I have a knife.

It’s a long one; heel to point matching my elbow to wrist. It could be a classical chef's knife or maybe even a carving knife. I don’t know enough to be able to tell. The blade is clean with only a few nicks and the weight of the knife feels good. I keep it down the side of my bed.

I have a knife but I want a gun.

I stole the knife a year ago from my town’s drug house. Stealing it was easy. I made sure there were lots of people, lots of druggies, moving around the house that day and slipped the biggest knife in the kitchen up my sleeve. No one even seemed to notice it go missing. I kept the knife outside under a rock near where I gather firewood for a week before taking it home. I made sure to return to the drug house first to see if the theft had agitated them, the drug dealers, the gang, the mafia - don’t really know what they are. As I said before, no one noticed so I took the knife home.

Today I want to steal the gun, if I can. Radovan, the boss, was out the day I saw the gun. Their bruiser, Kostas I think his name is, pulled it out of a pencil case he had in his leather jacket to show it off. Kostas has this vaguely piggish look to his round face, the way he keeps his hair cropped short so it's a stubble of black, or maybe dark brown, doesn’t help hide his faces roundness. He’s young enough that all the vodka hasn’t yet bulked his physique to the point where all his fat is muscle, but Kostas is strong, he’s a bruiser for a reason. Kostas waved the gun around but I’m not sure who he was showing off to. There were only semi-conscious druggies strewn around and a few drunk giggling girls that always seem to come and go, though never the same ones twice. Kostas was probably drunk at the time, thinking about it.

Whatever little show he gave of pointing the gun, his round pink face shining with sweat from his drunken state or maybe from the cheers of slurring girls, was not what interested me. I kept my eyes on the pencil case where the bullets, the ammunition was kept. The gun was one of those… revolvers, I think people call them, a five-shooter or six-shooter. It meant the bullets were loose and had to be loaded individually into the gun's cylinder before being cocked. When Kostas was done the gun would go back into that pencil case and then all I would need to do is find it.

Each time I’ve been at the drug house I had a little look around, trying to find the gun, that pencil case, or a likely place Radovan would be keeping it. He has to be careful with the gun. The drug-fiends steal anything that might be valuable so leaving the gun around where they crash from their highs is not probable. The upper-section of the drug house, the part where the users are barred from going, that is where the gun should be kept.

Two months ago I spotted the pencil case in the study on the upper floor while on my way to the bathroom. The room is not much of a study, a simple wooden desk and chair, and an aluminium radio - I’ve never heard turned on - takes up the only spot on the desk. Directly to the right, so close to the side of the desk that it is right up against it, is the bookshelf, mostly empty aside from a few picture frames leaning against its back panel. The frames house pieces of torn graph paper with some kind of artistic pencil sketches on them though I could not tell what. Aside from a window, a few decorative finishes and furnishings, the study has a coffee table in the centre of the room. Which is strange because there are no chairs surrounding the coffee table, but that’s not what drew my attention. The pencil case sat alone on one side of the coffee table. I’ve glanced into that room twice since then and while the pencil case is no longer on the coffee table, I have a good feeling about it being somewhere in that room. Today I will steal it.

The drug house is opposite the Рекреационные сады Топрак as the aluminium signage calls it; Toprak Recreational Gardens. Radovan has kind of a perfect setup if you think about it. Everyone, or nearly everyone stays in the blocks and he has his drug house setup opposite the park, the perfect place for homeless and addicts to wander, beg and steal from each other. All for the hopes of entering Radovan’s drug house.

I’m sure he has dealers in the blocks too, but they deal with more pedestrian users than what Radovan has going on here.

As I approach the house there is a slight phantom reverberation in my chest; In the middle of the night the sound of tide endlessly rushing the shore from a few hills away, the effect a loud powerful ambiance. That’s what I feel in my chest, a constant roar of crashing waves, but from a distance.

The feeling has been with me for two years, maybe four. It’s hard to point at the exact year I noticed it but I do remember when I first realised what the feeling is. There was some weather phenomenon like a snow melt or winter showers so I was out at my wood gather spot in the cold. I needed to bring several bundles of wood home to fuel the fireplace for a number of days, maybe a week. Get the dry wood before the wet set in, that’s what I was doing. It took several trips and I was heaving towards the end, big breaths of frosty air stinging at my lungs. I had to take armfuls of solid wood and a walk of a kilometre or so back home. When I put the last armful down I felt limp and weak, a lot of muscle pain in my arms and back too. I was ready to take a break for a couple of hours and slowly recover, if not that then a nap. As I was sitting there trying to relax, it became apparent that the distant roaring I felt was not that sort of insistent energy that might knot up inside you, pushing at your chest and dancing your limbs around with excess energy - a normal sign that you have too much energy and need to shed it on an intense activity. I had obviously just shed all my energy and more.

