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“I was so angry. About my mother, about my life. I just went wild on him. I was like an animal. And the sound of the crowd, urging me on, screaming louder and louder the bloodier it became, the colors of their voices, everything so black . . .” He closes his eyes again, as if he can’t bear to look at me. “When he fell on the ground I stomped on his throat and broke his neck.” He touches one of the crosses tattooed on his throat, a small one, the closest to his ear. Though he can’t see it, his fingers trace the outline perfectly, as if they’ve done it a thousand times before. My horror is so crushing I can only breathe in shallow, panted breaths. There are three crosses on his neck. “Matushka took better care of me after that. She made a lot of money from that fight. So she moved me in
- Writer
