“My brother and I used to play in here, too,” he murmurs. “When it was empty and our parents were busy, Ilyasov and me, we’d come in here and played with cardboard swords and fake guns. We pretended we were dons fighting over territory or pirates stealing treasure. Kid stuff.”
I love the image of Dima playing. Of him carefree and smiling.
But my heart tugs at the mention of his brother. It’s hard to square the Ilyasov I’ve met with a young, reckless boy. All I can see is the tattooed monster trying to ruin his brother’s life.
Dima has those memories in his head, though. The two versions of Ilyasov—the old and the new—are at war in his head. I can’t help wondering which one is going to win.
When the song ends, Dima takes me by the hand and leads me back to the bedroom. My mind is still
