Page 2 of Mafia and Scars

I sigh.

Pulling the loaf from inside my coat, I break it in two. I hold out the bigger half to him. “Go on. Take it,” I growl.

His eyes dart to the bread, then to me, like it’s a trick—and I’m going to pounce on him in the next second. Like he expects a fight. After a long moment, he reaches out and takes it, his shaking fingers brushing against mine.

I jerk my hand back. It’s instinctive. Involuntary. Because touching—any touching—makes my skin hurt like someone has just set it alight.

And I hate it. Hate that constant feeling. The one I can never get rid of.

I nod my head toward the empty side of the street where the buildings are all boarded up.

I drop down to the curb, keeping some distance between us. He follows. We sit in silence for a while, neither of us saying much as we eat our half of the loaf. It’s warm, soft, comforting.Filling.

I look at him from the corner of my blue eyes, watching carefully. I don’t really understand why I’m sharing my food with him. Why I’m not showing him this is my corner and that he needs to get lost. Maybe I don’t want to be the one to do that to him today. Because I’m sure it’s happened plenty to him already.

“You always steal to eat?” I ask, breaking the silence as I dust the crumbs from my hands and look up at the sky. I think about the weather, and the sky looks gray to me even though it’s a cloudless day and the sun is shining fiercely on this freezing cold morning.

He finishes his part of the loaf well before I do and looks down at his shoes. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet like he’s ashamed, but there’s something else there. “My father threw me out. Said I gotta learn to stand on my own two feet.”

My brow raises up. “Why?”

“He said I gotta learn before I take over the business. He wants to toughen me up.”

The business? What sort of business? And toughen him up? Some father that is. I can’t really imagine what kind of a father would actually do that because I’d like to think all fathers would show some sort of kindness toward their children.

I don’t hold his gaze as he looks at me. That’s too difficult for me. Instead, I look toward the street across from us that’s thinned of people, the morning rush done and gone now. “You got somewhere to stay?” I grit out.

He shakes his head.

Don’t do it, Viktor.I don’t do people. I know that, and yet my mouth moves before I can stop it. “I’ve got a spot you can stay in for a few nights. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Shoving up, I look at him, waiting for him to join me. Then I walk down the street, not looking back to make sure he’s following. I know he will. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

Silence stretches between us. There’s not much I want to know or ask. He tells me his name.Grigory.

“There are a few of us there,” I say as we duck behind the broken fence that leads the quickest way home to the one-bedroom flat ofBabulya, my grandmother.

“Others?”

“Yeah. Other boys.”

“And it’s…safe?”

“It’s a roof over our heads. Matvey, Nikolai, and I usually sleep on the floor in the kitchen.” It’s the only room big enough for us all to fit in. It’s cramped, but at least it’s warm. I push open the door to the flat. “Well, now you do too.”

“Okay.”

“This is…” Grigory starts to speak.

“Yeah.” Neither of us needs to say anything more. I can see it all in his face. Relief that he has somewhere warm, dry, and safe to stay now. And disbelief that someone has shown him kindness. Becausewhen you’re yet another homeless boy on the street, people treat you like you’re a nobody. It’s like you become worthless.

I lived on the streets once. I know what it’s like. Now, at least, I have somewhere dry to sleep. Us boys have vowed to take care of each other—we steal to survive, supporting ourselves and my grandmother however we can. A pickpocket here, a hawking of jewelry there, and a few food stores along the way, as long as it’s enough so that we can eat and keep the roof over all our heads. This is how we survive. And we survive it together.

AGE 14

I swiftly scratch out the seven in the notebook I keep in the back of my pocket. It’s worn, but it’s necessary. I replace it with a nine.

It’s how busy the thoughts are in my mind today.