Page 5 of Broken Promises
For the last few months, I’d spent every spare second I had looking into the information I got from Granny’s lawyer. I read every news article I could about the man who was supposedly my father, learning what kind of monster he really was. After requesting some of the trial transcripts that were publicly available, I learned a lot more.
I still hadn’t read the information on his son—my brother—and the more I learned about the monster who helped create me, the better I felt about the decision. Sergey Lenkov, the man who was reported to be my father, was a murderous monster who seemed to stab everyone in the back in his quest for freedom. What I couldn’t find, and what was bothering me the most, was how he was connected to my kidnapping.
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t shake the horrible guilt and shame that followed me around like an anchor.
If this man was my father, did that explain some of the more . . . demented things that crossed my mind? And if so, was I destined to become a monster too? I already felt lower than imaginable, and even speaking with a therapist didn’t help. She’d suggested a support group, but I got up and walked out after listening to two women break down as they told their stories. It wasn’t them—it was me. There was something wrong inside me, and listening to their pain was destroying what little self-esteem I had left.
So, to stave off the horrible thoughts, I took every opportunity to learn about the man who helped create me. Ipondered how a man of his stature and wealth, from what I’d read, could have hooked up with my drug addicted mother. I’d seen pictures of her from when she was young, and she was beautiful but nothing like the person I remembered.
I remembered her always having a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I remembered lots of different men coming and going from the house, and I remembered her not giving a damn about me. She didn’t abuse me, but she neglected the hell out of me. Partying was the most important thing in her life, and one night, she went out and never came back. I sat in the apartment for days, making my own meals and cleaning up after myself. I’d been doing it for a few years already, so I had sandwich-making down to a science.
The power had been turned off the second week after she was gone, and that’s when I started to get scared. A neighbor found me sitting on the stoop one morning and asked about my mother. I didn’t say anything, and she grew concerned, so she went to the apartment and found it empty. She called the police, and I was taken into foster care while they looked for my mother. Granny came a few weeks later, and from the first moment I met her, I knew she wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
The only memories I had of my mother were bad, so I tried not to think about her. She was selfish and only cared about herself. If she hadn’t wanted to be a mother, why did she have me, and why did she choose everyone and everything over me?
Was Sergey the reason she became an addict? Were his actions what caused her to spiral? Or did she enjoy the attention men gave her over the love of her child?
The more I thought in that manner, the more questions I had, but there wasn’t anyone to answer them. Granny was the only person who may have known anything, but she never spoke of him while she was alive. Sergey was dead and buried in some no-name town in Missouri, and my mother disappeared aftershe abandoned me. Granny said she’d gotten in contact with her once, but she refused to speak with her, and that was the last time I’d heard anything about her.
Should I investigate Sergey’s children, like Granny suggested, or do I keep my head down and stay as far away from them as possible?
“Fuck,” I said into the room as I pushed away from the computer and began to pace.
I was tired of asking questions to the universe and not getting an answer back. The envelope with Sergey’s son’s name was sitting on a shelf on top of some old books, taunting me with its hidden information. Finding out who he was could give me answers or, more than likely, I’d have more questions.
Looking around the room, I shook my head and walked out of the small office. I sold Granny’s house last month, and along with her life insurance and the check from the bank, I moved away from the only home I knew and closer to my job in downtown Atlanta. My small house wasn’t the nicest thing in the city, but the neighborhood was safe, quiet, and affordable. And it came with a state-of-the-art security system that gave me peace of mind.
My job agreed that if I worked in the office instead of remotely, they would pay me extra. It was a chance to start fresh, but I still had boxes stacked around the edge of every room.
Since moving, I’d worked five days a week and spent the other two engrossed in reading about Sergey. It was only when I got frustrated that I noticed there were more packed boxes than unpacked. The living room wasn’t so bad since the couch was the main item for the room, but the kitchen was becoming a nightmare.
I couldn’t find anything when I felt like cooking, so I was eating out and bringing food home almost every day. Needing to take my mind off gangsters, trials, and mysterious relatives,I decided to tackle the kitchen tonight. It wasn’t what most twenty-four-year-olds would be doing on a Saturday, but I never felt like my real age. With the life I’d lived so early, I felt like I was much older than I really was.
Granny tried to lighten the weight I’d carried on my shoulders, encouraging me to be ‘young and free’. I’d dated, slept with a few guys in high school and a few more in college, but I was never a party girl. The few friends I’d had in the last few years had their own lives, and I always managed to keep them close but not too close. We’d have dinner, maybe catch a movie, and throw the occasional birthday party, but for the most part, we text every few weeks and talked maybe once a month.
“Damn, Hannah, you’re pathetic,” I muttered to myself as I opened a box and pulled out the contents.
I’d already had three cups of coffee and the caffeine was causing me to be jittery. It was either that or the realization my biological father was a gangster who was murdered in his sleep for betraying his organization. Fear wasn’t something I was used to, but after my ordeal, I kept looking over my shoulder. If Sergey had given that man permission to violate me, what other things had he promised?
I was lost in thought, mindlessly unpacking the box, unwrapping items and loading them into the dishwasher, when I heard my phone ping. Wiping my hands onto my shorts, I walked into the living room and dug through the blankets until I found it. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch last night, but mentally, I was drained.
After unlocking the screen, I opened the messages and saw one from Rhys. I had to take a deep breath. Since I was brought home, he’d been in contact with me on a semi-regular basis, and each time, I reminded myself it was for my protection and no other reason.
Why would someone like him want anything to do with someone like me, especially after what he witnessed? I was damaged, and I’m sure knowing the demented maniac responsible for me being there was also my father made Rhys uninterested in me. Tempering my warring emotions, I opened the message.
Rhys:Good morning. I was hoping I could stop by this morning to speak with you.
Me:About what?
Rhys: It would be better if we spoke in person. I can bring something for breakfast if you haven’t eaten.
My stomach took that moment to grumble, and I shook my head as I replied.
Me: Am I in danger?
Rhys: It’s nothing like that. Please, I promise I won’t take up much of your time.
Me: That’s fine.
