November 3, 1938
The first punch brushed by Milyena’s chin.
Successfully, she held back the urge to cry, though a small whimper did escape. Her face throbbed, and she could hear Madam’s voice in her head, ordering her to endure. She was so unused to pain, but nevertheless returned the blow to her opponent.
It was a weak hit, one that would have earned her the ire of Madam, had it not caused her opponent to cry out in pain. Valeriya let herself fall to the ground, thin arms wrapped around her stomach. Unsure of how to proceed, Milyena lowered her fists.
They were instructed that weakness was not to be tolerated, but Valeriya looked so upset. Milyena could not bring herself to carry on attacking when her opponent had clearly given up. In the real world, she would have accepted this surrender. And besides, they had all only been here for just under two years. It was hardly enough time to lose their weakness and develop their strength.
Ivan, on the other hand, seemed to disagree with this conclusion. “Get up,” he demanded, voice sharp. Milyena wondered how she had fallen for the kind façade he had adopted at the orphanage. “Get up and fight, girl.”
He said ‘girl’ like one would say rodent, but Milyena knew all of the students were girls for a reason. Madam, who stood silent in the shadows, had always been more intimidating than Ivan. The blows may hurt, but the consequences of refusing to receive them would be much worse. Ivan was snappy and yelled a lot, but Madam was ruthlessly efficient.
Milyena looked up at Madam for guidance, but all the older woman did was give a stiff nod of dismissal. As she and the other girls departed from the room in an organised line, Milyena spared a glance at Valeriya.
This is all my fault, Milyena thought as she walked up the stairs to her room. Beside her, Dasha’s eyes glinted fiercely. She had grown more cold after Anya’s death, bordering on cruel.
“It is not your fault,” she said firmly as they all sat on their respective beds, “Valeriya is weak. You are strong. This is the way of the world.”
Milyena knew what she meant by that. Survival of the fittest. The strong do not defend the weak, but instead rid the world of them. She had heard multiple speeches with the same meaning.
From her bed, Romanova spoke up. “I do not think that is the way of the world,” she said bravely. The green in her eyes was almost as intimidating as the blue in Madam’s.
“Do you?” Dasha practically snarled her response. Milyena did not believe Dasha truly thought that way, but instead used it to help herself recover from Anya’s death. But at times like this, she did not know, truly.
Romanova continued. “When we are strong, I think we should help the weaker people become strong, too,” she explained. “Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Is that why you snapped Eleonora’s neck last year?”
Romanova was visibly hurt by this comment, almost recoiling in retreat. Her mouth closed immediately and she backed away, lying on her bed in silence. Milyena remembered this. The girl, Romanova—her name was Natalia. She was on the same level as Dasha.
They were the only two girls who had directly someone killed yet.
Dasha did not seem fazed by the effect her comment had. She offered Milyena a comforting smile, squeezed her hand, and walked off away to her bed.
Valeriya never came back up the stairs. At supper, her absence was noted, and it lead to a tense atmosphere. In her bed, Milyena hid under her covers, placed a pillow over her face, and sobbed.