Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 239(@200wpm)___ 191(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
“Put him to sleep,” Demyan echoed.
“Yeah.”
“And he won’t wake up.”
“Yeah,” Anton repeated.
“Ever,” Demyan pressed.
Anton was beginning to feel like a broken record. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“So, what you mean is he’ll be dead.”
“Well, yes. But, Demyan—”
“Okay.”
Anton choked on air. Disbelief raced through his veins. “What?”
“He’s old,” Demyan said, repeating his father’s earlier words. “And he’s sick. I don’t want Rocco sad or hurting. It wouldn’t be nice of me to make him keeping hurting because I want him to stay with me. I love him.”
All over again, it felt like somebody had kicked Anton in the gut. Shock wasn’t a good enough word for how his son managed to take him off guard. He still felt like his boy was too young for this sort of nonsense. Sometimes all Demyan had to do was turn around or speak a simple sentence to remind his father how fast he was growing. It took Anton an entire minute before he felt stable enough to speak again.
“I know you love him, son. He knows, too.”
“So yeah, it’s okay,” Demyan whispered. “It’s not, but it’s okay for Rocco.”
“I get what you’re trying to say, Demyan.”
“You’ll bring him home to me, right?”
Anton’s brow furrowed in his confusion. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“Yes, so we can put him in the ground, Papa ... like bury him, you know. ‘Cause we visit grandpapa Daniil and Nicoli where they stay, now. I want to visit Rocco, too.”
Oh.
Shit.
Everything had gone particularly well, but Anton wasn’t sure how this would fly over with his son.
“Actually, Ma and I thought it’d be better if we had him cremated and put in something so you could have him close.”
“That’s ... but ...”
“You’ll have his ashes in a small box with his name engraved on it,” Anton tried to explain.
“Cremating means burning him?” Demyan asked, aghast.
“Yes—”
“No, Papa, you can’t ... burn him.”
Great. Now, his son likely had the image of his dog burning to death stuck in his head. God knew that kid didn’t need more fodder for his imagination.
“Demyan, it’s not what you think,” Anton said, rubbing at his forehead again. “He won’t even know, and he’s definitely not going to feel anything. It happens long after he falls asleep, okay. Lots of pets get cremated for their owners. Even some people choose to be cremated after death. If we do this, you’ll get to keep him in a way.”
“You can’t burn my Rocco!”
Anton’s back straightened at the vehemence in his son’s jarring, angry tone. “Demyan Anton Nicoli, that’s enough. Apologize for yelling at me.”
Respect was always the one thing that came first and foremost for Anton and his children. He wouldn’t tolerate disrespect in any form because once they were given an inch to run with, they’d keep pulling until they got a mile. Frankly, Anton couldn’t afford for Demyan to think he was entitled, or that he was any better than the rest of the people around him. His son had to understand the worth of giving as well as receiving respect.
Even if it started young.
“You can’t burn Rocco, no matter what,” Demyan spat. “I said so, Papa.”
“Apologize to me right now,” Anton ordered.
“Papa, I said you—”
“I heard what you damn well said, now apologize to me.”
“I’m sorry for yelling,” Demyan murmured.
“Why?”
“Because it’s rude, and you’re my Papa, so I know better than to yell at you. I don’t like it when people shout at me, so it’s not fair for me to shout at them. I shouldn’t yell at anyone and if I speak right the first time, I should never have to.”
That lesson was going to carry Demyan far beyond just his childhood, Anton knew. A boss—a good one—didn’t need to shout to instil fear or gain respect. The younger Demyan learned to communicate and command without raising his voice, the better it would be for him when he was older.
“Thank you,” Anton said, sighing heavily.
Anton was going to explain cremation was the only option, but Demyan didn’t give him the chance.
“Please don’t burn my Rocco, Papa. Please.”
If he spoke right the first time, he shouldn’t ever have to yell.
*
“Daddy! I missed you!” Ana squealed.
Anton let his six-year-old daughter climb up his form like the hellcat with claws that she was. “Missed you, too, princess. What did you learn at school today?”
“Blue and red make purple.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and blue and yellow make green.”
“They do,” Anton agreed.
“And all the colors make shit.”
Anton died—right there, flat out died with laughter. That was his girl. Ana was a little ballbreaker. He needed the laughter after earlier. It was a balm to his hurting soul.
“Ana Christina!” Viviana chided. “That’s a bad word. I told you to stop telling people that. It makes brown, like mud. Mud, baby girl. Anton, quit laughing.”
“I can’t help it,” Anton said through chuckles as he set his daughter back to the floor. “That was golden.”