Page 2 of Born into Madness
“No matter what,” I say, nodding my head in agreement. “Is Uncle Roman okay?”
My dad grins, the smile tugging at his lip ring. “He is, yeah.”
I reach a hand out and touch the dried blood on his tattooed neck. “What about the bad man?”
He grabs my hand, gently stopping me from touching more blood. “You don’t need to worry about him. Come on, Sasha, let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed.”
Knowing he’s not going to just let me sit here and explore the blood he’s covered in, I do what I know will make him happy and nod my head in agreement. He grins and ruffles my hair before standing back up. He’s like a giant standing over me, and not for the first time I wonder if I’ll ever be as big as him. I feel fragile and scrawny in comparison.
“Were you ever as small as me?” I ask him.
He laughs and leads me out of the room, stopping to lock the door behind us before pocketing the key. He’d have a fit if he knew I had his spare in my pocket right now.
“I was smaller than you,” he says, and I give him a genuine smile, unable to believe that he was ever smaller than me.
“No way,” I tell him.
“It’s true. We didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, so your uncles and I were always hungry.”
“But you didn’t grow up in the same house,” I say, knowing they aren’t related by blood but instead a family by choice.
My dad nods and gives another laugh. “Yeah, but we were all poor. We had food, but it was never enough.” He looks down and winks at me. “That changed when your Uncle Danil learned how to use his computer to steal us money.”
I smile at the thought of my uncle hacking into banks so they could buy pizza. “But you were small when you were my age? Do you think I’ll be as big as you one day?”
When we stop outside the bathroom that’s next to my room, he squats down and smiles at me. “I was, and you’ll be even bigger.” Reaching out, he grabs onto my upper arm, giving it a squeeze. “You keep hitting the bag with me, and you’ll have muscles bigger than mine.”
I grin. I can’t help it. If I want to learn how to use a knife and be good at it, then I need to be strong. My dad never lies to me, so if he says I’ll be bigger than him if I train hard, then I believe it.
“Wash your hands and then get to bed, okay?”
When I nod, he pulls me in for a hug and kisses my cheek. “I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.” I say the words, and I know that I mean them. I’ve never felt any sort of warmth for anyone outside of our family, and I’ve always been too afraid to ask if that’s normal. Something tells me it isn’t, but it has to mean something that I feel it at all. I’m not empty, not completely anyway. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel anything for anyone else, but at least I feel something for them.
It’s proof that I’m not broken.
It’s proof that there’s something inside me beyond the darkness I feel when I think about blood or holding a knife.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember that, though, and when my dad walks off and I step into the bathroom, I don’t immediately wash my hands. First, I bring my fingers to my mouth and run my tongue over the tips, tasting the copper on my tongue before it dissolves. It’s faint, barely a taste at all, and I don’t know why that disappoints me, but it does.
I hesitate before the sink, and in the end I can’t bring myself to put my hands under the water. Running my thumb over my fingertips, feeling the sticky remnants that still cling to my skin, the overwhelming urge to fall asleep like this, to keep this bad man’s blood on me while I sleep is one I can’t deny. I turn off the water, deciding to wait until morning. I can still get it off before breakfast, and no one will ever have to know.
When I open the door, I make sure the hallway is clear before slipping out and darting into my room. My little sister’s room is right next to mine, and I can’t say I’m surprised when she jumps out at the last minute to block my path. Mia is eight, and so far her favorite hobby is sticking to me like glue. I assume she’ll grow out of it at some point, but for now, she’s my little shadow.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” I remind her.
Her hand has a firm grip on the stuffed dog she always sleeps with, but her hazel eyes are lit up in a way that makes it clear she didn’t just wake up.
“I’m not tired.” She looks me over, and before I can hide my hand, she sees the blood and quickly steps closer. “Are you bleeding?”
“Just a paper cut,” I quickly say, pulling my hand back before she can touch it. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to keep it from her. Just because I like it covering my skin doesn’t mean I want it touching hers. She’s only eight, and she looks far too innocent in her Scooby-Doo pajamas with a stuffed animal clutched to her chest.
“You need to go back to bed before Mom and Dad find out you’re still up,” I tell her.
She doesn’t look happy, so I add, “Wake me up in the morning and we can watch cartoons together while we eat breakfast.”
Her smile fills her small face before she lurches forward and gives me a hug. Using my clean hand, I rest it on her head and ruffle her hair.
