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May 21 - Four years ago
Dear Journal,
I can’t stand being in the same house as him anymore. When Oleg suggested a trip to another club for training, I had him ask Uncle A. and he was forced to agree. So I got out of the house, this city where my family was killed.
One of Oleg’s friends knows a tattoo artist, by the name of Zane Madden, and he took me to his shop. Zane made two pieces for me. He only finished the second one yesterday. Yeah, we went back a few times.
But Uncle A. is getting suspicious of these trips and says he won’t let me out again.
Fuck that. Fuck him. Fuck all this shit.
I’m getting out.
Sept 2 - Four years ago
I left. I did it.
Dear Journal, I don’t even know why I’m writing. I guess I got used to penning things down, and I don’t have anyone to talk to, so… you’ll have to do. My only friend. My mirror.
You’ve been that since my dad’s death.
It’s a miserable life on the run. One night someone pushed me into a ditch, kicked the shit out of me and stole my money. Thank fuck I’d hidden most of it in the room I’d rented before going out. Then my room was broken into so many times I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow.
I never feel safe. I’m never safe. Safety is a thing of the past. A naïve child’s fantasy.
Life, real life, is hard and bitter, but at least I don’t have to see my uncle’s ugly-ass face anymore. Pretend I can breathe around him. Let him order me around and accept his authority.
I’d take a knife under my pillow any day.
March 15 - Four years ago
New city, new room, new job. Fake ID, fake name, fake life. But I’m still free. Still going.
There’s one big thing, though. I think I’ve figured out what my dad was trying to tell me. The police won’t hear it, though. They say I’m sick, that I need a therapist. They say I’m not who I say I am, and when they said they’ll call my uncle, I ran.
Always running. Without a plan, or goal.
So what do I do now?
Chapter Forty-One
Sydney
No clues yet in the journal. I leafed through it carefully, looking for names, places, dates, numbers and addresses. Anything that could help us locate him, or at least locate someone who might know him, someone from his past.
Zilch.
Plus, it’s pretty hard to read. Kash’s handwriting is atrocious, and the Russian words and abbreviated names he drops in make it hard to understand.
Besides it all, he wrote it for himself, someone with the perfect backstory knowledge, the perfect insider. He knows exactly what he means, what he experienced, what he felt.
But it’s a bit hard to follow.
And I love it. I love reading the words he painstakingly wrote, in this old leather-bound journal, penned by his beloved hand. I love reading about his life, about his thoughts, his discoveries and his feelings. Maybe it’s because he never meant for anyone to read them, and that makes me feel guilty like a voyeur, but every one of his emotions comes through, pure and crystal clear, sharp like a glass shard, cutting me to the bone.
I stash the journal under my mattress and sit on the bed.
Chris, I’m struggling. No need for a psychologist to tell me that. Not that I’ve ever been to one, but yes, losing Kash is hard. Harder than I thought possible. Here’s the thing: I thought losing my mom was the worst that could happen to me—but Mom and me, we weren’t all that close when she vanished from my life. I cared for her. I thought she cared for me. I was wrong.
