Emperor of Mayhem

84

THINGS WE HIDE FROM THE LIGHT
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ALEXEI
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When I was five, my mother got plagued with an ailment which she hopelessly battled until well, the summer I turned six when she passed away in her sleep. 

Before her expected death, it had just been the two of us living in a little apartment somewhere in Rostov. There was no father in the picture, or an uncle, just a grandfather who lived in Baruta, a small village populated by farmers. 

After the unfortunate death of my mother—whom I had no memory of actually loving because I spent half of my time hating her for not giving me a father like other mothers did their sons—I had no choice as a six-year-old to move from Rostov to live with my grandfather who dare I say, was a dirt farmer. He was struggling to get by.

I lived with him in penury and woke up daily to the foul smell of cattle, before worrying about what would be on the table for dinner, if we were even going to feed at all. Between living in Rostov and living in Barutas, I didn't know which was worse.  I mean while in Rostov, my mother worked at a club as an erotic dancer and she wasn't paid much so most times, cereals could be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But a little part of me would have still chosen that life in Rostov over the unhealthy one in Baruta.

Anyway, for years I lived with my grandfather. I helped feed the cows and would assist in harvesting tomatoes and strawberries when it was their season. Sometimes I would find myself learning how to plow the land and remove weeds. 

Grandpa enrolled me in the local elementary school. But I made no friends because I was considered a freak. I mean, a lot of them thought I was mute because I hardly conversed and even when the teachers threw a question at me, I just stared at them like they were still pictures in the museum.

When I was ten, my grandfather fell ill. I supposed his sickness was just due to old age or something. The doctors didn't tell me much. Maybe because they didn't expect much from a ten-year-old kid. Only if they knew I'd had to grow up way too quickly and could be called an adult at that time.

One day, amongst one of the many days Grandpa could stand up from bed to move around, he told me to wear my finest shirt and cargo pants. He made me stockpile a few of my clothes into a small duffel bag and dragged me to a train station that day without much information on where we were heading. 

I remembered asking every few minutes in the ride what our destination was. I mean, I didn't think we had any family members outside Baruta. And we weren't so financially stable to start going on vacations impromptu. At one point, I thought that he was going to sell me off or drop me at some orphanage.

When we stepped off the train, I beheld the sight of Moscow for the first time in my life, and I was awed beyond words. 

"Are we visiting a rich man?" I had asked him when the taxi we took drove through a fancy estate and pulled up in front of a tall gate that had nested behind the four high walls, a grand Edwardian building that looked a lot like the castles in a few fairytales I had to read sometime. 

"I have brought you to your father." Grandpa did find it in himself to finally tell me in his weak voice as we were ushered into the grand living room. 

I remembered being slightly annoyed as a disgusting feeling of betrayal overwhelmed me when I thought of how my father had been living like a king and I was out there on the farm plowing lands. 

And when I saw my own father for the first time, with his high cheekbones and smooth skin as though he was made from olives and polished oak, I couldn't help thinking about how nothing about my pale appearance made me look remotely like him. If not for the DNA test that confirmed me as his son, I would have thought Grandpa got confused due to old age.