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I was born on a cold rainy day in October of the year nineteen eighty six. My mother told me once in a fit of candor how she was getting to the hospital that day, in a pouring rain, all by herself, just because the father worked. As usual. As long as I remember him, he was always working, day and night. Days, he spent at timber-works, nights he served as loading hands at several companies. Of course, with such a schedule, he didn’t have time to give it to his family. As for my mother, she wrote for the local newspaper, giving tips on how to build relationships or grow gladioli. Here’s a perfect example – to give advice you don’t have to be specialist in something. In our family, everyone was on their own; actually, we were not even a family in its primary sense – just a collection of people under the same roof.
So, no wonder that I became a troubled teen in a sort of way. I was not a brawler or a drug addict. Oh, no. I studied well and came home on time. My whole “trouble” was that nobody knew how to communicate with me. People around me were so boring that I kept silent most of the time simply not understanding why bother open your mouth at all to discuss such simple things as weather, football or the film I had watched last Sunday. In a sort of way I was a rebel, I didn’t give a damn to the public opinion. I was living in my own world with my own rules. I did what I wanted and the way I wanted.
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“Deal,” said Sunny and held out his hand. “Peace?”
“Peace,” I shook his hand. “I’m sorry.”
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