The only way to describe her screaming was animalistic. Masha screamed in pain.
 
I remember the detachment I had to force upon myself,
 when Dasha begged me to inject Masha with the pain killer. 
She was deathly afraid of needles and could not do it herself.

Exhausting all hope,
I frantically went to the room next door, where four men drinking from amber beer bottles conversed in booming voices. 
They had dark, drunk eyes.
I suddenly felt like a rabbit in a room of foxes.
What was I thinking, trying to ask for help?

I returned to the sisters. Chained the door.
Masha laid on her side.  Still screaming,

I filled the syringe.

The needle entered her skin. 

I pressed my thumb against the plunger,
feeling a strange resistance, and making sure not to push too quickly.

Shortly after, her wimpers tapered. The room fell silent.

In one of my only moments of solitude,
I sat on the toilet staring at the trash can in front of me.

Then cried, and then called him. I said I was scared. I asked for him to please tell me he loved me.
He said he didn’t understand how saying that would help in this moment.





Motel in Cluj, March 2022