The memory.He was a tyrant, my father, the

The bleeding sun sank slowly as the sky was painted crimson on the last day of October.And ever since I grew out of my childhood, I’m haunted by his memory.He was a tyrant, my father, the sick man ruined my youth, and he affected my psychology.I’m intoxicated and these salty sinful tears have escaped my hollowed emerald eyes, as they streamed down to the lower part of my parched lips.I licked my lips in desperation and wiped my sullen puffy eyes.In my mind, I cried out for help to the dark carousel of my agony.However, I knew the result of my action, no one will pull me out of my pitiful misery, no one will help me.I am alone.I’m in my room, writing my thoughts onto paper, this paper, trying to let out my hate, my pain.I am left to cry and the sharp tears sting my eyes.Maksim Bazanov, my birth name, aka the communist loving child, the son of the former prime minister of Mordovia, had witnessed my father’s death.Two years ago, father was killed after he returned from the local bakery with a Leningradsky cake for my 11th birthday.The materialistic man congratulated me for living another year, with a tone that I mistook as bitter sarcasm.I was a pale boy with silky dark chocolate hair in a Russian blue cotton shirt, that was before, before, I was kissed by the sun in my thirteenth year.Father placed the Leningradsky cake in front of me on the table, expecting a sign of appreciation from me, but I disregarded him due to my cold nature as a small child.As he didn’t get the deserved acknowledgment, he rudely picked on the frosting of my cake, licked it off his naked finger, and smothered the remaining frosting onto my cheek to brighten the mood, but I found it repulsive not playful.During that moment, there was a knocking at the door of our bestowed mansion in Saransk.A blonde sunkissed man in his early thirties was dressed in luxurious attire, and presented himself as an American diplomat, and my father invited him in.At that very minute, the minute I placed the sweet Leningradsky cake in my mouth, the man pulled out a gun and shot him in the head.He was dead.The torture I suffered had ended, well, that is what I thought at least in my eleventh year.The trigger-happy American man had tainted my occasional cake with the scarlet blood of my father, the toxic blood, the same blood that loved me, the blood that was splattered across the oriented rug, the blood that plastered itself on my face, and the blood streaming down to the corner of my lips.


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