I was tired, fatigued even, but the distant roaring of the sea inside of me was not-

A rage filled scream with a cracked and broken voice cuts through the evening air and keeps on going. A fiend, as my dad once called them. The sound stabs out of the drug house’s open front door, like a cat fight at midnight. I stop my approach and stand a few meters away, waiting.

Kostas drags a shrieking mass of rags out the open front door and pushes it down the two steps onto the dead and muddied grass. It thrashes as its voice cracks, from age or drug use. Kostas looms in the doorway and looks down on the drug fiend. He knows what’s going to happen. I know what’s going to happen. The fiend stops its shrieking for a few seconds, trying to find its bearings. It swivels this way and that before locking onto the light spilling around Kostas’s figure in the doorway. The fiend lunges forwards and begins scrabbling up the few steps but Kostas knows better than to let it. He aims a swift kick and the fiend wheezes out its air before being sent tumbling away. If Kostas has hurt it enough the fiend will know better next time.

“Пизда.” Kostas mutters under his breath and turns inside, not even giving me a second glance.

Cunt.

The drug house is a prefabricated concrete construction, naked and unpainted as the day its parts were transported from the factory before on-site assembly. Probably one of the retired - abandoned - factories in this same town. If you run your hand along the drug houses walls you are left with a residue of fine grey powder. Around the top and bottom floor are uniform small square windows with an exact spacing of one meter. Their frames are aluminium along with the door and its own frames, the handrail on the stairs inside too.

I wait a few moments and listen to the injured groan of the fiend before I step up to the doorway. The stench of stale vomit, like someone quietly emptied their stomach contents in a corner, wafts out of the drug house. I step inside and there are other smells too; hard spirits liberally splashed from wall to wall, the putrid homeless and their unwashed stink, then the smell that lets you know exactly where you are, ecstasy laced chemicals and smoke.

As I crunch across the broken glass embedded in the worn out carpet, I do my usual thing. I search for someone among the crumpled heaps staining the already brown and blacked upholstered chairs and couches - all other furniture having long been cleared away to make enough space for as many fiends as possible. Lubov and Artyom who watch the floor don’t pay me any attention, I’ve done this many times before. The dim light makes the search process a little more difficult than it should be, all the bottom story windows having been covered up with newspaper. Leaving only a small lone light hanging by its wires in the centre of the ceiling to illuminate the large room. I move between the chairs and quickly realise what I’m pretending to search for is not here. I move towards the kitchen’s aluminium door frame, it’s always best to finish searching down stairs before heading up. A brief glance into the kitchen I stole my knife from reveals Kostas’s back and neck bulging against his old shirt as he washes his hands in the sink. It’s too early in the night for food to be fetched, so Kostas must be making himself something small to eat.

With the few others of the gang in the drug room not taking any notice of me, I head for the stairs. They are sticky. Like someone stood at the top and poured fruit-juice down them. At the top of the stairs there is a passageway with newspaper strewn across its length leading both left and right. The Union’s Voice, one of them reads. This one comes from the neighbouring city, Chervoryska. I step over The Worker’s Chronical next, Toprak’s own pages, a tiny little rag mostly used for starting fires. On the right side of the passageway is the study. I turn left without thinking and walk towards the furthest door at the end of the passage.

I knock.

I hear nothing, even after a pause.

I knock again.

“Lera.” I call out quietly.

She must be sleeping off a hangover.

Knocking a third time I try the handle but she has it locked. As she should.

I don’t really know what Lera does here. She’s been staying in this drug house for… four years, maybe? She once jokingly mentioned accounting, saying she handles the numbers for them, for Radovan and his setup here.

I knock again because I’m procrastinating, because I’m torn. On the one hand I want to see my sister one more time, on the other, I think the message I gave her, the little seed I planted in her mind a couple of weeks ago will have a greater impact, will have more meaning, when she wakes up tomorrow.

I stand outside her room and try listen through the door for a few more minutes. I almost call out her name a few times.

Kostas’s snorting laugh creeps up the stairs from below and I remember I’m here to steal the gun.

I force myself to turn away from Lera’s room and look back down the passage to the far end. It’s deserted. I pace to the stairs and make sure no one is making a move to come up. Again deserted. I quickly pace to the bathroom just past the study and make sure it’s empty. Radovan making a surprise entrance from the bathroom could create an awkward situation or worse, a painful one.

Waiting a moment before closing the bathroom door for anyone who might be listening, I quietly move to the study’s door. It’s closed now. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before bringing my hand up and quietly knocking. A moment passes and no one answers, I move to open the door. Slipping inside, I leave the door slightly ajar. The sound of my breathing is in my ears but I’m sure I’ll be able to hear anyone coming up the stairs

The study is much as I remember it - without the pencil case on the coffee table. It’s a simple room, looking around is enough to tell the pencil case is not here, out in the open on the shelves or the desk. That leaves the desks draws and the bottom corner of the bookshelf the desk is pressed right up against.

