CHAPTER ELEVEN
DMITRY
It’s been two weeks since we made it out of the warehouse alive, two weeks since I lost my brother, and two weeks since I was stabbed and almost bled out.
The wound on my side is healed but it’s still tender to the touch.
The thought that I could’ve died fills me with dread, not because I fear death because I don’t.
I never have—fuck I’ve wished for death more times than I care to admit but the thought of leaving Natalia scares me more than anything in this world.
I vowed to keep her safe, and in the end, she was the one who saved me.
I couldn’t even save my brother. I never thought he cared for me.
I always felt like a burden to him. Maybe I was wrong all along.
Brothers fight, they argue, and I’m certain he was fucked up as a child just like I was.
He might not have felt mother’s fury as often or as intensely as I did, but the shit he saw must’ve fucked him up too.
I just didn’t see that until one of our last conversations, and by then it was too late.
His loyalty and love at the end of his life was powerful, and in his death, he more than proved he loved me.
I look out of the window at the old stone wall we rebuilt together. “I’m so sorry, Pawel, Pasha, big brother. I’ll see you again one day.”
Fuck, he’s not even my brother. He’s my cousin, yet he still died for me.
No, he’s my brother. He’s always been my brother and always will be my brother.
A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard refusing to allow my emotions to take hold and move away from the window.
I enter the lounge, crouch down and sit on the rug in front of the old farmhouse log fire.
The flames fascinate me as they dance. I stare at them, mesmerized just like I used to be as a child.
I’ve always been entranced by their beauty.
I grip firmly onto my grandpa’s journal.
I know it’ll be my Bible. My grandpa is already my savior in so many ways.
And I know within the pages I’ll heal and hurt.
But I need to know. I need answers.
The warmth of the flames heats the naked skin on my arms and face. I inhale deeply and get lost for a moment—my mind regresses and takes me back to being an eight-year-old child sitting in this very spot and waiting for mother to collect the fresh vegetables Grandpa was packing for us.
“Dima, what are you doing?” Her voice is harsh as always.
“Nothing,” I reply trying to sound confident, when deep inside my little heart I know I’ll be in trouble if she doesn’t believe me.
She crouches down beside me, her hot breath against the side of my face. Her words spit against my ear. “Don’t you dare think about burning anything in the fire. You little shit,” she snarls low, ensuring Grandpa doesn’t hear from the kitchen.
I shake my head. “I promise, I’m not. I’m just getting warm. My hands ... they’re cold.” I choose my words carefully. I know if I upset her, she'll punish me when we return home.
“Dima.” Grandpa’s voice calls from the kitchen.
He saves me again and he doesn’t even know it.
I push myself to my feet and slip past mother. She gives me a stern look which reminds me to keep my mouth shut.
I walk to where my grandpa is packing the bags on the table, he hands me a small cotton bag. “This is for you, my son.” He smiles then lifts a big brown potato sack full of freshly grown vegetables. “I’ll put these in your car,” he says to mother and heads out of the back door to the driveway.
I skip as I follow after him clutching the bag he gave to me. I peek inside to see it’s full of chocolates and sugar-coated candy. Squishy blue and pink mouse shaped treats bring a smile to my face. Grandpa never forgets to include my favorite candy.
I wish as hard as I can for a miracle to happen, so I get to stay here at the farm with grandpa for a few more days but to my disappointment Mother soon appears.
“In the car.” She points at the back door.
Before I know it, mother and I are travelling together in silence as she drives us along the twisting country roads and takes me back to the place I hate to call home.
As we pull up outside the house, mother looks back at me from her driver’s seat and outstretches her arm, reaching toward me.
“Give.” She snaps.
I know exactly what she means. I look down at the bag of treats on my lap and the happiness they brought to my tiny heart disappears. Sickness eases its way from my stomach to my throat. I clutch the bag and look at mother. Her eyes burning into me.
“Give it to me!” She demands.
I comply. A heavy sadness fills me. I watch as she tears open the bag and empties the contents out of the car window and into a puddle of slushed up snow.
“Don’t make me repeat myself ever again. Who the fuck do you think you are, Dmitry Rushlakov? Next time you’ll feel the belt.” A vein pops along her forehead, and she furrows her brows as she looks at me in disgust.
