Demitrio The Wehr

Demitrio The Wehr

         Blood. Whenever I think of my childhood that is the first thing that comes to my thoughts. There was always blood, from the darkest, most vague parts of my memory to the unforgettable ones, blood was the melody that held together the symphony of my past .In a way it sort of tainted my youth and set the trail for what I ultimately became, but all that comes later.

         As a child I was very awkward. My hands and feet were too big for my body and my butchered brown hair only drew more attention to my already dramatic grey eyes. I had my father's eyes.I didn’t talk very much and from what I was told, I clung to mother’s thigh every chance I got. She was the only person back then that showed me any form of compassion. I was always on her lap, I could stay there for hours on end, and when it came time for me to get off she would have to call for help because I wouldn’t let go. Because of this my elder brothers taunted me and harassed me. Sometimes they would bully me, call me names, and push me around until I was on my knees in tears. And then my mother would come, like a knight in shining armor , she would grab me and shower me with kisses .She was pure, loving and unconditionally beautiful. Her face was soft and cherubic to say the least and like a bed of roses she was and could become any ones place of innocence and comfort.

          My father, Maxim, was the complete opposite. He was distinctly crude and from his thoughts to his hair and even tone of voice, he was painfully structured. He had a reputation for being intimidating and nobody would ever look him straight in the eye but who would? They were colorless and judgmental. His jaw was strong and angular and his lower lip was noticeably bigger than his top one. He smiled every once in a while and when he did he exposed his giant white teeth which sat effortlessly like pearls. My father was shallow had no remorse for those less fortunate than him and as the ultimate ruler of all Russia he controlled who lived and who died, and to give you a proper picture of his dictatorship, very few lived. Because of him, at the age of twelve, I had seen more wrongful deaths then the devil himself. For such a beauty like my mother to love such a monstrous being like my father made no sense to me as child. I truly felt sorry for her. I used to dream of becoming big, strong and wealthy and taking care of her myself but this was only a dream. And like other dreams this was just an exaggeration of reality and the emotion. I didn’t really want to follow suit with the dream I had because I knew she was happy with my father. Instead of reading “Beauty and the Beast” like the children do in this day and age I saw the real thing with my mother and my father. And there was no happy ending to this fairytale.