Moving to the desk I try to silently pull the draws open, avoiding any squeaks or knocking of wood. The top draw holds full pages of graph paper, the same kind some of the shelves support in picture frames, though those ones are torn pieces of it. I force my hand down the inside of the draw making sure the graph paper isn’t covering anything. Nothing but graph paper all the way down. I shut it and open the middle draw. Empty. Though I’m struck by a strong perfume smell. I shut that draw too and try to open the last. It’s locked in some fashion. The draw could hold the gun but just as likely it could also hold drugs or Kruna notes, maybe both. Rattling the draw quietly I try to make sure it isn’t simply stuck.

No, it is definitely locked.

I’ve been avoiding the hidden corner of the bookshelf. There is no way to take a look in there without making noise. I’ll have to drag the desk over the floor and then drag it back afterwards, regardless of whether the gun is there or not. One final problem to overcome, one final hurdle in my way.

Stealing the gun is the end- almost the end. I’ve been striving towards this for months now, two years maybe. I first started with bringing wood home. I would go out and gather from my spot and return, then I would go out again, then again, then again and again and again. Eventually we had too much wood and I had to start doing something else. I looked through books in the makeshift basement at home and found a thin paperback on художественная гимнастика - Calisthenics - a starter gymnast manual or maybe it was strength training for ballet. Calisthenics is hard, much harder than I thought, but I’ve been sticking to it. When I grew a little more used to that I started running to the retired - abandoned - factories on the edges of town and back, improving over the months. Growing stronger. I no longer put my dishes in the sink with leftover food on them, knowing I needed everything to keep growing, every little spec and crumb. I forced myself to swallow down cold slurries of tinned food because I needed more to keep growing, and tinned food is the cheapest. I’ve gone to the poorest block that still has a micro-district community with a huge aluminium pot used to cook the entire blocks food, where I’ve stolen bowls of food. Not from people, more blending in with the blocks dying population and having one of the cooks dish up for me. I’m no longer a skinny child and my clothes show it, all of them seeming slightly too small in some places, hugging where they shouldn’t. That’s why I wear the smallest of my dad's old clothes now though I haven’t fully grown into them.

After school, on weekends, through school holidays, you name it and I was pushing myself to become more during it.

I put my back to the bookcase and gently push the desk, millimetre by millimetre, away from the hidden corner. Pushing the desk so slowly to ensure no one hears, but it means I spend much more time in this study than I had planned to. The alternative is making noise and hoping no one comes to look. Both have their dangers.

I pause to check my work and listen out for any movement. Silence. The gap between the desk and corner of the bookshelf has grown to half a hand-width. A little more and I can shove a hand in to feel around. With a silent grunt I set to work on another half hand-width.

A tense moment passes as I hear a heated argument, Kostas turning an addict away because the lounge has no more space. It’s another reason why the drug house is so popular. They, the fiends, want the safety and comfort the drug house gives them. No one stealing their meagre possessions while they crest a high. A soft, warm, dry chair to curl up in also easily beats lying on soggy newspaper or cardboard under shrubs in the park.

The gap must be wide enough now. I can’t quite see into the corner because of the light being above and behind me, but a hand is all I need. I pull my sleeve back and push my hand in. I push in halfway up my forearm before I feel anything. I feel… paper?

A sinking feeling takes hold of me. Probably more of that graph paper being stored here, right next to the draw its kept in. But the gun could still be there, maybe behind all the paper. I begin pulling the paper out so I can get to the back.

Dirty notes, dirty Kruna. Stacks of dirty Kruna banded into thick wads. Why would Radovan keep Kruna in a dark corner. I can understand the gun being there. Wanting it hidden so it can’t easily be stolen but still close at hand so you can use it when needed. But wads of Kruna…

I put the money aside and push my hand back in. I’m starting to hope I don’t find the gun here. I pull out two more wads of Kruna and go in again, pulling out two more. With each new wad the sinking feeling from before pulls me further and further down.

This is too much, this is too big of a problem for me.

I hesitate. I could put this all back and pretend it never happened. But I want the gun. I want the gun.

Once more. I’ll put my hand in once more and if I can’t feel the pencil case then I will put all this Kruna back and that will be the end of that corner.

I take a breath and squeeze my hand in. Another wad of cash which I pointedly ignore, pushing my arm even further in. I’m right up to my elbow now but I can’t feel anything. I push harder still and feel the desk move, letting my arm go a little further. My fingertips brush something. I can’t tell what it is with such slight contact, it could be another wad of Kruna for all I know.

