Who Am I

Memories

Ivan's memories. It was interesting to write.

"Ivan!"

Ivan looked up, glasses resting on his nose. Blaire skidded to a halt. Green eyes widened at his face. Her mouth opened.

"Why did you change glasses?"

He shrugged, adjusting the thin frame.

"My old ones were...old."

"Well, I thought they were cute. Where did your old ones go?"

"Oh, I threw them away."

Blaire blinked. A murderous aura filled the quiet house.

"You threw them away." Ivan backed away.

"Yes."

A hand shot out, grabbing his ear. Ivan keeled over.

"Ow, ow, that hurts," he half whimpered. Blaire dragged him down, forcing him to look at her livid face.

"Always recycle. Do you know what we could have done with a pair of glasses??? We could have made a new pair, a desk, a bike. Why did you throw it away?"

"Ow. I'm sorry, can you let go of my ear?" Blaire dragged him up. "Ow, ow, ow, ow." She pit her hands on her hips.

"Recycle." Ivan rubbed his ear.

"Okay, okay. Geesh, how are your fingers so strong?" Blaire flipped her hair.

"It's because I hand sew every day," she said proudly. "No other fourteen year old has the patience for that." Ivan nodded. Blaire's eyes narrowed. "Where are the glasses."

"I told you, in the trash." Blaire held out her hands.

"Give them to me."

"But they're going to be covered in cheese and other stuff."

"Give them before I go to your hair next."

"Okay, okay!" Ivan half ran out the house, trying to conceal a smile.

He jumped over the fence, Blaire protesting with a Hey!. The ground pounded bendath his feet as he ran to his home down the street. A few girls turned their heads as he ran past. Ivan ran up the white drive, stopping at the door. Ivan carefully opened the door, padding through the sunroom. He tiptoed into the dark house, turning to the left. Nothing. He turned to the right. Nothing. He let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door.

"Son, you have some explaining to do." Ivan yelped, jumping up.

Flick.

The flame danced in the shadows as it lit the cigarette. Nikolai Sokolov's cold face appeared. Sharp, steel eyes stared at his young son. Ivan scratched his head.

"Uh, hi....dad?" Ivan walked past his father, making a wide berth. The brass rings of the curtain grated against the iron bar as he pulled the velvet drapes open. He turned. Nikolai frowned as the took the cigarette out his mouth.

"Why did you come home."

"I need to recycle my old glasses." Nikolai's frown deepened. The fifty year old man had a striking, oval face. Light lines wore through pale skin of the millionaire. Ivan glanced around. "Where's Mom?"

"She's in a meeting." Ivan flinched. A slight, nearly imperceptible sag of his shoulders. Ivan forced a smile.

"Well, do you know when she comes back?" His father continued smoking.