"The Underground Fighter and His Kitten"
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Sasha "Kayo" Sokolov is a Russian fighter who was sent to America at a young age. One day, he met a young girl by the name of Everleigh Wilson, who taught him how to speak English, and helped him with his s...
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I placed my father's food on the table with a sigh. It was his favorite—scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and beef sausages. I promised I would make breakfast as long as he stopped going to sleep on the couch instead of his own bed. He always fell asleep in the most uncomfortable positions... the thought itself made me cringe. Then, the following morning he would complain of back pain. It was a never-ending cycle that could all be avoided if he just slept in his own bed.
"Goodmorning, baby girl." Dad smiled. He didn't even sit down before he grabbed one of his beef sausages from his plate and stuffed it in his mouth.
The warm light above the small dining room table complimented my father's darker complexion. His short buzz-cut hair that had little pieces of gray, that my father liked to say were proof of wisdom, became apparent, but even despite his old age, the muscles on his body could've fooled anyone to believe he wasn't a day over forty.
I wanted today to be good for him. It was the anniversary of the death of my mother. He always liked to pretend he was fine, but last year, I caught him starting at an old picture of them together and he was crying. I hurried and ran away to avoid embarrassing him, but the memory always appeared in my thoughts, depressing me.
"What time do you have to be at school again?" he asked. He always wondered the same thing every morning that he was out of work. It always brought me joy when he didn't work because it meant he would drive me to school, pick me up, and we could even spend some time together. Being alone in the house almost everyday wasn't the most amusing thing in the world. There weren't many times that he took the day off.
"7:30, Dad. I get out of school around three," I informed him.
"Alrighty, baby girl," he said. I smiled as I watched him sit down and begin to eat. He was moaning in delight before his light brown and pink lips pulled up into a smile, revealing the whites of his teeth
"You cook just like your mother," he said longingly. Slowly, his smile fell down to a frown. He always did that anytime he thought of her. It was like I could see the memories they shared together playing out in his very eyes.
"Good thing I don't cook like you," I laughed. My joke quickly lightened the mood as he shook his head and chuckled.
"You got that right. Your old man just can't cook and I am not ashamed about it." he laughed.
"You should be ashamed if your twelve year old daughter has to cook for you," I joked. He smacked his teeth with a playful grin on his face.
"You know what? You're actually right." he chuckled.
Together, we ate breakfast. We sometimes talked about school and he would chat about work. It was always the best to be with my father. I loved when he was carefree and the stress of the world showed no part on him. He was my best friend and with every word that left his mouth, I could feel happiness swelling my heart.
