, during which no one made any attempt to speak, the torpid group headed for the familiar bus. For about two hours we were driven past sparse and similar looking villages and seemingly impenetrable forests. While staring indifferently out the window, I kept hearing the clicking of cameras behind me – the foreigners were taking shots of the scenery, accompanied by enthusiastic comments. I would never have guessed that the Russian countryside was of any interest to them.

While I pondered this, we turned off the road and stopped. There was no name for the village: someone had torn off the sign leaving only the posts. I thought we would immediately start checking in, but instead we were fed again with boxed meals on the bus. After finishing my coffee, I felt more energized, and when everyone was invited to get off, I no longer felt as if I was moving in a fog. Exiting the bus, I froze on the last step in surprise: instead of a resort there was a pavilion with filming equipment in the center of the village. Inside the pavilion, we were divided into groups and lined up for makeup artists and hair stylists. I looked around, not really understanding what was going on. A multilingual hum of voices poured into my ears. The number of foreigners in the pavilion was impressive: Mexicans, Nigerians, Americans, Poles, Germans, and Vietnamese. Most of them were speaking English.

′′Camera three to the right corner!′′ someone yelled into a walkie-talkie behind me.

I recoiled in surprise. Judging by the preparations, some serious filming was being planned and my fellow travelers were not surprised, they knew exactly where they had arrived. Asking about a ′resort′ and looking like an idiot would be a bad idea. I called Vika again, and again there was no answer. I walked around the pavilion listening to snatches of conversations. Five people were Russian-speakers, including me: a father and son from a village near Khabarovsk, a busty blonde from Zhitomir, and a scowling bearded man from Chechnya. Everyone was discussing the prizes and I could only guess what they meant until I saw the word ′Golden Fleece′ on one of the banners. I typed the phrase into a search engine and discovered that it was a foreign survival show in challenging environmental conditions. The site offered few details, only pictures of contestants from previous seasons and a description of the main prize – the pelt of a sheep made of gold. Having estimated the approximate weight and cost of the ′fleece′, I slipped into a state of shock from the number of zeros and decided that Vika had lost her mind. Sneaking into a nook behind the lighting rig, I dialed my friend's number again. This time she answered after the first ring.

′′Did you send me to a reality show?′′ I hissed angrily into the phone when I heard a cheerful ′hello′. ′′Not mountain climbing, but a quest?′′

′′You would never have agreed had you known the truth.′′

It was hard to argue with the remark, but I went on:

′′I still don't agree. What the hell…′′

′′Enough!′′ Vika interrupted me. Her voice became stern. ′′You locked yourself away inside four walls for way too long, and now you are grasping at any excuse just to get back to your cozy couch. And God forbid, someone pushes you out of your comfort zone. That's not even cowardice… it's laziness! Go ahead, go back to your apartment, where every corner will remind you of your losses. Quietly weep and waste yourself away. You can't even prove to yourself that you are capable of accomplishing anything!′′

She abruptly hung up and I suddenly felt embarrassed. It was a paradox – I wasn't disturbing anyone with my inaction, but somehow her rebuke hit a nerve. I called Vika again but she immediately hung up on me.

′′What if I really go back now,′′ I grumbled to myself, pocketing my cell phone. ′′I'm the one who decides how to live. If I want to, I'll sit on the couch until I'm old. Or…′′

′′Hi. Are you Selina?′′ A swarthy Spaniard, who didn't seem to miss a single girl in the pavilion, peeked into the nook. He came closer, swaying his hips and tried to theatrically kiss my hand. ′′I'm Diego.′′

′′Selina,′′ I explained, stressing the ′e′. ′′It's not a first name, it's a last name.′′

He didn't seem to care what my name was. After a couple of banal compliments and seeing no interest from my side, he let up trying to hit on me. I made no attempt to engage in conversation and Diego quickly switched to the Ukrainian woman, who was obviously willing to flirt with whoever showed the slightest interest. Wandering around the pavilion, I turned to the nearest hairdresser's counter. At least I could get my hair done before leaving, and then I moved to a makeup person.

′′Miss Selina?′′, again, stressing the second syllable, someone from the film crew asked me while I was having my eyes made up.

I nodded tiredly, it was useless to correct them, they'd mangle my name anyway. Whatever they call me, as they say, names will never hurt me.

′′You're next.′′

They put me into a chair in front of the camera and started asking me a familiar list of questions: age, date and place of birth, relatives. Squinting in the spotlight, I muttered my answers. I couldn't get Vicky's words out of my head. Was I really worthless?

When the interview was over, I walked slowly around the pavilion. People were still crowding around; the Mexicans were eating snacks, the Poles were watching the news on TV, and the Spaniard, who had lost his Ukrainian girlfriend somewhere, was hitting on the new girls. After hanging out in front of the screen for a bit, I ducked behind the speakers and sneaked past the guards, slipping out of the pavilion unnoticed. It immediately felt easier to breathe. I smiled. And then it struck me – I'll stay here and prove that I can do more than just sit on the couch. Vika was wrong to believe I was lazy.

