Twenty years ago, Serbia
(Drago, 17 years old)
Drago
“It’s the blonde one, you i***t,” I mumble and reach for the bottle of beer on the coffee table.
I don’t know why I keep watching these predictable thrillers. Maybe they keep my mind off the s**t I don’t want to think about. Like, how I need to tell my old man that I failed the third year of secondary school. Again. Or how my mom will lose it in the morning when she realizes I crashed my bike. It’s not like I can hide the fact that both my right arm and cheek are scraped raw. It would have been nice if the road rash at least erased the ink f*****g Adam screwed up on again. I never should have let him practice on me. It’ll take two months for the crap he tattooed on my forearm to heal enough to be covered up. And, hopefully, with s
