Rule #9

Satanic Rule of the Earth

#9. Do not harm little children.

“The purest form of carnal existence reposes in the bodies of animals and children who have not grown old enough to deny themselves their natural desires. They can perceive things that the average adult human can never hope to. Therefore, the Satanist holds these beings in a sacred regard, knowing he can learn much from these natural magicians.”

The Satanic Bible (Anton Szandor LaVey)

The little boy darted in his room and slammed the door. Wiping the blood from his nose, he threw his Wolverine backpack on his bed before flopping down on the fraying bean bag chair. He kicked off his velcro sneakers, the rubber around the heel starting to peel away from the fabric. Pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, he winced at the new bruise that was forming on his left the skin was already swollen to the point where he could barely see out of it.

“Tough day, Pyotr?”

He sniffled, swelling lip trembling, “It was an accident...”

“That was no accident, Pyotr. He meant to do that to you and you know it.”

“не шумите, Mr. Kingsley! Papa didn’t mean it!” Pyotr got up and opened his backpack to pull out his homework. “He’s just mad that I’m failing Spelling.”

“You’re making a B. That’s not failing, Pyotr.”

Pyotr sat down at his crooked desk table. The uneven legs wobbling as he copied the words on the dotted lines. “Mama says you’re not real. So I should stop talking to you.”

The floor shook with each step Mr. Kingsley took. It shook just like it would with any other person walking. Pyotr squeezed his eyes shut. He knew Mr. Kingsley was real. The man felt real when Pyotr touched him and could pick him up like a real person. He had dark olive skin and black hair that was always braided back. He dressed really weird too. Pyotr thought the outfit looked like the one Tarzan’s dad was wearing in the photograph; A white button up shirt, red waistcoat, long black pants, and shiny black shoes. They were so shiney Pyotr could see his reflection in them.

Mr. Kingsley stared over the little boy’s shoulder, “‘Difference’ has two F’s and no A’s.”

“I knew that.” Pyotr mumbled as he quickly erased his mistake. “Sister was really good at spelling. I wish she was here to help me.” Pulling open a drawer he dug out a torn, crumpled photograph. The girl in it stared off into space, her eyes almost glowed almost lime green against the raccoon rings of dark eye makeup. Long purple hair hung limp around her pale face, she looked almost like a ghost. The move to America was hard on the whole family. It stressed mama and papa. It caused them to act badly and get upset at the little things. His sister had suffered the worst of it all.

“It takes practice. That’s how she learned and that is how you will learn.” Mr. Kingsley stood back and watched. “But that is why I am here. To help you since she can’t.”

“Why did she have to leave?”

“It was necessary.”

That’s a stupid answer, Pyotr thought. Mr. Kingsley never answered him whenever he asked about his sister. He seemed to know an awful lot about her. A lot more than Pyotr knew, since she left last year when Pyotr was seven.

He grumbled as he continued to scrawl on the dotted lines. Repeating his spelling vocabulary three times each until his page was filled with thirty six words. Shoving that paper aside he pulled out his math; Division by 8 and 9. He pulled out his calculator and started punching in the numbers. Mr. Kingsley watched in silence above him, checking Pyotr’s work. He would make the odd comment every now and then that Pyotr should try to solve the problem without the calculator but the little boy would ignore him. If he didn’t know better, Pyotr would think that pleased Mr. Kingsley.

Homework finally finished, Pyotr set down his pencil and said, “You seem to know a lot about my sister.”

“She and I have conversed many times.”

“You make it sound like you still talk to her,” the little boy sighed “But she’s gone so you can’t.”

“Do not under estimate my abilities, little magician.”

Pyotr was about to ask what Mr. Kingsley meant when a terrible voice boomed from the floor below “Pyotr! Get down here and do your chores!”

“да, papa!” He hopped out of his seat as fast as he could. There was no way he would risk another beating tonight. Before he shut the door, Pyotr pointed to Mr. Kingsley, “Be here when I come back.”

The strange man bowed, “I shall never leave until you wish me to.”