I looked around and walked down the path to the nearest house. The pavilion in the middle of the village looked oddly out of place, like the crown on a vagrant's head. Shabby peasant houses crowded around it like cripples on a church porch near a humanitarian giving out alms. A crooked well was sticking out of the ground beside the house; half-rotten logs had fallen through, and the chain on the pulley was rusted, but a puddle around it showed it was still in use. The gate creaked and an old woman slowly waddled past me to the well, muttering to herself.

′′Ma'am, is the water good?′′ I stepped closer in case she needed help with the bucket.

′′Water is water,′′ she looked up at me and then, frightened, recoiled to the side.

Yeah, a great start. Had the makeup person overdone it? The old woman stared at me and came up closer again.

′′Get out of here, beautiful,′′ she hissed, clutching my hand. ′′Run far away!′′

Now it was my turn to recoil. I furtively checked for my bracelet. It was still on my wrist. The guards were already running towards me from the pavilion.

′′Miss, are you all right? Did she scare you?′′ One of them asked me politely in English.

His Russian mate was less tactful, swearing at the old woman.

′′Old witch!′′ He added in fury. ′′Miss, make sure you aren't missing anything′′.

I shook my head, showing a piece of jewelry that was safe and sound.

Inside the pavilion the fun continued but everything that was going on seemed wrong and unreal. Also there was that old woman with her warning. The prize in the show was substantial and I understood why all these people had come to these godforsaken backwoods, but I didn't care about the money! After the last interview was done being filmed, we were shown back to the bus. A nagging feeling of homesickness wouldn't let go of me. Maybe I really am lazy if even thinking of change makes me averse to it. I could leave right now, I thought, hesitating at the entrance to the bus. A girl from the film crew was collecting our cell phones and putting them into a plastic box.

′′It's our privacy policy, I'm sorry,′′ she apologized repeatedly.

Ok, I'll fly back, and I won't regret it. I was about to step aside, but… remembering Vika's angry voice, I got onto the bus. To hell with excuses, I'll go. And if the contest challenges are too difficult, I'll just purposefully fail them.

I dozed off on the way and was awakened by the bouncing of the bus as it was going cross-country, approaching the woods. At the entrance we were met by two camouflaged guards with machine guns. Everyone got visibly tense and silent. The shade of the high tree canopy made the atmosphere in the bus even more somber. An acute sense of foreboding came over me, but this was no time for me to succumb to a fit of hysteria! We were dropped off at the entrance to the contest area which was of impressive size, divided into sectors for different stages of the show. As soon as we unloaded our bags, the bus turned around and left. Everyone looked around at a loss. A high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the area perimeter. It's for protection from wild beasts, one of the assistants explained immediately. Of course, from bears, the Mexicans nodded understandingly. I rolled my eyes. Bears, of course. Huge and scary. With balalaikas, and wearing valenki, traditional Russian felt boots. With a bottle of vodka in each paw.

The assistants pointed the way and we passed through the gate into the compound. The site didn't look so ominous: the camera crew were bustling and crackling jokes by the access gate, unloading equipment from a pickup truck; a little further away a couple in love were kissing in the parking lot by the cottages. I grabbed my suitcase and followed the crowd. The couple stopped hugging and looked at us with interest. We made our way past the cottages and the two trailers that stood side by side toward the back and stopped near a long wooden structure. A shapely brunette with bright eyeliner was waiting for us inside. Smiling broadly, she introduced herself: Sandra, an executive producer.

I had never been in a military barracks before but I imagined them exactly this way: a big long room with bunk beds two meters apart from each other. At least the toilets were separated from the common room. The windows were narrow, like arrow slits or loopholes. According to Sandra, it was done to prevent the contestants from peeking at the equipment on the site and thus gaining an advantage over their opponents. In some places there were strange brackets sticking out of the walls, but their purpose was not explained to us. Cameras were slowly rotating on the ceiling in the corners of the room.

The rules of the quests were described very vaguely: the trials were supposed to be individual and each participant had to last as long as possible. In the morning we would receive our challenges, and in the evening we would find out the results. Wishing us a pleasant time, Sandra left us to ourselves and departed, politely brushing off Diego. The people slowly disbursed through the barracks. Some were playing cards, others were just chatting or discussing plans. Diego was telling dirty jokes, never taking his eyes off the Ukrainian woman.

I found my bunk labeled with the sign ′Selina′. It seems the last name was firmly cemented as a first name. Well, new life, new name. The player Selina enters the arena. I lay down on the bed and noticed a bracket attached to the log near my face. My fingers mechanically touched the metal. In some places the bracket was scratched as if the log had been dragged by it. Maybe the house was built so carelessly that they never bothered to pull the extra hardware out of the walls? I didn't feel sleepy so after wandering around without joining anyone, I looked out the door. The guard outside immediately turned around at the creak of the door. I gave him a token smile, but he was in no mood for conversation. The guy was clutching his rifle, as if we were in danger of being attacked.