I push harder again and the desk gives way again, letting my fingertips brush against the object. I can’t quite grasp it and I don’t think it’s a wad of Kruna. I try to feel along its length and eventually one of my fingers makes contact with a cold metallic thing that wiggles when I push on it. I twist my arm to angle my fingers so they can grasp it.

A metallic zipper tag. This must be it, this must be the pencil case.

Holding the tag between fingers I pull it towards me, only to find it’s snagged on something. Feeling around I find its stuck on the last wad of Kruna.

I pull out both the wad of Kruna and the zipper tag attached to the pencil case. I unzip the pencil case to make sure and see the cold iron length of the barrel, the curve of the cylinder and a multitude of unspent brass or copper casings.

Towards the end there I really hoped the gun wouldn’t be here, in the dark corner. My crime can no longer be stealing a gun. What kind of a fiend would sneak upstairs and steal a gun but none of the several wads of Kruna found with it? My simple theft has been made complicated. I don’t want the money. I don’t have a need for it. Though maybe mom would like it.

It’s time to find perspective. By tomorrow Radovan will know the gun has been stolen, he will also know the gun has been used. What does the Kruna matter at that point?

He will also know it’s me, that I’m the one who used the gun. That means he will know I’m the one who took the money. Which means he might be angry with my sister.

I’ll take the Kruna, maybe leave just a little, a few notes or half a wad, for mom and the rest I’ll leave in a place for Radovan to find. He won’t be that angry when he has his money. Kind of his fault for leaving it in a dark corner anyway. That should solve everything. No reason to suspect me anymore than the dozens of fiends coming and going, until it’s too late.

Seven wads of cash and a pencil case. I was originally going to walk out with the pencil case tucked away somewhere, but now that I have it… paranoia must be the feeling. Why take the chance when I’m so close to having the gun and being free.

Looking around the room for options I quickly spot one of the small square windows. Thinking it over, I don’t really have any better ideas. I’ll drop the pencil case and the wads of Kruna out the window, then pick them up afterwards. This window faces the side of the house so it has decent cover, also the ground floor has all of its windows covered up so no one will see wads of Kruna dropping down.

Collecting the wads and the pencil case, I put them on the far edge of the desk by the window and start fiddling with its mechanism. Soon the aluminium frame extends and I sweep everything out. I’m across the room about to leave when I remember I need to push the desk back.

I want to be out there picking up the gun before anyone sees the Kruna, so I hurry. Soon the desk is back pressing against the bookcase and I’m shutting the study room’s door behind me.

I eye Lera’s closed door across the far side of the passage and start moving down the stairs. No one takes any notice of me. Not Lubov or Artyom. Kostas seems to be out, probably gone to bring food.

Not wanting to look like I’m in a too much of a hurry, I go to the kitchen like I do sometimes and take a sip of water before leaving. Then I’m out the door and down the few steps.

I walk slowly and break my line of sight with the open front door. No one is around outside. I hurry to the right side of the drug house to collect in the darkness. Looks like I dropped the wads and the pencil case on a crumpled garbage bag, it’s hard to see. I move around it and quickly pick up the stray items.

There’s a burnt smell in the air. Maybe the bag has ashes from cigarettes and other drug use.

The bag suddenly moves and I freeze out of instinct. What must be a hand grabs my leg above the ankle and while the grip feels like a human hand, the heat I’m feeling through my pants is too high for even a fevered fiend.

I remain perfectly still but completely taut as its voice cracks into a rasp. “НЕ ДАЮТ yu-or EAr. ВЫ НЕ ДОЛЖНЫ ЭТОГО ДЕЛАТЬ! Don’t giVE yu-or EAr.”

The putrid stench of his breath hits me and I start to retch. But there was heat too. Like my face was down in front of the wood stove.

His hand on my ankle is starting to burn. Really burn. Before he ruins my pants, I raise my free leg and kick at the burnt drug fiend with the flat of my heel. He rolls away a few meters, having more been pushed with my kick than suffering a blow.

I scoop up the last to wads of Kruna and make a run for it in the wrong direction. I still need to keep out of the drug house’s front door and their line of sight.

I take a long route and keep running and running, back-roads and fences zipping by.

The high of having finally stolen the gun and escaped the burning fiend carrying me on a winding route all the way home. As I close in a need to be finished and safe and done grows in me, and the relief of opening the back door and stepping inside is like watching a fiend enter the drug house after a month of absence.

I turn a corner, stepping over the squeaky floorboards and enter my room, stashing the pencil case and wads of Kruna behind boxes under my bed. Everything is finally ready. I pace the room in excitement before forcing myself to lie down on my bed and pant out my exertion. I can’t help but smile having achieved one of my longest goals.

Tomorrow I have school, and I finally have a gun.