“Why didn’t you pick up when I called?”
“Hey to you too, Dad. I was with Tim, had my phone on silent. What’s the big emergency?”
Orest had barely stepped foot in the house when his displeased father was already waiting for him. The man sat in a leather armchair in his lavish office, the door demonstratively left wide open. He waited a few minutes for his son to approach before gesturing with a stern look toward the chair across from him. Orest already knew what this meant—a long “conversation” that felt more like an interrogation or a test.
“Hanging out with that broke kid again? How many times do I have to tell you he’s not our kind!”
“Enough with that nonsense. Listening to you, you’d think we’re royalty or something. Tim’s my friend. He’s the only one who hangs with me for me, not for the money.”
“Listen up,” his father said, pouring himself a glass of Scotch whiskey. “We’re the elite. People like us run the show, and people like your Tim just follow orders.”
“Here we go again… Are you done? I’m not listening to this anymore!” Orest snapped, abruptly standing up from the chair.
“Sit down! You’ll leave when I say you can!” his father barked, waiting until Orest reluctantly sat back down before continuing. “So, you botched it today. The clients refused to buy the house. I’m disappointed,” he said, taking a sip. “Such a simple task, and you still managed to screw it up. I’m curious how you plan to run a real estate empire in the future if you can’t even sell a single house.”
“What, am I wasting my money sending you to the best university for nothing? In case you forgot, regular folks don’t get in there.”
“How could I forget when you remind me every single day? I didn’t even ask for this.”
“Oh, right, I forgot. You probably dream of busting your hump as a cashier or waiting tables at some greasy diner, huh?” his father sneered mockingly. “And one more thing. You skipped three classes this week.”
“What, the advisor ratted me out again? She doesn’t let me breathe. Not surprising, though, since you’ve got her in your pocket too.”
“Shut it, you little punk! You’re a Levitsky, and whether you like it or not, you’ll do what I say.”
“What’s all the yelling about?” Orest’s mother walked in, drawn by the commotion.
“Rita, stay out of men’s business!” her husband snapped immediately.
The woman paled. She cast a sympathetic glance at her son before lowering her eyes to the floor.
“You’re still here?!” he demanded, his voice cutting like a blade.
“Mom, don’t worry about it,” Orest interjected. “We’re done talking.” He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He bolted down the stairs, desperate to get away, to not have to look at his father.
His mother’s attempts to intervene always ended in fights between his parents. Countless times, Orest had heard his father threaten to take him away, saying she’d never see her son again, that no lawyer could help her. Because Orest was his property. And he’d raise him to be a real man.
Finally, Orest retreated to his sanctuary—his room on the basement level, far from the rest of the family. It was the one place where he felt safe, where he could be himself. He’d chosen this spot himself, and the interior had been designed according to his own plans.
The pastel walls had annoyed him, so he’d covered them with vibrant posters of his favorite rock bands—Led Zeppelin and Nirvana. A guitar hung on one of the walls.
The bed, originally placed in the center of the room, had been moved to the side near the window to make space for a small music corner. A shelf held a collection of vinyl records, original albums, some of them one-of-a-kind and worth a pretty penny. Across from the bed was a desk with a laptop playing his favorite playlist, paired with a sound system that filled the room with powerful beats.
Orest headed straight for the bathroom. His floor had its own private bathroom, so he didn’t need to go upstairs. He stood under the cold water until he calmed down a bit. “God, his father drove him up the wall, always suffocating him. To everyone else, he was Alexei Sergeevich—the most powerful and wealthiest man in town. Everyone groveled before him. In the media, their family was picture-perfect, and he was the ideal father anyone could dream of. But in reality, he was a tyrant. And Orest couldn’t stand him.”
“Orest Alexeevich, should I bring your dinner to your room?” came the voice of the maid.
“Anya, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s just Orest! No, I’m not hungry.”
He flopped onto the bed, turned on the TV, and switched it off a few minutes later. Everything was getting on his nerves.
He started looking for his phone, then remembered he’d tossed it into his backpack when he got out of the car.
But along with his iPhone, he stumbled upon something else. It was the diary—he’d completely forgotten about it.
Orest wasn’t in the mood to read anything, especially not some girly stuff that didn’t interest him in the slightest. But he desperately needed a distraction. So, he sprawled out on the bed and opened the first page.
Dear Diary, I’m writing to you because I have no one else to talk to. No, I do have friends, and I have my best friend Dina, but they don’t get me. Sometimes, I don’t even get myself.
Everything changed after Mom passed away.
It’s like I stopped living and just started existing. Nothing makes me happy anymore.
I keep going to college, even started hitting the gym to try and drown out my thoughts a little.
Dad signed me up for a therapist. She asks me weird questions like, “What do I feel?” Nothing. Emptiness.
We agreed that every day, I’d look for something positive and write it down. Doesn’t matter what.
So, what’s positive today? I made it through the day.
Orest came across the photo again. He studied the unfamiliar girl closely, but no, he didn’t know her. On the back, written in gel pen, were the words: Solia, be happy. You deserve it.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He closed the diary and tucked it into a drawer.
“Yeah, Tim, I’m listening.”