A/N: Please note: For some reason removes the strikethrough from words, and I can't stop it from doing so. please note that if you see * * around a word, that word is supposed to be lined through—in this case it is the word *Rose*—as if he wrote it and then marked through it. Sorry about that, I even went into html and tried to insert the proper code, but ff keeps removing it.
I have not written in this for quite a few days, and I know I must catch up soon. I have a feeling Rose is beginning to look for excuses to call off our agreement, and it would be so like her to demand to see this journal to confirm I am keeping up with my part of our bargain. I will catch up, but at this time I do not feel like recording current events. Tonight my mind turns to the past, and to home.
I have spells, from time to time, where I miss my homeland greatly. This is a beautiful country, full of opportunity, but still, it is not my country. My periods of missing home have been few and fat between of late, and I suspect it is because my mind has been occupied with thoughts of *Rose* other things. But tonight, the loss of the life I once had plays upon me greatly. So I put down my thoughts here, with the hopes that it will erase my melancholy.
I do not know what brought on the feeling tonight—I was finishing up my patrol shift, and was just in the edge of the forest behind the building that houses the large cafeteria and kitchens. Perhaps it was the way the smell of the freshly baking bread mingled with the sharp, biting scent of the pine trees around me, or maybe the way the last rays of the sun hit my eyes. Whatever it was, my mind was instantly transported back to Baia, and for a brief moment I was a small boy again, sitting on the floor by my grandmother's chair with my head resting on her knees.
Every day Grandmother would tell me fantastic stories; tales like The Golden Slipper or about the fearsome Rusalka. Sometimes she would recount stories of Baba Yaga and brave little Vasilisa, or she would produce a worn blue book with a tattered cover and read me stories from other countries like Snow White and Rose Red. I always enjoyed the time I spent there, listening to her soft voice with my eyes closed as the words she uttered spun into magical images behind my eyes. The only times I did not enjoy myself were when she would stop reading, sometimes in mid sentence, because I knew it meant she was having a vision—something terrifying to a small boy of six. Her entire demeanor would change, her voice deepening as her thin hands clutched at my shoulders, and she would utter things that made no sense to me. It was always the same thing, and sometimes I still hear her predictions echoing throughout my dreams.
"You must pay attention Dimka! Memorize the tales, my boy, because they have a special meaning meant just for you."
Then, exhausted by her prophecy, she would slump back in her chair, fast asleep. Always I would check her breathing and cover her with a quilt before running upstairs, eager to let my mind roam free. There I would settle down on my bed and daydream about how the story may have ended had her gift not interrupted, and I would stay lost in my thoughts until mama came home, calling me down to dinner.
When we were a bit older, my sisters and I would sneak out of the house as soon as grandmother fell asleep in her chair. We would hurry to the edge of town, eager to be in our meadow, where my sisters would busy themselves collecting wildflowers while I sat by, content to watch the beauty around me. Sometimes I would take a book and settle myself at the base of a tree, ignoring the teasing of Karolina and Sonya as I lost myself in the tales of the long gone days of the cowboys.
I felt a deep hunger to be one of those brave men, riding into battle to fight back hordes of savage Indians, or to sit atop a stagecoach with a rifle, protecting the passengers within from robbers. My favorite book had a well-worn binding, and many of the pages had worked their way free, but I read it again and again. It was the only story my father ever read me, and that was why I cherished it. I can still remember that two week visit—every night he sat at my bedside, his deep voice rising and falling as he read. He had altered his pitch and tone to represent the different characters, his face as expressive as his voice. It is the only good memory I have of the man; I try not to think of it as the pain of his actions still lingers inside me.
Our group escapes to the meadow stopped once little Vika was born; someone had to stay behind to watch her and I always volunteered. I was her older brother, meant to protect her, after all. From the moment she arrived my small sister captivated me, each small smile or giggle delighted me in ways I had not imagined possible. As she grew, she became my best friend. I was the one who taught her the little things like how to tie her shoes properly or how to ride a bicycle. After the incident with my father, I was determined to protect her from the dangers our world posed to females of our kind. Ah my sweet young sister, how I miss her. How I miss all of them.
All those memories raced through me as I stood on the edge of the trees, and for a moment I closed my eyes, lost in dreams of home. I saw myself lounging on the sweet smelling grass, the sun high above and shining down on me as a faint breeze trailed loose pieces of hair over my face. I saw all three of my sisters standing nearby, laughing and teasing me for burying my nose in yet another western, and surprisingly enough, another figure stood beside them, her arm around Vika as they tried to cajole me into chasing after them. It was Roza, and she fit so perfectly into the image, I couldn't help but let out a small, contented sigh.
On nights like this, I cannot help but wish that somehow I could live that dream. If I could live my life with Roza by my side, near my family in beautiful Russia, I know I would be a happy, happy man. But such things cannot be, so I write them here with hopes of erasing them from my mind. For a guardian, dreams are dangerous things, and I cannot continue to indulge in them.
-DB