She was seven years old when her father left her. The thick mahogany door before her muffled her parents’ boisterous quarrel. They argued so often that she could picture everything in front of her. A slap, and a whine were all it took. She remembered Russian, her father’s last words, as he scrambled out of their tiny apartment, leaving her mother in tears and pain. And physical pain.

Olga didn’t do anything. She sat at the corner of the room, behind the door. She hugged Mildred, a doll she got three years ago. Mildred was wet with her tears and sweat again, perhaps the third time this week. She grasped Mildred like it was her key to reality, but Olga hoped that this was all just a dream. And most of her knew it was not.

 

Three years later, days after her mother killed herself, Olga was sent to the orphanage eight miles from her house. It was the first time she went outside the complex that far, and it was the last time she was going to be in there. Olga never cried since then, as if pain only resided with her in her cramped apartment. She never felt pain anymore because she was used to it. Her father abused her so often, and her mother’s irresponsibility taught her how to overlook pain, and pass its suffering like a blink of an eye.  Her mother would let her starve, leave her crying herself to sleep, and would only help her heal her wound by reaching for the band aids up the cabinet, too high for her reach. It was the only good thing her mother taught her.

 

One day, Mother Aga took Olga to the market with her. It was crowded and dirty. The smelled sickened her stomach, but it was all right. Mother Aga was talking to the pharmacist when she let go of her hand. Looking around, she saw the most peculiar of things. She’s never been in a place with so many people, so many eyes flashing and passing by. She saw them look back at her.

 

Before she knew it, a big, hulking man grabbed her feet and caught her back as she collapsed. Mother Aga’s image whizzed past her, and all eyes shot her a look, and all eyes blurred away. She did not cry, she did not scream. It was an easy steal for him. She could not remember Russian anymore, but she remembered that the man smiled at her in the car as they drove farther and farther. He was petting her, combing her hair with his fingers. He was the man that will change her.

 

For ten years, she would be begging the famous streets of the country for money. Along with tens of other children strategically placed in almost every nook and corner, she would beg tourists, students, foreigners… anyone. She’d get money, and when she learned how to dance after watching some moves in the television, she would dance for them. She would be Joseph’s favorite beggar, and she be his wife.

She would learn how to read and write.

 

She would be his wife.

She would learn how to use the computer.

 

She would be his wife.

 

She would learn how to use a gun.

 

Because she was Joseph’s wife.

 

The night came when she found a dating website that would connect her to the father of her son. Richard, a lonely business man from North Dakota, looking for someone to love and live with. They would exchange emails, and pictures. Sometimes, even more pictures. They would chat behind Joseph’s back, and they would fall in love.

 

In under a year, Olga was completely in love with Richard. In a week, she planned out an escape, outsmarting Joseph’s goons with a supposed trip to the markey. She rode a taxi all the way to the airport, and left the country of pain and past behind her.

 

Wren, her son, rushed with her in to the airport. Again and again, she would look around to make sure that she was not being followed by any of Joseph’s men. Two years of living with, and loving, Richard, they have had series of threats. Dangers loomed everything, and their lives were at stake. Two months ago, Richard was killed, and all Wren knew was he was in the business trip in Qatar.

 

She had a gun, with two bullets left. Enough for the two people running after them.

 

“Mommy, I’m tired,” Wren began to complain. His clothes were wrinkled and worn out. Looking at his handsome son, she saw herself from the past. She was crying, hoping for it to be over. It hurt her to him like this, Did her mother feel the same way?

 

“I know, son.” They sat down on the bench in front of Gate 33. She could not get inside because of the gun in her bag. Outside was danger, but with her gun, there was escape. She took it out slowly, looking around and around for Joseph’s men.

 

“Is daddy going to meet us there, mommy?” Wren asked.

 

“Yes, honey,” She said. A tear trickled down her left chick. She couldn’t believe it. She promised herself not to cry, not to feel pain or sorrow. But she had the gun. “I’m so proud of you, Wren,” she said, as her voice started to tremble. She pursed her lips, and she had two bullets left.

 

The men were in Gate 31 when they saw the mother and child. It was going to be a smooth massacre. Just a prick of the poison and the task would be complete. But Sylvan, the man behind the other, had a gun that would make this even more messy. Joseph had told him to do the job at all cost. He would take care of their families, and sons and daughters. Just make Olga pay for what she had done.

Few yards before them, Wren caught his sleep in an instant. He did not feel his mother’s aim, nor her movements. He would not hear the next sounds, and would hope to see his father’s gorgeous face when he wakes up, after the long flight to Qatar.

They stopped by the next bench and carefully poised the move. No thought was given to the camera above them, no hesitation was mixed. People around gave no notice, and treated them like nothing but awaiting passengers. They were few feet away when two loud gunshots were fired.

Blood was on the floor and the people scrambled in fear.

Olga was free, and so was her son.

Sylvan and his partner were on the floor, by the bench.

Olga was free, and so was her son.

The guards aimed at the people on the bench.

Like that of her son’s, it was the last of Olga.