p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: none 0px; margin: 15px 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; vertical-align: baseline; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444;" It hadn't been his idea, at least not in the beginning. During the short time that he attended school, Vladimir's teacher had suggested that he keep a journal in which he could talk about his thoughts without anyone laughing or making fun of him. It had been a nice thought on her part, as she knew that the little 9 year-old boy had no one to talk to, or anyone to share his pent-up emotions with. Since the death of his family, he had deeply buried all of his feelings except that of anger, which he unleashed on the other children with a vengeance that often landed him in trouble. She had simply thought that getting some of it down on paper might help him to be friendlier around the others, and perhaps make a few friends. Or, at the very least, it might keep him from picking fights with anyone and everyone who dared make eye contact with him. She had been correct. After he began keeping this journal, there was a notable change about him. The way he walked, talked, and interacted with others was vastly improved. As it turned out, he just needed someone to talk to, and if that 'someone' happened to be an imaginary pen-pal who would never be able to write back.. well, so be it./p
p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: none 0px; margin: 15px 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; vertical-align: baseline; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444;"They found the diary under his bed. 'They' being a particularly nasty group of boys and girls who had nothing better to do with their time than pick on the other children in the orphanage. They had been snooping around the large, shared sleeping-room when they came across it: the journal of a young Vladimir Ranskahov. It was like stumbling upon a gold mine: filled to the brim with the deepest thoughts and most closely-guarded secrets of their greatest rival, this little book would keep them stocked with ammunition against him for months to come. Maybe even years. They were giddy with joy, and wasted no time in finding Vladimir and prodding him about it. /p
p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: none 0px; margin: 15px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; vertical-align: baseline; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444;"Needless to say, there was a scuffle, and not a few of those kids ended up in the medical ward that night, including Vladimir. He sat nursing a sprained wrist and split lip, secure in the knowledge that he had broken the bones of at least 3 of them. However, broken bones wouldn't take away the memory of what they had read in that diary. And while the pain might deter their teasing for a spell, it wouldn't last forever. Vladimir knew that, and, more importantly, They knew that. He would never be safe here again. There were things that he had written which, in the wrong hands, could haunt him for the rest of his young life, or so he thought. The journal and the writings therein were counted as a complete loss and waste of time to Vladimir after that incident. He kicked himself constantly over the fact that he would even consider writing things like that down, where they could so easily be exploited. He had learned the lesson long ago that this life was hard and cruel, but apparently Fate had decided to send him a reminder: you can trust no one. Sometimes not even yourself./p
p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: none 0px; margin: 15px 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; vertical-align: baseline; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444;"They found the diary under his bed. 'They' being a particularly nasty group of boys and girls who had nothing better to do with their time than pick on the other children in the orphanage. They had been snooping around the large, shared sleeping-room when they came across it: the journal of a young Vladimir Ranskahov. It was like stumbling upon a gold mine: filled to the brim with the deepest thoughts and most closely-guarded secrets of their greatest rival, this little book would keep them stocked with ammunition against him for months to come. Maybe even years. They were giddy with joy, and wasted no time in finding Vladimir and prodding him about it. /p
p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; outline: none 0px; margin: 15px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; vertical-align: baseline; box-sizing: border-box; color: #444444;"Needless to say, there was a scuffle, and not a few of those kids ended up in the medical ward that night, including Vladimir. He sat nursing a sprained wrist and split lip, secure in the knowledge that he had broken the bones of at least 3 of them. However, broken bones wouldn't take away the memory of what they had read in that diary. And while the pain might deter their teasing for a spell, it wouldn't last forever. Vladimir knew that, and, more importantly, They knew that. He would never be safe here again. There were things that he had written which, in the wrong hands, could haunt him for the rest of his young life, or so he thought. The journal and the writings therein were counted as a complete loss and waste of time to Vladimir after that incident. He kicked himself constantly over the fact that he would even consider writing things like that down, where they could so easily be exploited. He had learned the lesson long ago that this life was hard and cruel, but apparently Fate had decided to send him a reminder: you can trust no one. Sometimes not even yourself./p