Author's Note
Thanks for the faves, everyone! I never expected the first chapter to get very many!
Warning: domestic abuse, alcohol consumption by a minor, mentions of child abuse.
Human names used! Country names used later on.
Ivan is about 14 years old.
March 23, 1996
Of course, when he had to walk home, it rained. It always seemed that way; bad luck just happened to favor him over all other possible candidates. The wind whipped and howled against his face, soaking through the thin cloth of his coat, running electricity up and down his spine.
Stray cats and street-born puppies hid under his neighbor's car. Only when the weather was bad did they seemed to put aside their fighting and tolerate each other's presence. He almost wished he could join them and fall asleep, listening to the pitter-patter of rain droplets on the hood.
Ivan turned the corner, cutting across the brown grass to the porch. The house wasn't in its best shape. Most of the shingles from the roof had fallen off long ago and the paint chipped and sun bleached. He had to peel away his dripping coat, grimacing at the feel. As for his other clothes, he would have to wait till he was in the sanctity of his own room until he could even dream of being dry, after his homework was completed. Hopefully his papers weren't dissolved by now.
Before he even entered the house, screams could be heard from the kitchen. Ivan had no doubt that his parents were fighting over the alcohol supply, like they do almost every afternoon and into the late evening. Even for his above-average size, the young teenager could be quiet if he so desired. Sneaking past the kitchen entrance was a daily task. Even so, he had to be careful.
Bottles of all sizes and colors littered the sides of the hall, swept to the side, but not thrown away. On a clear day, light poured through the windows, illuminating every nook and cranny with dancing shapes upon the walls—a sea of beauty in this unbeautiful home. Alcohol assaulted his nostrils, leaving a sour tingle on his tongue and making his eyes water. He would think one would be used to the tingling and ghastly smells, but entering and reentering his home never failed to make him sick to his stomach.
He glanced around the corner of the hall to the kitchen. There they were, fighting like yesterday and the day before that and the day before even that. Each had bruised peppering their faces and arms and throats—blue, black, and purple decorating their already discolored skin. Ivan tiptoed past them, keeping a careful eye on the pair. His room was just two doors past the kitchen, so it was not a great distance to sneak, but yelling could still be heard through the thin plaster.
Ivan tried to keep his room clean, but the bottles and trash was unavoidable in any part of the house. A creaking and rusty bed frame with sorry couching served as his bed and a flimsy piece of wood elevated by soggy cardboard boxes served as his desk. A small woven basket which served as his dresser sat in the far corner next to his church shoes.
He dropped his school bag on his bed and sat on his molding chair, proceeding to pull out his rain-smeared homework. Sighing, he set them out on his blanket to let them dry. While doing so, his door creaked. However, he didn't fret. There was no sound of heavy boots stomping their way up towards him, nor hands to clutch his throat. Instead, little heels tapped over to him. A little girl about 6 or 7 years of age plopped down on the floor next to Ivan. She wrapped her tiny arms around his leg, squeezing as tight as a child could manage. A little white dress with blue ruffled adorned her tiny frame while a pair of tiny shoes pinched her toes and chafed her ankles to make them red and itchy.
The teen smiled slightly, stroking her long, blonde hair. He was fond of his little sister, how could he not be? She was small and cute, a little disagreeable at times, but cute nonetheless. She slowly began to release his leg when the yelling from the kitchen grew quiet. This made them both look at the bedroom door, confused.
Again, the door creaked open. It was their older sister, Katyusha, back from work. She was covered from head to boot in mud. Her overalls worn and discolored were almost falling apart and her short hair in a frenzy. She also wore a faded pink scarf that surprisingly wasn't dirty at all, just wet. Katyusha earned money by tending to the gardens and greenhouse of the hospice ten minutes away. Often at times, she was gone for several hours in a single shift. Katyusha was the family's only source of income so their parents tried not to fight when she came home—after all, if the carrying this "family" wasn't feeling well, how else would they get booze?
Gardening was her only skill. The father of the household refused to send her to classes, claiming that "women didn't need to be educated". The same goes with their younger sister; she spends her days at home, in the room she and her older sister share, hiding under the bed or locked in the closet for hours upon end.