***

Pyotr bounced around his room, making his plastic toy truck fly. Things had been relatively quiet in the last few weeks. Papa had been too tired from working to yell or strike him, and mama just started ignoring him. Some days it was like she couldn’t even see him. It made him sad but with Mr. Kingsley around, it wasn’t so bad. The man would play with him and read him a story out of dusty old books. They had stories of wonderful creatures. Like a giant owl that wore a crown and long legs, named Prince Stolas. He taught people about stars, jewels and plants. Lots of Mr. Kingsley’s books were so old Pyotr couldn’t even read the words. The man said they were of languages that had died long ago. Pyotr didn’t even know languages could die!

“I’m bored.” The little boy stated as he flopped on the bed. “I wish you could leave the room and come outside with me. It’s no fun being on spring break with no one to play with.”

Mr. Kingsley sighed, he had become very anxious lately, “I am sorry, little magician. The contract that binds me to you restricts my travels. I am to keep you safe in your lair. That was the deal I made with your sister.”

Pouting Pyotr laid his chin on his arms. Snapping his finger he hopped up from the bed and ran to his closet, “Lets listen to some music.” He pushed some boxes out of the way of a vent on the back wall. This led right into his sister’s old room. Using a screwdriver he found one the sidewalk one day, Pyotr removed the cover and started to crawl through. “My sister gave me her old record player before she left. But all the really good records are still in her room.”

“Pyotr, I’m not so sure you should go in there.”

“You’ve never told me not to before.”

He heard Mr. Kingsley sigh heavily, “Today does not seem right. There is something amiss.”

Pyotr carefully wiggled out the other side of the wall into his sister’s closet. Quietly he scoured through the boxes, looking for one record in particular. “Don’t worry so much, Mr. Kingsley. Mama and Papa don’t know I come in here. They never unlock the door.” No answer came from the other side of the wall which left Pyotr to his search. Not finding what he wanted in the closet he stepped out into her room. The dust that had gathered on all of her old belongings was proof of his statement. Not once in a year has someone, other than Pyotr, been in this room. Mama and Papa had almost been glad that she left. ‘One less to worry about.’ They said.

Hmm… She never kept any records on her shelves, He thought. Which only left under her bed.

He flipped up the Nightmare Before Christmas bed cover, coughing as dust exploded from the fabric. Once the dust settled he pulled out a large metal box. The boy had to be careful of the noise that the box would cause as it scraped along the wood floor. If Mama and Papa found him in here… He’d rather not.

The box fully out from under the bed, Pyotr dialed in the lock code and opened the lid. In pristine condition, the covers of the vinyls created a dark rainbow of blood reds, varying grotesque shades of yellow and green, and deep blues and purples, like the colors that his sister so often dyed her hair or painted her nails. He ran his finger over the plastic and cardboard covers admiring how carefully each one was tucked into its place. His sister didn’t care about much but her records were her pride and joy.

Taking the care she would expect from him, he flipped through the vinyls until he found a deep grey album with a lady in pink crouching on the cover. This was his sister’s favorite and he had grown to love it too. Especially ever since she left. The lead singer’s odd voice, the droning, the highs and lows that the woman could reach was almost haunting. His sister had explained to him what the story was behind the songs; women trapped in a hospital for no reason, they are abused and beaten daily, until the very end when they take control and break free! It was very inspiring, considering his and his sister’s situation.

Pacing everything back the way it was, he crawled back through the vent. As soon as he popped out he showed his prize to Mr. Kingsley with a grin. The strange man’s chest heaved and his lips tightened. Almost like Pyotr had found the one thing he never wanted him to. Shrugging, Pyotr ignored the man’s discomfort and set up the record player.

“Pyotr don’t open that.” Mr. Kingsley came up behind him but did not touch him.

The little boy pulled out the disk and placed it on the pin and dropped the needle. The song started with a clock ticking over the static of the vinyl. Pyotr stood and picked up the cover to read over the back, admiring the creative names of each song. He bounced to the beat and sang along to the dark lyrics. Flipping the cover in his fingers, he felt something slipping around inside.

Tipping the cover over he shook out the contents.

“Pyotr, don’t.” Mr. Kingsley placed his hand on Pyotr’s stopping him.

Wrenching his hands and the cover away from Mr. Kingsley, Pyotr snapped, “There’s something in here and it might scratch sister’s record! I’m not going to let it break it, this is all I got of her.”

“Those things are in there for a reason, Pyotr-”

“почему?” The man said nothing, “Then I’m going to take them out.”

