Kira Modest

Chapter 1

2019. New Year's Eve. And me, surrounded by my family and my brother's girlfriend, making a wish to move to study and live in Kyiv – the city of dreams. I quickly write this on a long thin shred of paper so that it will burn faster and capture every letter. I take in my hand a personalized, dark copper-colored lighter with gold-plated edges, given to my dad by a close friend. I scroll the small wheel with my finger, and a passionate fire, blue at the tip, burns my cherished wish. I hold it with two fingers by the edge of a shred of thin paper over a glass of champagne, everyone is watching this with interest. It seems like nothing special, just a flaming piece of paper, but it looks so bewitching if to think that only one phrase is written there, reflecting my dream, the fear that each and every letter must burn, otherwise the wish will not come true, and it makes this moment truly magical, unfortunately, not for everyone. Dad. As usual, he thinks I'm doing some nonsense. Mom just smiles sweetly, with her eyes shining with love for me. And my brother – Roma, seems to be hoping with me, that in these few seconds left till next year, some kind of unknown magic flew through this room and my wish came true. Because it is so important to me, and he understands that. Ksyusha, the girlfriend of my beloved brother, with a warm look and a wide smile on her face, clearly wants the same for me. We get along very well, she is a completely adequate and confident girl full of positivity and inspiration, which certainly makes Roma being around her peaceful. He can relax with her, unwind, and recharge his energy for work. But the most important is that she loves him madly, and he loves her.

So, ten seconds until 2020, the ashes of my desire fall into the glass in milliseconds, leaving only a small corner of paper unburned, which I restlessly held on to with my fingertips. There was not a single letter on it, but out of fear that every single millimeter of paper must get into the glass, I threw it into the champagne following the ashes. Four seconds and we all clink our glasses together, shouting "Hurray!" and I, with my soul full of excitement and magic, drink the champagne in one gulp, swallowing everything to the last, and that piece of unburnt paper, chewed a little with my teeth, also enters my body. Everyone laughs watching this. 

"Well, how does the paper taste? Did you like it? I can put some more on your plate instead of a Olivie salad." — Dad says with a sly smile but with love in his eyes. 

"Yes, daddy, the taste is excellent." – I answer, squinting.

"Okay, okay," mom interrupts us, "let's eat, I've prepared so much. Roma, Ksyusha, dig in!" 

"What," Dad begins, chewing on Mom's lasagna, "I guess you made a wish to leave us for your Kyiv? Why can't you stay here?" He chews and puts his hands on the table near the plate, intertwining them with each other. "You are always watched over here, completely safe, I can always help if something happens, and how can I help you there? Here you would work in my company, you could find a good husband and you would live peacefully, without thinking about anything, without worrying. You would see your parents!" Dad rants already with an elevating voice.

I'm so sick of this, he's always like this. It's just more convenient for him that I'm always in his sight. But I'm too angry with him to stay here and please him by doing as he tells me. No matter how many years pass, I still won't forgive him for the past. I, even being a little girl, understood what he was talking about with his friends when I ran to him, and my mom constantly took me away so that I would not listen to anything. As a child, I had a knack for quickly memorizing and grasping information I heard, but I couldn't fully comprehend the conversations. However, as I grew older, I started to become more aware, and everything I had ever heard began to make more sense. I could never find an excuse for some of the things I had heard. I know that all his machinations began back in the 1990s, when Roma was very little, and I was not in the picture. And I know that many people suffered because of this. To this day, there are firearms in his safe and in the glove compartment of his car that I am disgusted to look at. Because immediately in my head, in my fantasy, the pictures pop up. And in these pictures, dad and his accomplices are at gatherings because of this damn money. How much they stole back then using their shady companies, and they continue to do so to this day, although no longer with such brutal methods. But why couldn't he just live normally? Just live happily, without stealing... Why did he endanger my mom and his little son? It looks like I'll never forgive him for this. Yes, deep down I love him, he is my father after all, and as we all know, we don't choose our parents. But I still cannot accept the facts of his past criminal life. And that's why, since I was ten years old, I've been nurturing the idea of entering a good university to become a judge and a sought-after professional in my field and imprison individuals like my father. Of course, I am not particularly fond of studying, and some teachers irritate me, which is why I often have problems at school. But my desire to move out and enroll on a scholarship so as not to take money from my dad is excessively strong.

I rise, leaning over the table, fists clenched and pressing onto it. I glare at my father with resentment and anger, saying:

"I will never do as you want. You are not the kind of person whose advice I can listen to. What can you teach me!? How to steal better and kill more quietly? How many lives have you taken from people because of these pieces of paper? Did you give them those lives? No... and it wasn't your place to take them!"

Dad looks at me with anger and sadness in his eyes, but he can't say anything back to me, and I don't even want to continue sitting at the same table with him, so I quickly run to my room on the second floor, clicking my heels on the black wooden stairs. Along the way, family photographs flash in silver frames made by my mother's designer friend. One of them shows daddy's happy face and me in his arms when I was about five, furrowing my brows. Either due to the sun or a recent brief encounter with Dad's friends and colleagues, whose conversation I clearly didn't like. Every time after their meetings in my father's office, I followed them to the door with an angry look when I was little. I resented them for taking away Dad's time that he could have spent with me, and then I resented Dad for choosing them.

I quickly rush into my room, kicking off those silly heels that my mom gave me, insisting that I wear them for New Year's. I do love heels, of course, but I prefer sneakers or sturdy boots. I flop down on my large bed, and tears fall from my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away with frustration and don't want to cry because of my father! 

There's a knock in the room, and then Roma and Ksyusha enter. And I feel ashamed in front of my brother's girlfriend. I don't like creating a scene in front of others, airing personal grievances in public. But the moment I lock horns with my dad through the heated iron barrier, it's as if the button responsible for the "restrain" function breaks, and the hurricane of my negativity engages in a powerful struggle where, with each clash, my relationship with my father shatters a bit more. At that point, it doesn't matter who's standing nearby. A veil descends over my eyes, and the noise in my ears makes it hard to hear anyone else.

Before they can even utter a word, perhaps to calm me down, I immediately blurt out:

-Ksyusha, I'm sorry that you had to listen to all this, I just can't help but object when he starts selling me this idyllic life with him.

"It's okay, everything is fine, you don't have to apologize. Understand, your father loves you very much and wants you to be safe, he is just worried about you." Ksyusha answers me, but after this fight I find it repulsive to hear even one good word about him. 

Roma stands there and understands that nothing will convince me otherwise and simply suggests we go continue the celebration at his friend's place. I agree, and after informing my mom, we leave. I don't want to leave my parents on New Year's, but the situation has already soured the mood irreversibly, so continuing the celebration elsewhere seems doomed.