My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки Чейз

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