My Stockholm Syndrome. Бекки Чейз

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.

      ′′Don't go out, miss,′′ he politely warned me in English with an accent. ′′The grounds are being prepared for the contest and you mustn't see it. Violation of the rules,′′ he added more sternly when I didn't move.

      I was about to nod and head back into the barracks when the guard's eyes suddenly rounded and he straightened up to attention. I turned my head to look for the cause of his fear but saw no one but a well-muscled man in camouflage pants and a tank top lazily approaching us. He walked slowly and casually, like a well-fed lion amongst the pride. Actually, I was too flattering: he had no lion's mane, only an ordinary American military-style haircut. However, the characteristically shaved sideburns were on his temples, flowing seamlessly into the tattoos on his neck. Classy. There was something mesmerizing and dangerous about his gait despite its ostensibly relaxed manner. His eyes made me feel uncomfortable: colorless and lifeless, they looked like lenses, the eyes of an alien monster, a predator, anything but human. If they were glowing in the dark, it would make me feel less nervous.

      ′′Why is a player outside the