Tarik Blackbey Karabeg's story for #IAMTSW contest

Antida in Games, The Secret World 0 comments 26 APR 2015

Diary entry… who the fuck am I kidding?

I’m not even good at this, at writing, at speaking English.

My sister Selma and me, we grew up in loving and caring family. That was the biggest mistake our parents could make. We were completely unprepared for what lurked outside – the crude reality. The unmistakable stench of war. Pigs armed to the teeth, just waiting.

1991. I was 13, Selma was 10. She was taking ballet. A bright future in front of her, they said. Mom was absentminded. Working as a journalist, she was knee deep in news that were blacker than black. Something was coming, she used to say, and immediately followed it with: „But whatever comes, Europe will help us.”

1992. It was easy for a person like me to get corrupted. As a kid, I’ve never experienced pain, danger nor disappointment. I’ve lived a boring life that was cut in half by my growing interest for punk rock. There was this local place owned by guy named Bajro. He used to run his fanzine… what was the name? Kriza Autoriteta. Authority Crisis. The first few times I went at that place, he never really talked to me. After several visits, he sent beer and a pack of cigs over. My first cig. My first beer. He told me I remind him of his youth. His ways. He got me into tape trading. I started getting tapes and fanzines from all around the world. Parents thought it’s just a harmless hobby, so they’ve continued supporting it.

But what they didn’t know, beside getting me into tape trading, he also got me into glue sniffing and smoking weed.

April 1992. I was 14, head deep in plastic bag full of Sintelan, god awful cheap glue you could buy in cans back then. Turbonegro’s demo tape was blazing in Bajro’s basement, where he used to organize parties for his buddies. I was the youngest one. Totally out of my mind. I didn’t feel too good, so I’ve tried to stand up and get out. I was stopped by a girl… was it Nejra or Nerma? She was almost 19, a sweet girlfriend of all the guys that used to hang out at Bajro’s place. She liked punks, fast music and drugs. And judging by what other used to say, she adored fucking senselessly.

She got on top of me. The sweet smell of her cleavage was winning the battle against the United forces of glue and spilt beer stench. She was whispering something in my ear. All I could hear was other boys laughing and Bajro asking her to fuck me like I’ve never been fucked before. Laughter again. Jokes. Then thundering noise, fire, smoke, blood and screams.

Grenade fell directly into the basement, crashing the party and announcing the four years war. I went deaf for a moment and when I’ve opened my eyes, I was staring at dead girl whose body protected me against the penetrating grenade shrapnel. I was the only one left alive.

***

Last convoy out of Sarajevo. Selma was taken away to Italy by international ballet academy. They told us she’ll be safe. Dad can’t leave. Mom and me are on the bus to Belgrade. From Belgrade to Vienna, from Vienna to Amsterdam. We wanted to go to London, but couldn’t get entry visa. Somehow, dad got us visas for US. New York. Home of punk rock. He told us he’ll come just after us.

He never did. He was killed by sniper fire on November 13th 1992.

Selma is now living in Italy. I should go visit her. I saw her once, at the beginning of the new millennium. Mom died in US three years ago. Cancer. On the day of her funeral, Ive had these visions that scared the living crap out of me. Visions were followed by strange phenomena that intensified in the last seven days. Sparks that emerge from my palms are dragging the nightmares back.

Dad. Nejra. Or Nerma. The girl that saved my life now haunts my dreams.

***

There was this guy at my doorstep last night. Slick dude, talking nonsense about his client and my powers… he left me a business card. No name. No number. Just this blue triangular symbol. And although I feel a trembling fear at the bottom of my stomach, it seems to me this is something I need to do.

Fuck it, not everyone’s American Dream can be fucking perfect…


Source: The Secret World Tarik Blackbey Karabeg’s story for #IAMTSW contest

Antida
Latest posts by Antida (see all)