Mr. Kingsley’s lips tightened but he stood back and let the boy pour out the papers. Some were folded notebook pages that had his name on them in his sister’s writing. Others were old sketch pages that were protected in plastic sheets. Pyotr placed the ones with his name to the side and looked at the drawings. His sister had been a really good artist. One of the best in his opinion.

He flipped through the pages and noticed something in the dark pen sketches; They were all of Mr. Kingsley. Pyotr’s forehead creased. He didn’t understand… Turning to Mr. Kingsley he asked quietly,

“What- What are these? Why did sister draw so many pictures of you?” Mr. Kingsley didn’t respond. Standing from his bed Pyotr approached the man, “Are you really real? Not just my imagination?”

“Yes.”

Pyotr’s face lit up and he began to bounce with joy. “это отличнo! I can show this to Mama and Papa and they’ll believe me!”

Mr. Kingsley’s calm demeanor began to wane into concern. He held up his hands and slowly approached the boy. “Do not do this, Pyotr. This is not the right time for-”

“нет! х™амим!” The little boy tried to keep his voice down as he scurried away from his friend. “They will stop being mean to me if I prove that you are real. I need to show them. Things will be good after I prove this.”

Mr. Kingsley closed his eyes and sighed. Folding his hands behind his back he stood straight and stared Pyotr down. “You do what you will.” Pyotr stood triumphant ready to turn to the door when Mr. Kingsley added with a harsh tone, “I hope you are prepared for the events that have already begun to unfold. The moment the clock started ticking, the countdown began.”

What did that mean? Pyotr shrugged it off, he didn’t care. In his mind he could already see his family life becoming so much better after Mama and Papa knew that Mr. Kingsley was real. He could see them happy and like the families he saw in the movies. Charging out the room and down the stairs he ran to his parents as they sat in the living room. They sat on opposite sides, Papa on the couch, slumped over with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. His plaid button down shirt and jeans were just as disheveled as his hair and beard. The only light in his blue eyes was the light of the television reflecting from them. Mama’s face was just as empty. Her long brown hair hung lifeless in her face as she flipped through the pages of a magazine. Her arms were thin, the bones in her wrist prominently jutting out, her legs mere twigs as they shook on the balls of her feet.

Shuffling in ever-so-quietly, Pyotr held up the drawings “Mama, Papa, по смотретe на это.”

“что, Pyotr?” Asks his Papa, Yefim, not taking his eyes from the changing television channels.

“I have- Nastia she drew-”

Both of his parents’ head snapped up. Both instantly red with fury and Pyotr began to shake. Yefim slowly rose from the couch, “What about Nastia?” Spotting the papers in Pyotr’s hands he pointed and demanded, “Where did you get those?”

“Th-They’re Mr. Kingsley. Sister drew him-”

“WHERE DID YOU GET THEM?!”

“Nastia’s room!” Pyotr blurted out as he tried to back away from his Papa. His nose was already starting to run and his eyes burned. He tried to keep his bottom lip from trembling as much as the rest of him as his Papa stared him down.

Yefim kicked over the coffee table “What were do you doing in her room?!”

“я не знаю… I was just looking-” The back of his father’s hand silenced him and sent him crashing to the floor. His head smacked against the wood hard enough to rattle his teeth.

He quickly rolled over and tried to scramble away but, before he could get too far his Papa grabbed him by the collar and drug him to the kitchen. Yefim turned on the gas stove then started rummaging through the drawers for a potato masher. Once he located it, he placed it over the burner to allow the metal to heat up. Pyotr’s eyes widened at the sight and he began to scream, beg, and struggle to get away. Turning to the door, much to his horror, his mother was leaning in the doorway blocking his only way out.

“I have told you countless times, Pyotr,” Yefim growled, “That room is forbidden. Now you need to be punished for your disrespect.”

Pyotr shook his head awkwardly as his collar dug into his throat, tears streaming down his face. “Мне так жаль! Мне жаль, мне жаль, мне жаль! I won’t do it again, пожалуйста!”

Neither of his parents were moved by his pleas. Yefim lifted the masher from the stove, the wavy metal wire glowing red hot in the dimly lit kitchen. Mama came up behind Pyotr and wrenched his head back by his hair forcing him to stare up at his Papa’s dark face. The next thing that crossed his vision was the masher as it closed in on his right eye.

The little boy struggled in vain as the heat made his eye burn. “нет! нет, нет, нет!”