"I'm back, Ivan, Natalia." Katyusha's voice bright, but her face weary and voice cracking. She held up a small basket she took to work with her, "I brought food." She placed it on the floor before sitting down herself, motioning for her siblings to join her. They did and held out their hands. The basket held an assortment of vegetables and fruit bright in color and plump as could be. This would definitely be a treat for them—when the hospice had an abundance of their food, they gave what they did not need to Katyusha, a blessing for them all.
The silence is pure bliss for the aching ears of the siblings. Only crunching of the crisp vegetables and fruit echoed off the walls. Little Natalia crammed fistfuls of strawberries into her mouth and reached for the carrots, biting off the stray roots with her teeth and spitting them out onto the floor. Katyusha said nothing about her manners only giving her a glance and worked on her zucchini and squash. As for Ivan, he preferred the tomatoes and blueberries, which he got to himself; his sisters didn't have a taste for them.
Pretty soon the basket was empty, save for mud and little greenery. Little Natalia's dress was now a smeary mess, which she didn't even seem to notice. Their older sister sighed, "Natalia, look what you did to your dress." she pointed it out, "Let's clean you up." she pulled up their youngest sibling and sat the girl upon her hip. Katyusha looked her brother, smiling at him, before picking up the basket and exiting the room. Once again, Ivan was alone with only the rain for company.
For several moments he simply stayed there, on the filthy floor, eyes closed, listening. He wasn't exactly sure what he was listening for, but his mind searched for something –anything—which might provide him comfort from his current predicament. Like all the other times he searched, he found nothing, only the thick, suffocating smell of mildew and the tapping of water on the roof.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, finding only his room. He blinked sever times and crawled across the ground to the corner by his bed frame. A board had been loose for years and Ivan made it a habit to hide his things under it, in a shoebox. He wriggled the wood back and forth until he could pull it loose. He briefly took the lid off the box, counting the dollar bills and coins quickly as possible. It was around the range of 300 dollars or so, but Ivan didn't want to have his money exposed for too long. He put the lid back on the box and replaced the board to its original spot. It wasn't enough to live off of, but it would do.
Suddenly, the screaming started all over again. What prompted this fight was beyond Ivan. Usually the fights were about how much alcohol one or the other consumed on a daily basis, or that one has to go out and get a job because Katyusha's income wasn't enough. Of course, neither would go out looking for a job anyway.
The noise rattled in the boy's skull, making his brain hurt. Too much noise. Too much noise. He flattened his palms against the sides of his head. Slowly, he rocked himself on his heels and brought his knees to his chest, creating a swaying movement with his whole body. This tended to help him relax in times of stress; stress liked to wear and tear on his body, already causing him to stay home from school because he was so sick. Occasionally, he would even have a seizure.
His burning forehead touched the wall as he rocked on his heels, the moist plaster left him feeling a little better, but it still wasn't enough. And then, it was only his mother screaming, howling as bottles crashed (probably on the back of her head) and then would fall to the floor. Ivan could see the events unfold in his mind. Father is drunk and looks for any excuse to become violent. Mother did something to prompt him—at least in his father's mind.
Ivan always told himself he was better than his father—that he would never end up like him. A haze of doubt always clouded his vision, however, and the teenager always saw more and more of his father in him. Like now, as Ivan reached for the bottle under his bed, the tears began to form. He didn't enjoy drinking as much as he enjoyed forgetting what happened which caused him to drink. He managed to sneak a few bottles of cheap liquor into his room earlier in the week and he intended to drink until he fell asleep.
The burning sensation from the alcohol caused him to choke momentarily, beating his chest with his fist in the attempt to cough it up. After the first bottle, Ivan could feel the burning no longer and was able to down a second and a third drink easily. Okay, he kicked the bottle with his foot, No more tonight. His legs didn't seem to be listening to him at the moment so the teenager was content with sleeping right there, on the floor, up against the wall, the rain lulling him to sleep.
Author's Note
Awww, poor Ivan!
I meant to have this chapter out days ago, but clumsy me fell on my head so now I have a concussion. I need to stay away from stairs…
Next chapter is finally when Ivan and Ludwig meet! Happy times!