Cold, And Winter

"Damn does it ever stop snowing?"

The wind raked him again, the heavy coat doing little to stop it. Dark streets of midnight St Petersburg, what the hell was he doing here. No rubles, few dollars American, a fake Russian Id and forged war photo's, created in the back stage of an old abandoned theater, convincing at first glance but ridiculous to the scrutinizing eye, his clothes dirty from fleeing and the heavy wool coat, all he had in his possession.

"Damn what am I doing here? Damn Damn"

The fake id and photos still warm from creation were merely hours old, he didn't even speak Russian! Who were these supposed to convince? Avoiding at all cost anyone who asked questions was the only smart plan he could come up with. It was the only plan period he could come up with. All he could remember, the only though that occupied his mind to shear blindness revolved entirely around that back stage and it's dimly lit room in the wings.

"What was her name?"

He whispered to himself out loud, not intentionally as his mind raced the phrases simply fell out in the open. Dangerous probably, alone at this hour in the middle of a city that would suspect his actions. Americans don't travel at night, alone, poorly dressed for the winter, gloveless and muttering to themselves. What little attention was to be drawn was most likely focused his way and not in his best interest. Eyes from windows were watching.

"What was her name? Did I even know it?"

That forlorn stage, that thick Russian accent, she must have been the only person thus far that he had met who even spoke English, and what a beautiful sound it had been. What little he remembered before stumbling to that place, led by a complete stranger who was either sympathetic to his plight, or leading a lost lamb to an easy slaughter, was that of haze, tattered clothing and a fist full of money that he had no idea how it had come to his pockets. What he did remember apart from the whirl wind of flashes of photo bulbs, props and grungy costuming to sell his part as war fighter, were the piercing blue eyes.

Several shots, the mechanical click of the camera and old film plates being slid from the archaic camera frame, the smoke from the photographers hand rolled cigarette, the pounding of Cyrillic keys on the aging type writer, chemical developers, she spoke to him.

"Here" as she forced a clear bottle in his hands. "Will keep you warm."

The dark sultry voice, echoing in his head. Flashes of memory eluded him. The numbing effect of the alcohol, he froze in his tracks, cobble stones under his boots. "What happened next?" His eyes held wide, the fear of a fractured memory creeping in, grow worse. "Damn!"

Cloudy and slowly, it came. Like the smoke that lingered in the room long after the papers and photos where placed in his hand, the image came. Wantingly he almost begged for a clear view and vividly it came to answer his call. She sat atop him, stretched across his back on the hard wood floor, her clothes piled loosely near the fading curtain. How white her skin was. Flawless and soft, it almost glowed in stark contrast to the surrounding dark. She moved against him, pressing her body against his chest and whispering softly but cunningly into his ear.

"Twelve hundred" she pressed into his lobe. Holding herself as if to fight off the very cold that strangled the rest of the world. "Twelve hundred for all. Id's and photo's. Yes?" Almost playfully the words rolled from her tongue. Not even the sound of breathing could be distinguished from her accented grin. "You want to escape alive don't you?" eyes flashing a hint of deception.

He watched her, looking down her spine, the white, so unusually bright and yet so cold, her black hair cut short further confusing the skin tone and blurring the lines of what was and what was not before him. How much vodka had he swallowed? Was there even any left in the bottle? He watched her eyes flash, knowing that trust was something he was in short supply of and surviving would be more satisfying than knowing what was going on, damn the facts. That was then. That was before the door had closed and the aimless shuffle against the wind began.

"How much for it all?" His eyes just as darkly reveling his intent, after all, considering the circumstances, what else to do with a nude woman sitting so coyly across him?

"For you, fifteen hundred, all American"
With two in his pocket, why resist?

The cold swarmed him. What happened after only his imagination would be left to construct on its own. He remembered the white skin, blue eyes and dark hair. What more was necessary, save for directions? "God what is going on?"

He stumbled on blindly, was there even an embassy in this city? He could only hope. Ever more talking to himself and growing louder, unaware of the footsteps and eyes, closing. Perhaps he should have been more careful.

Find a gate, find a way out. Find a train. Anything. Thoughts raced through his head. "Speak to no one. No one at all."

"Not even to me?"

He turned. No voice he had recognized, gruff and stern.

"What the hell happened?"