Upstairs in Pyotr’s bedroom, Mr. Kingsley’s jaw tightened as the house filled with an agonizing scream. He stood staring at the door, arms folded behind his back. His dark eyes burning as he waited for his young master to return. The energy was waning. The contract needed to be completed tonight.

Minutes ticked by before the doorknob finally creaked and the door swung open. Pyotr stumbled in, his eye bleeding slightly. The heat from the masher had cauterized the wound instantly but when it had been pulled away pieces of his skin was stuck to the metal. The rest of his face was black and blue from the beating he had received after.

“Stop looking at me,” he said as he shuffled to the bed. “You were right. I shouldn’t have said anything to them.”

“Pyotr you should read this.” Mr. Kingsley handed Pyotr the note that had his name on it. “It is from Nastia.” Pyotr took the folded paper and stared at it, before he opened the note Mr Kingsley added, “This was not meant to happen so soon but I can feel your light fading. We must fulfill the contract your sister and I had set last year. Doing it will require a great deal of courage and all the fire that you possess in your heart. I will aid you, with your permission. For this to go smoothly it is recommended that I possess you during the ritual.”

“Ritual?”

“Answer me this, Pyotr,” Mr. Kingsley leaned down, placing a hand over the boy’s eye. A warm but pleasant feeling pulsed over the wound. “How badly do you wish to see Nastia again?”

“Very badly.” When Mr. Kingsley removed his hand Pyotr’s eye no longer hurt. He looked in the mirror and gasped, the burn was nothing more than a scar now.

“Enough to kill your parents?”

Pyotr’s face went hot. His jaw locked and heart pounded in his ears. His fists clenched at his sides, shaking with such uncontrollable rage. With a voice he barely recognized as his own, Pyotr stared back at Mr. Kingsley in the mirror. “They made my sister go away.”

“Do not be mistaken, Nastia’s leaving was part of our contract. To protect you.” Pyotr turned to face him, “But, yes, if she had not been so miserable here it never would have occurred.”

“So what good will killing my parents do?”

“The contract will be fulfilled and Nastia will be able to return. She struck it up with my King. A Prince of Hell for a short period of time to watch over you and in return he would get the souls of your parents. He believed this to be a worthy cause. My King Satan does not like people who harm children.”

Pyotr thought this over, “What happens to you? Will we ever see you again?”

“I will return to my duties as a Prince of Hell but a simple summoning spell can bring me back here briefly.”

Pyotr stared at his feet chewing on the inside of his cheek. Finally he stared up at the demon and held out his hand, “Deal.”

Mr. Kingsley smiled in a way that reminded Pyotr of the wolves in fairy tales and with a dark voice, Mr Kingsley bowed down and took Pyotr’s hand in his, “Very well.”

Wind whipped around them and Mr. Kingsley began to disintegrate into dust. Pyotr opened his mouth to gasp. The moment his lips parted the dust flew into his body. He couldn’t breath as the dark prince overtook his soul. Suddenly everything died down and Pyotr collapsed to the ground coughing and wheezing. Once he was able to catch his breath, he turned to the mirror and froze.

His blue eyes faded to ghostly white and the surrounding area had turned black. Even his skin had become this sickly pale color. Standing he felt very disconnected from the world. Like he was seeing things through a fog.

“We need to follow the instructions on the note.”

Nodding, Pyotr picked up the paper from the floor and unfolded it:

‘Pyotr, read this very carefully. If Mr. Kingsley, or Prince Asmodeus, has given you this note it means things have gotten out of hand with Mama and Papa and it is time for me to return home.’ The possessed Pyotr paced around the room. ‘In order to do this you will have to eliminate them. One needs to be kept alive so that I may come back and the other should be used to strengthen the summoning ritual. But first you need to collect a few things from my room. I have left my vent unscrewed for you to crawl through. Try not to make any noise when in my room, I know Mama and Papa will probably not want you in there after I’m gone,’

Pyotr propped his chair under his doorknob to keep from being disturbed. His movements were so mechanical and strange. It felt as though he were a puppet. Sure that the door was secure, he moved to the closet and crawled through to Nastia’s room.

‘Collect the bottle of Ambien, the stone herb grinder, black candles, incense, and your photograph of me. I will not be able to come back without it. There is also a hammer, nails, and a knife in a small black box under the bed. Just in case. Once you have all of those things, grind all of the pills to dust and pour the powder into Papa’s bottle of vodka. After they have passed out Mr. Kingsley should help you perform the summoning.

