nikolas ivanov - d5

niko

The base thrums in my head. The same beat over and over again resounds from the oversized speakers. Stumbling over someone's foot, I right myself and throw my arms back in exasperation facing them. The hell. Watch where you put your foot. I turn away as the guy glares at me before going back to his drink. One of the multicolored lights blinds me for a moment as I make my way away from the mass of dancers.

I trip out of the old warehouse. The music still blasting at full volume. Rubbing my eyes to gain some clarity, I see the peacekeeping vans approaching down the road. Their headlights reach the wall of the decrepit building, but no one inside would be able to differentiate between the cars and the illicitly imported strobe lights from district three. Looking down at the highly illegal bottle in my hand, a wave of panic sweeps over me. Shit.

Shaky legs carry me quickly and inefficiently down a side alley covered in graffiti. Leaning against the wall to regain my balance, I do my best to stand up. In the background, the music abruptly ends while the panic begins. My heart beats in my ears, but a smile sneaks onto my face. The peacekeepers are surely rounding up the intoxicated revelers for fines and the hosts for the detention centers. Made it just in time.

Ever since they cracked down on the peacekeepers who let parties like this be in peace in exchange for drink or drugs, the events had become increasingly rarer and shorter. Rather than enjoying the night, the goal was to get drunk as quickly as possible, find someone to go home with, and get going before you get caught. My goal tonight was to venture out for the first time since I had gotten back, and I can't imagine what they would have done to me if they had caught me again.

Finally, the familiar back street of decaying housing comes into view. Tucking the bottle into my shirt, I steel myself. Then I climb, shimmying up using the kitchen's window ledge and the drainage pipe. I fall into my room through the already open window, collapsing on the ground and letting out a sigh of relief. I'm safe.

I tuck the bottle into a concealed indent in my closet, away from a nosy dad and hidden from peacekeepers if they ever search here again. Unbuttoning my shirt, I toss it to the floor with little thought and collapse into my bed face first.

When I close my eyes, my head thrums as if it is still in that warehouse. But instead of music, it is a dull, aching pain. It's as if my body loses all strength in that moment. Either an eternity or five minutes pass by and my head feels as if it's been plunged into the depths of the ocean, unable to swim and slowly sinking. I start to feel that recognizable feeling, and I force myself out of my bed and over to the adjacent bathroom where I lean over the sink.

Much worse and then much better.

I tilt my head under the faucet, taking in a gulp of water before swishing it around my mouth and spitting it out. Sighing, my chest heaving, I look up. Half closed green eyes which are usually so sharp stare dully back at me before I bend over and let loose once again. Panting, I use my arms against the sink to keep me righted as I wait to see if there's anything left in me. I use my right hand to gently comb the hair out of my eyes. Patting my part carefully back into place, I think I'm ready to finally head to sleep.

Stumbling over and then crumpling into bed, my eyes close and I sleep dreamlessly.

---

The ray of sun streaming through the window hits my eyes and I blink away the bleariness. After covering my face with one hand for a moment, I soon decide to tilt over and bury my face in the pillow beneath me. The shadow had not been enough. The move sends waves of nausea coursing through my head, so I steady myself for a moment. The light begins warming my head and I recognize that I won't get a moment of peace. Pushing myself up, I let out a small groan.

When I'm able to completely stand and comprehend my surroundings, the familiar picture greets me. The sharp gaze is staring back at me, my mouth turned into an angered frown. The mugshot hanging on my wall is a reminder every morning. I can't get caught again.

With a sigh, I rub one of my eyes before pulling on a fresh pair of clothes. Making my way from the less than flattering picture hanging on my wall, I head to my sink. I splash my face with water before combing my hair perfectly into position. Willing myself to look less hungover, I straighten my back and make my best attempt at feeling less disheveled than I am.

When I step out of my room, I head downstairs to find my father sipping from a steaming cup. He eyes me suspiciously. "Any late night adventures last night?" he says with a slight frown and a tinge of annoyance in his voice. His eyes follow me while I walk around the room. Mind your own business.

I lean forward against the kitchen counter, resting my hands on it while I slowly peer into an open cupboard. After taking a moment to glance around inside and finding nothing of interest besides a stale piece of bread, I respond. "You know I'm done with all of that." A lie. Turning around, I take a bite from the bread and stare him down, daring him to challenge me. He raises an exasperated eyebrow. Our eyes lock. His are a deep blue. It's a reminder of one of my sole inheritances from my mom.

Besides my eyes, everyone says I look more like him than how they remember mom. I have his same sharp jaw, wide frame, and brown hair. But every time someone reminds me of that, I cringe a little. Any traits of his I'd like to pass on. When I see pictures of mom, I desperately connect myself more to her than to him. Her picture, framed on the counter near where I stood, felt like a reminder that I should always stand my ground against the man I hate, even if she never felt that way. My thin eyebrows look the same as hers, our ears are the same, and our hands are both slender as if we were meant to be musicians in another life. Each trait that was similar felt like my own piece of rebellion.