I don’t answer in fear of making things worse. My hands begin to shake. I don’t mind the belt. Sometimes it makes me feel alive, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of beating the shit out of me.
“Answer me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”
She wants me to make a mistake, but whether I fuck up or not, I know she’ll beat me anyway. I know how to read her like a book. It’s a sick game she loves to play.
“No ... no-one. I’m no-one.” My voice wobbles.
I exhale releasing the memory of mother from my mind and stare back down at the journal in front of me.
Fuck, Dmitry. Forget her. She’s gone.
I reassure myself and try to remember what my therapist told me, not that any of that shit has ever been truly useful to me. The only thing she was good for was getting me out of Highspring Hall.
Deep breaths act to steady my mind. I close my eyes for a few seconds then open them slowly as I allow the heat from the flames to warm my skin a little more before slowly glancing down at the book in front of me.
‘ROPED’ stares back at me. I tug gently at the string and untie it, working the thread between my fingers for a moment before carefully opening the old book of secrets, lies, violence, truths, origins and answers I so desperately need.
I don’t bother to start reading from the first page.
I’ve never been one to read anything in order.
Instead, I skip through, skimming pages until I recognize a familiar name .
.. Ruslan. My piece of shit father ... the man they let me believe was my father.
The man who tried to hang me for being a victim.
Fuck, that stings to admit. Victim. But I was ... I was a child. I need to fucking accept that. Accept there was nothing I could’ve done to stop The Man from hurting me, or to stop Ruslan from beating mother, beating me, stringing me up and leaving me to almost die in that hotel room.
Fuuuuuck. I hate that my thoughts spiral like this. Out of control. Swirling fucking thoughts.
Dima, stop.
Stop.
Fucking stop.
I want to scream.
You knew reading this journal wouldn’t be easy, but you need to do this, Dima. You let your trauma destroy you, destroy me, destroy us. You let it take away everything, but now we need to face it head on.
You’re right, I want my power back. I’m stuck in a deep dark hole that is my fucking mind, and I can’t seem to escape.
Wait, maybe Grandpa’s words might give us answers, offer comfort, solace, healing ... something.
Dima, stop overthinking and read the fucking book.
I scan the page again, finding his name a second time ... Ruslan.
I read Grandpa’s words.
‘After banging the door with no answer, I hurriedly picked the lock and finally made my way inside the hotel room. What I saw will haunt my soul until my final breath. My sweet grandson Dima was hanging from the hotel ceiling. With trembling hands, I reached into my back pocket and grabbed my work knife while pulling the chair from the corner of the room. I used the chair to stand on so I could reach the material around Dima’s neck.
I worked fast to cut the makeshift ligature.
It was a bedsheet that’d been twisted tightly.
I’d seen some horrific things in my time .
.. I’d done unspeakable things but never anything like this.
Not a child. And this wasn’t any child, this was my flesh and blood, my grandson.
As I lowered his tiny body to the ground I prayed to God my boy was alive.
His pale skin and blue tinted lips suggested otherwise.
My fingers found his neck. I searched desperately for a pulse, a flicker of life from his eyes, a twitch of a hand .
.. nothing. My boy was ... gone. I cursed out loud and pumped his chest stopping only to open his mouth.
I placed my lips on his and breathed as hard as I could.
Dima is the apple of my eye. My sweet boy. My only piece of Anna I have left. I refused to lose him too. I begged God to let him live. My words felt lost. It was the worst hell I'd ever felt in my entire life. But then, hope fractured the silence with a cough.
Dima was breathing. Still unconscious but breathing.
I finally allowed myself to raise my head, that’s when I noticed a mound underneath the remaining bed sheets.
Rage soared through me when I realized it was Ruslan, and in a moment of selfishness, I left my sweet Dima on the floor.
He was breathing and color had begun to flood his cheeks, so I knew he was okay.
I exited the hotel room and moved the door as quietly as I could, leaving it ajar.
Then I made my way along the corridor and down an old metal staircase that leads to the back of the hotel and directly to my truck.
I grabbed a rope from the back and threw it over my shoulder.
The anger flooded my veins. The very thought of losing my sweet Dima had sparked the old me to return, and Ruslan was about to meet him.