a love letter | dmitri

dmitri kostas

I love you.

That’s the first thing I want to say. I love you. It wasn’t okay to say that four years ago. For me, four years ago, you were simply a means to an end for me and my family. Friends with benefits. You stood by us when nobody else would. Not grandpa, grandma, any of our aunts, uncles, or cousins. They abandoned us. You and your group became our only connection outside of the house. While we watched the world burn, you put out the flames of hate and ignited flames of hope into me. And for that, I love you.

Even when the most capable members of my family past, you stuck by me. You didn’t run off, going to the next door. You didn’t leech off of another family, make other parents so scared that they’d almost feel obligated to give you safe passage in order to protect their kids. I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you have orders to do whatever it takes to settle the rebellion. You stuck by me and my brothers, in a time when we needed you most.

Behind that shield you surround yourself with head to toe with every morning, I’ve seen your heart. It’s cheesy, sure, but it’s true. Screams of horror sent you running from down the street back home to us. Mom was shot, her blood puddling up on the floor, and Dad had a knife in his gut.

You told me to come down the stairs, that the situation was under control. I was fourteen, and you owed me nothing, yet you called me down. It was a risk, now that I think about it. There could’ve been more on their way, and I could’ve gotten hurt in the process (and if that was your plan, you’re one sick, but smart, son of a bitch. Killing a bunch of kids would’ve fired up the anti-rebels for sure.) You called me down. Maybe it was your intuition that told you I could be much more than someone who let you sleep in our house. But I’d like to think that you brought me down so I could see justice being served.

In fact, you let me serve it.

The look on their faces when I asked if I could take a gun to her head was priceless, and something I’ll never forget. One of them looked at me with no trust, like I’d somehow misfire and end up shooting him, and the other couldn’t believe that you trusted me enough. For all they knew, I could’ve been brainwashed just like the rest, even to the point where I’d let the rebels kill my own family. Luckily for you and your career, I believed in your cause through and through. And I was a pretty good shot.

Just with your eyes, I could see the concern for me spread across your face. And that’s how I knew you had a big heart. You stopped thinking about your job and started thinking about me and my brothers. How could we cope?

By the time I shot her and she slid to the ground, you went to my father and told me he was dead too, probably died quickly. I didn’t say anything, not even to you, but I knew it not to be true. I’m made of thin skin, but that doesnt mean I can’t hold a secret. I held the gun to her chest, and out of the corner of my eye I could still see him twitching, looking at me. It felt like he gave me his approval. I can’t really describe it. Mind-reading definitely isn’t real, but if I had to give any evidence of it, it was me and my father. All this time, he’d refused to pick a side and actively work with them. He wasn’t neutral, by any means, but it allowed him to become collateral damage of the rebellion. I shot my shot, marking which side I was on for everyone to see.

His philosophy was wrong: picking no side is not the way to go. The walls close in when you do such, and they don’t stop for you to breathe: they just crush you. Or in his case, being impaled by a sharp object. I chose a side, and I think he was content happy with that.

Anywho, I just wanted to get that off my chest. Those were my only two secrets that I’ve kept from you: that my father saw me murder for a cause and that I love you. Actually, who knows. Maybe you did know that his eyes were barely open. Maybe you have known that I’ve loved you and kept you close to me for a long time.

Your buddies carried my parents out before I gave Nero or Nikolai any permission to leave our room. Nikolai was how old? Five? Tears flooded down his eyes. You picked him up, held him close, and told him everything was going to be okay. Never in a million years would any of these rebels think that someone like you could hold that much empathy for a little kid. They believe your heart is made of steel, but I disagree. Your heart is just the same as mine, as Nikolai’s, Nero’s. You were like the big brother I always wished I had and always wished I could be for Nero and Nikolai. You’re not a big brother to us by blood, and I think that’s why I love you: you didn’t have to do any of this. You didn’t have to pack my brothers’ bags for them to leave this house of horrors. In fact, you did not have to help us leave at all. You could leave us in the dust: a distant memory, a means to an end.

Five, ten, and fourteen. That’s how old Niko, Nero, and I were, respectively, when we made our first move. You took us to the other side of the district, where people did not know our names nor our faces. It was a fresh slate, and it allowed us to grow closer.

Your buddies are friends of mine at this point, and I think your trust of me gave them what they needed to trust me too. And that, I believe, is how I became so infatuated with you in the first place. You don’t have an intricate title the others do. But they respect you, and trust your judgement. People feel comfortable around you, and that feeling is infectious. After Nikolai and Nero went to bed, you’d let me join in on your card games when you and your buddies had off time. The blonde might have won more times than either of us care to admit, but it’s your laugh that won each night. I’d come in third, second-to-last only to you, sir! For some reason, looking back on it now, I’m convinced you threw every game we played just so I didn’t feel bad about myself. And you’d laugh, covering your eyes each time. It became a running joke that you couldn’t beat a kid like me, who hadn’t even heard of poker until the red-head came to the basement one night with a deck of cards.