счастли™ый случай, Nastia’

***

Pyotr unscrewed the bottle and carefully funneled the white powder into the clear liquid. He acted swiftly not wanting to be caught. Once the powder was in the vodka, he swirled the bottle around the mix it in. Mama and Papa will have a few shots of this with their last supper. Then he and Nastia will be free.

Hearing his Papa’s footsteps approaching, he placed the bottle back in the fridge and pretended like he was grabbing items to make a sandwich. He kept his eyes down as Yefim shoved him out of the way and grabbed the large bottle. The old man growled at him and feigned striking him. Pyotr cowered and whimpered, making Yefim chuckle darkly. Once he was gone, Pyotr lowered his arms and a wicked grin spread across his face,

“до с™идания, b*****d.”

***

Yefim awoke. His head pounded and his body stiff. The last thing he could remember was Pyotr standing over him with this horrible grin on his face as everything went black. Blinking his eyes Yefim could barely make out the room. He was sure it was the master bedroom but the fuzz in his eyes made it impossible to be sure.

“здра™ст™уйте, Pаpа. I trust you slept well?”

Yefim panted, the haze in his eyes refusing to go away, “Pyotr? что это?

What have you done? Where is your mother?!” The man tugged on his wrists and legs. All of which had been bound securely to the floor by rags and nails.

“She is all around us, Papa! She made a marvelous sacrifice for the beginning my work, the blood shines nicely in the candlelight.” Yefim’s face grew cold. The child giggled above him waving his arms around as if he were possessed.

One final blink and the room became clear. His eyes widened in horror as they gazed upon the painted symbols that dripped down the walls. Black candles had been laid out in a circle around him. Their light cast wicked dancing shadows, strange shapes that he didn’t understand. Panicked, his eyes darted around the room looking for the source when he spotted her; his wife had been ripped open! Torn apart as if by a wild animal. Her ribs were what caused the strange shadows as they jutted out from their place in her chest.

“She awoke much faster than you did.” Pyotr shuffled over the the corpse and nudged her head with his foot. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear her screams. Of course, I couldn’t have her wake you up so,” he grabbed a handful of his mother’s hair and lifted her head to show the gaping slash in her throat. Shrugging, Pyotr released his grip allowing her head to drop to the floor. Her skull making the most sickening thunking noise.

Yefim’s heart pounding in his ears as he struggled against the ties. “Pyotr, I swear to the heavens I’ll make you pay for this!” His chest fluttered with hope as he felt one of the knots start to come loose.

Just as he thought he would break free, Pyotr slammed the heel of shoe onto his wrist. The sheer pain was enough for Yefim’s hand to spring back open. Pyotr seized the moment to pin his father’s fingers to the floor with his foot. “Oh, Papa,” he mutter, tsking under his breath. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yefim saw the dull glint of a hammer as it twirled in his son’s hand. Panic washed over him as he tried to wrestle out from under Pyotr’s foot. Whatever had knocked him out earlier was still in his system and refused to let him regain his muscles.

Bending down Pyotr retied the knot and put a nail in the center of his father’s palm. With an agonizingly steady hand the boy raised the hammer above his hand before bringing it down swiftly on the head of the nail. A bellow unlike any the world had ever heard ripped from Yefim’s lungs as the metal was buried deeper until finally it stuck in the floor. The old man’s body was paralyzed with pain, he had no time to recover before his son moved to the other hand and pounded that into the floor as well.

“You should have just held still.” Pyotr’s voice sounded as if he were speaking through cotton.  “Now, we need to move this along.” Straddling his father’s midsection, Pyotr ripped open the man’s shirt, plucked a knife from the floor and began carving a circle in Yefim’s stomach.

The cut was not deep. It just barely dug into the skin. The boy repeatedly told his father to hold still. Yefim screaming and kicking did no good in trying to keep the lines perfect. Next, a smaller circle in the middle of the large one, once the circle was closed Pyotr scribed in several symbols in the rings. They looked more like childish scribbles than ancient magic that any mortal would fear to write.

