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CHAPTER1
MIKHAIL
Fifteen years ago ...
Iwatch the way his hands curl around the sweating glass of vodka. He sits at the bar like he owns it. He could. By the way his suit clings to his body, it looks as if it was tailored to fit his every curve perfectly. Everything about him screams money.
I look down at myself. I look nothing like him. My clothes are ripped to shreds and my shoes are on their last life. The rubber is falling off, the seams frayed beyond repair.
“Mikhail.” Kirill mutters my name. “You need to do it this time.” His pale skin is far more bruised than mine.
“Okay.”
His gaze his cold, though I’m not surprised. It has been for a long time. There was once life in those spotted amber eyes of his. It doesn’t matter how long you stare into them—there is nothing left. They’re dark. Deadly.
Just as I’m about to take a step toward the bar, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me back to him. “You need to be strong if you want to eat.”
“Okay,” I tell him again.
Sometimes this way of life is illegal, but no one cares to acknowledge that.
Money is paper, and yet people go feral over it—myself included.
But here’s the thing about money: it doesn’t matter how much someone makes, they will always live paycheck to paycheck. The more buck they make, the more their standards for living increase. I could have a very high-paying job, but would I pocket anything?No.Because once I get to that point, I’d want a house with ten bedrooms I’d never use and a six-car garage for the cars I’d never drive.
Money is the most fucked-up thing mankind relies on, yet here I am stealing it.
I know how wrong stealing is, but it’s our way of life. Going back home isn’t an option for us anymore.
“Home” isn’t the right word for that place. It’s a hole-in-the-wall filled with my father’s things. Empty bottles cover the table. Every passing hour he adds three more. The couch is stained with his urine. Maggots crawl over the half-finished meals he spends all our money on. The house never sees the light of day. The TV’s on for hours on end while my father sits on the couch with his mouth gaping open attracting flies. His teeth are rotting, and he never does anything to fix them. He eats like a king while Kirill and I only get an uncooked box of noodles for dinner every night. My body screams for nutrition, but I’m not able to get any.
Every time I come home to see him shoving mounds of food into his mouth, I cling to the hope that one day ... one day I will be able to eat like him. There is a thing about hope that no one cares to acknowledge: it only answers the people who already have everything in life.
People who have money don’t have the worries I have. Their vision isn’t clouded by the foul play life constantly throws in my face.
I hate the life I have. While I am thankful to have a roof over my head, I can’t help but wonder how grand my life could have been if I had a parent who actually cared about me.
No child my age should have to worry about when their next meal will be or if they will even get it.Is a warm meal really that much to ask for?The kids at school have it. Most of their parents even write notes in their lunchboxes wishing them a good day.
My mouth salivates when I see their lunches. If their midday meals are that good, I can’t even begin to imagine what their dinners look like. Their parents probably tuck them in at night and wish all the bad dreams away before they shut their eyes.
I will never have that.
All my life I’ve been called “responsible for my age” as if it’s the biggest compliment I’ll ever receive, but it never was and never will be.
It’s the most backhanded excuse of a compliment I have come to know. I was forced to take on a parental role for myself as if I know how to parent. My peers get praise when they did something right. They get a C? That’slife-changingfor them. But what do I get when I run home with excitement pumping through my bloodstream to tell Father I got the best grade in class?
I get nothing.
Receiving a common education is like finding a gold mine, but my work is worth nothing. It’s a standard that I’m meant to uphold.
Most of the time, people like me don’t even realize they’re neglected. Neglect doesn’t transfer as an act of trauma, although it should. I am never noticed in a positive light.
But hey, I have a shirt on my back and a crumpled-up pillow to lay my head on at night, so all is well in the world.
Sue me—I want more.
I force down a sickening feeling I’ve been holding onto for days on end. The built-up shame rolls down my cheeks as my throat thickens with sobs. My cries for help will never be answered. No one cares, and I’m not even sure if I do at this point.