They made fun of you, but your intuition must have kicked in again: because I’m a sore loser, and I’d curse the hell out of that basement if I were to ever come in last. So, I appreciate it. You prevented me from making a fool out of myself.

I apologized earlier for keeping secrets from you, but I want to apologize for something else, too: your displeasure when I said I wanted to help your team catch rebels in the act.

I know you weren’t happy that I was putting myself on the line, and I’m glad you stopped me from dragging my brothers along with me. You were like our big brother, and you were just trying to protect us. I didn’t listen. For fourteen years I was the oldest, and to suddenly have an older ‘brother,’ I have to admit, middle child syndrome became very real. I acted out, betrayed your trust, and put my life on the line when I went with your buddies on an operation.

As you know, asking people for help, perhaps safe passage or a place to stay, explaining that I was running from soldiers. It worked, the first several times. People would let me in, thinking I was one of the anti-Capitol cultists, just like them. They’d lock the door behind me and immediately begin to conspire as if I was one of them. It felt like I was a rabbit, hiding in a hole made for a FOX. But when I had the opportunity, I’d unlock the door, and look out, and motion to your buddies if there was anything to be concerned about. If there was, they’d make the arrest. And if not, I’d make up some silly excuse to get out, like stealing their food, and never go near the home again.

But two years in, at age sixteen, a pretty little face like mine grew into one that some people just couldn’t trust. Nobody told me that the older I was, the more I started to look like a ‘bootlicking Capitol pig’ that rebels learned not to trust.

Again, I didn’t know that.

It was just routine. I unlocked the door, and peered down the street to see the redhead and blonde like any other time.

They came in, ready to make an arrest. But this time, the rebels were ready. They shot redhead in the head quite a few times, enough to dent and eventually break through his helmet. Your blonde buddy was much less lucky. The rebels shot at him a dozen or more times, each one landing somewhere in his chest. And with each shot, he stepped back a bit more, and eventually, fell over. Onto me. And I pushed him over and ran, ran as fast as I could back to you, with bullets coming at me as I sprinted down the street.

Blood stained my already dirty clothes, but I found it ironic how you tended to me with the initial fear that I was shot. There was no I told you so or I won’t help you for a bit, you deserve to feel the pain. You didn’t ask questions. Tears in my eyes, you just seemed to know what had happened. You gave me your undershirt to wear now, fitting me just right, so that I’d never have to wear that shirt again.

I still wear your undershirt now. Washed, obviously. I don’t think you’d want to be around me that much if I’d been wearing your unwashed undershirt for two years now.

That night you held me close. For a sixteen-year-old to have nightmares like I did, I’d expect to feel embarrassed, but you made me feel no such thing. You let me know that it’s okay.

You have sacrificed so much for me. And my brothers, too. You helped them grow up to smile every once in a while. You taught them to be happy, not just content. And upon all that, you still had a job to do, fighting for a cause that you believe so deeply in.

Every since then, you’ve kept me close and I’ve kept you closer. It’s weird, the connection that we have (or at least, I hope we have.) I’ve always wanted a big brother, but I don’t think I’d trade you for the world. You’re my protector, and you have helped me grow beyond just being content. You’ve made me happy, lustful for a future. You’ve given me a reason to wake up every day, and you’ve reminded me to love. Not just my brothers and family, but those close to me, too.

-


The conditions look right for the flames of rebellion to be put out. In no small part to you and your buddies and every other soldier spread out throughout the districts. The future is uncertain: at the end of the day, you still have orders to follow. Shitty that they might include a relocation, and I might never get to see you again.

I hope you’ll consider disappearing. I’m quite good at that. I disappeared from everyone but my mother, father, and brothers, and then I disappeared, successfully, from the homes in which the rebels lay. Surely I can disappear once more with you, Nero, and Nikolai.

Or maybe it will be me and you. Nero is fourteen now, he can take care of himself and Nikolai whenever we’re away. They don’t need to disappear again. You do. And I think it’s possible.

Maybe sleep on it? Think about it for a couple of days.

I know you’re not a big fan of reading, so I assume you’ll probably skip to the last paragraph. So, I love you, and I’m sorry for ever wronging you. I’m sorry for not caring for you as much as you did to me. But I’m eighteen now. I’ve grown up, and I care a lot more today than I have for the past seventeen years. If you’d like, we can talk, face to face. I’m probably in the basement, shuffling cards together if you still think you have any game left in you for the night. Maybe you weren’t faking at all, and I am better at you in cards.

I love you. And no matter what happens, thank you.

Dmitri.

PS: We’re not playing go-fish. Don’t even think about it. You’re a grown man, a peacekeeper. We’re playing poker.

PPS: Strip poker, if willing.