As he wrote, Pyotr whispered a prayer under his breath; One of power, asking the spirits to grant him and the demon within him strength. Of life, so that his sister might re-enter this world unharmed. And of destruction to the souls and bodies of his parental sacrifices, so they might burn for all eternity for their sins. The prayer caused a tightness in his chest. Not one of fear or anxiety, but of pride and supremacy. A vile, crazed grin spread across his face as this electric energy pulsed through him. This must be what it felt like to be on top. To be the one was in control. He loved it!

Finished with the sigil, Pyotr stood and raised the knife above his head in both hands ready to finish the rite. Yefim panted, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, and begged, “Why? What will you gain from this? What is you want?!”

Pyotr stared down at the pathetic man. It was at this time Yefim noticed his son’s eyes. The black and white orbs that bared down on his very soul were not Pyotr’s. He froze with terror as the possessed child smiled and said with venom on his tongue,

“я хочу моя сестра.”

With a howl that sounded more like demon than human, Pyotr brought down the dagger into his father’s gut and ripped him open.

***

The officer approached the children, a young woman with purple hair and a little boy. Both covered from head to toe in soot. They stood and watched as the house was engulfed in flames. He noticed that there was no fear on their faces as they stared.

“Hey, kids are you alright?” They didn’t even turn to the officer. “Kids! Can you hear me, I asked if you were alright?”

The teen with the purple hair turned to the officer and nodded. “Yes, we’re fine.”

“Where are your parents? Did they make it out?” They shook their heads. “Ah Jesus… Well you two just stay here the ambulance is on it’s way.”

“Our uncle is coming to get us.” The kids said in unison.

The officer’s eyebrows knit in confusion, “Your uncle? Did one of you call him?” The teen nodded. What was up with these kids? “Alright… um, can I get your names?”

“Anastasia.”

“Pyotr.”

“‘Kay, do you know how the fire started?”

They stood silent, eyes never leaving the blaze. The crackle and roar of the fire was soon drowned out by the sound of sirens and cars rolling up the gravel road. Two firetrucks, an ambulance, and a black Rolls Royce. Men and women rushed around trying to put out the fire and to check on the kids. They were cooperative with everyone but could not be bothered to answer anymore questions.

Turning to the Royce, the officer watched as a tall dark haired, olive skinned man stepped out. Even though it was dark as hell out the man wore sunglasses. He seemed to be completely ignoring the burning building as he sauntered over to the children. They stood from their seat in the ambulance and slowly walked over to him. This must be their uncle.

Stepping up to the man the officer asked sternly, “You their uncle?”

The man removed his sunglasses and smiled charmingly, “Ah, yes. I am their uncle, Asmodeus Kingsley. I was on my way to a family gathering, had stopped at a hotel in the next town over when the children called me.” He placed a hand on their shoulders. “Shame, really. May they rest in peace.” There was a pause before Kingsley sighed, “Would you mind if I took the children from here? They need rest, I will provide the address of my hotel and you can question them in the morning.”

Ready to protest, the officer raised his hand but found his mind clouding over. His thoughts became fuzzy and his head faint. “Uh… Yeah,” Why was he agreeing to this? “Go on, get them out of here. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

With a smile, Kingsley filled out a note page with the information and led the children to his car. Before closing the driver door, he waved to the officer, who waved back. The engine roared to life and the bright headlights lit the yard in it’s own fire as they pulled away. As they left neighbors began to arrive. The nearest lived miles away in this rural area, but maybe they would be able to provide some answers.

The officer approached an old man and asked him what he knew about the family. “Well… They moved here some time ago. Quiet folk, ain’t say much. Foreigners from that Commie country but they ain’t cause no trouble. This fire probably caused by a gas leak. Old place. Been here since my grandaddy build our farm.”

“Ok, we’ll have our guys look into the piping. What do you know of the kids? They seem a little off.”

The old man’s wife shook her head, “Those poor dears. I don’t think their parents paid much attention to them. The girl ran away a few times before she- Well…”

“What?”

“Oh well, she hung herself in her room last year.”

Russian translation in order:

1. Keep quiet

2. Yes

3. Why?

4. This is excellent

5. No! Enough is enough

6. Look at this

7. What?

8. The sister’s name is Anastasia. Nastia is a nickname given by friends and family. Common in Russian culture e.g. Alexander- Sasha(M), Galina- Galya(F)

9. I don’t know

10. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry

11. Please

12. No

13. Good Luck

14. Goodbye

15. Hello (formal)

16. I want my sister