_Word_ Means italics!!! I haven't worked on the story for a week, so this won't be as good as the others imo Laying in bed, looking at the ceiling, its all Diomid had been doing since he had woken up. In the kitchen, his wife carefully cut small slices of reindeer meat and set carefully rubbed salt on each slice. She put each piece into the ice box while she used the untouched pieces of meat for their morning breakfast. She let the meat simmer on the oily pan, and walked over to the bedroom Diomid laid in. Diomid lifted his head up slowly, looking at grabbing her oven mitts. “Why would they be in here?” He thought. She confused him, confused is an understatement. She was a disorganized person, never able to keep anything organized for more than a week. As he watched her, he could feel her glaring at him, silently beckoning him to get up. He stared at her for a few seconds longer, before pulling the covers off himself. Diomid got up slowly–his feet taking a whole minute to finally touch the ground. As he pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, he quietly sat down at the dinner table, watching as she cooked. The clock’s ticking and the oil sizzling got more loud as the silence grew between them, they hadn’t dare say anything yet. He glanced at the empty chair next to him. It hadn’t been touched for a month now, it was an unmoving shape, a reminder. A wooden spoon and fork were placed in front of the empty chair, acting as if someone was indeed there. Diomid felt as if the invisible figure in the chair was watching him, judging him, insulting him. Silent words attacked him relentlessly like an undying onslaught. He wanted to fight back against the voice, to yell back at it, to tell it he was sorry. As his mind descended more into a whirlwind of voices, a soft voice brought him back to the light. “Are you okay?” Diomid’s Wife turned to him, looking concerned. “I am fine, Anya.” Diomid said quietly, sulking back into the chair. “You’ve been off all day, it's not like you,” Anya continued. “You're usually out hunting by now, or helping me cook.” “you're right…I’ve been quite lazy recently, haven’t I?” Diomid admitted to his recent change in demeanor. “Why don’t you go clean out…Iosif’s room? Maybe it’ll help you clear your find.” Anya told him, stuttering the word “Iosif”. “That sounds like a good idea I suppose.” Diomid conceded. Anya handed Diomid some cleaning supplies, consisting of a broom, duster, and small bag to put trash in. As Diomid sat up and walked across the kitchen opening the door to the small room where Iosif once called home. Diomid walked into the room and started sweeping the floor, piling the dust and trash on the floor into a small pile in the center of the floor. Iosif’s record player was still open with, yet no record in it. His dresser was also open, with many articles of clothing missing. As Diomid cleaned, he put the broom under the bed, prepared to clean whatever mess was down there. As he pulled the broom back, it latched onto something. Diomid tugged on the broom till a book slid across the floor, its pages covered in writing. Diomid slowly picked the small book up, the cover falling to the side with gravity, pages fluttering out like wings. “I didn’t know he wrote…” Diomid said quietly. He grabbed the book off the floor and slowly flipped through the pages. The pages smelt like his son, that distinctive scent he couldn’t forget. As his hands flipped through each page, he hit the last page with words. It was short, only a few sentences. “I am tired of this place, living here in the Urals. It's tortuous, the storms are horrible, food is scarce, and criminals run rampant everywhere! I want to explore the world, yet my parents restrict me. I won’t listen, I am my own free man.” Diomid stared at the page. His breathing slowed. His son left to _see the world?_ Yet he never told anyone. Diomid still remembered that night. The cold outside wind had flooded into the home in the middle of the night, the feeling of seeing his own son gone, with no goodbye hurt him more than anything, all to just see the world. He had thought he had joined a gang. As he flipped backwards in the book, the door opened loudly. “Diomid? What's taking you so lo-” Anya noticed the book in his hands. “What’s that?” Diomid didn’t answer, looking at Anya seriously. “I must find him.”