Our eyes break when my younger sisters enters, running through the room and grabbing a slice of toast my dad had placed out for her with our ration of butter. It was a step up from his usual apathy. When she gives my dad a hug, he drops his steely gaze to help get her bag ready for school. He had never done that for me.

She runs up and wraps her arms around me as our dad waits by the door, glowering at me from behind her and tapping his foot. Her hug reminds me of why I can't risk everything again. I had only just returned from the detention center after my year-long stint, and I can't leave her again.

She was the lucky one. She truly looked like the child of our mother. I envied her for it. She was the reminder of her love. I was the reminder of the pain. My sister would never know what mom looked like past photographs. I was eight when it happened, she had been two. She would never remember the pain of discovering that we would never hear her melodic laugh again, never feel her warm embrace again, and never be tucked snuggly into bed again. She wouldn't remember the day the peacekeeper from the oil rig brought nothing to bury because there was nothing left after the explosion. I don't have that luxury: it would always be seared into my mind.

He blames me for it. His words are etched into my brain. If only I hadn't been sick that morning, if only she didn't go in late and get put on a different rig then she usually does. If only I had not been so weak to as to need her help that morning.

I will never forgive him for the torment he put me through. I will never forgive him for screaming at me every night. I will never forgive him for taking away my childhood by refusing to do a real job and forcing me to care for my sister.

After our father lets her out of the house, his expression quickly sours again, glaring at me. He steps away from the door to let me pass. I give him a smile and a salute with two fingers as a wave goodbye. See ya later, jerk.

---

The sun beats down on me as I lower the rig's machinery into the well. I wipe sweat off my forehead, leaving oil in its place. It was the worst place to work in district five, but it definitely paid the best for someone without the wealth to get a fancy degree. It's why my mother did it and it's why I follow in her footsteps. I'll just make sure to not explode in the process.

"Yo, you back to dealing yet?" Benji says to me as we step away from the machine. Shut up. I shift my eyes, checking to make sure none of our peacekeeper managers heard him. After knowing the guy for fifteen years, I recognized a long time ago that my best friend can't keep his mouth shut.

Luckily, none of the peacekeepers were paying us any attention. They were too focused on a game of cards.

"Shut it," I said as we moved to the start the machine. "You know I can't do that anymore."

I had been lucky the first time. I only served a year in the detention center because I was so young. Most people don't get that. After selling what I had been selling, most people would have gotten shot on the spot. Thankfully, the peacekeeper who had caught me had been feeling benevolent.

He rolls his eyes. "You should just start again. I know you aren't going to get caught again. You're too slippery, man. How did you avoid the fine last night?"

Because I know when the party needs to end.

"I told you that it was time to head out. You're too stupid to listen. What happened after I left?"

I know the story, though. It happens time and time again. The peacekeepers want to make sure no one breaks the rules and have a little fun. Benji described it just like we had experienced it so many times. The peacekeepers show up and burst into the abandoned warehouse or factory or house with their guns drawn and force the people who just want to have a good time to stand with their hands in the air and their backs against the wall. They confiscate the speakers and lights, find the hosts and arrest them. They search the party guests for anything harder than alcohol and take whatever action they deem is just.

Last night wasn't too bad apparently, only two arrests. Benji had a small fine to pay that he was going to work off in a few days. I can't afford to wait for a fine. When I was released from the detention center, they told me that if they caught me anywhere near somewhere I would deal, I would get a sentence a lot harsher than a year locked up. Partying, at least, was worth the risk to at least go, to at least feel free from my father's gaze for a moment at night.

This oil rig was what put food into my sister's and my mouths. Why our dad had to choose the most useless job of all time, a painter, I have no clue. But the dealing had been a way to make just a bit extra to supplement our ever-lessening supply of cash.

When the shift ended, Benji and I made our way to wash the oil off our hands and faces before heading out for the day.

We got to Benji's street and I gave him a fist bump as a good bye. "See you tonight?" he asks, pointing at me with a grin. "See you tonight." I say, mimicking his smirk.

I get back home and see my sister with her homework spread across the table and a worn down pencil. Across the table, dad had already tapped into his own liquor supply and had his feet up on another chair. At the sight of me, his eyes trail over the remaining oil smudges on my face before he sighs and moves to the next room over to sleep off his drink, forget the painful memories, and keep watch on the door to stop me, his source of income, from heading off to jail.

After helping my sister through the work assigned, a worksheet with fill in the blank definitions of power sources, I send her off to bed.

Then I head upstairs and pull on a set of clean clothes and remanufacture my hair into shape. I sneak back out my window to avoid a fight with the old man and deftly crawl down the side of the house. Then the night repeats. My contentment growing with every beat of a song and swig of a drink. I avoid capture at another party, shooing away my previous customers; there's only so much risk I can take. I then stumble back home again, just evading capture. My addiction to the adrenaline rush as I flee is what will keep me sane over the next day at work.

It is a monotony that keeps me going. It reminds me of why I keep working, why I need to always evade capture, and why I keep going back for more.

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