Post by Anya Grigorieva on Jul 5, 2012 17:33:04 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #9c5f5b, bTable][tr][cs=2] Anya Jovovna Grigorieva. 16. 5th year Ravenclaw. Natalie Dormer. | |
[rs=2] | Oh, 'lo there. So this is the part where I'm suppose to talk about myself and complain how I don't like to do this because it makes me seem like I glorify myself. Well, sorry I'm not like those people. Only because when they say that I always feel like they're vying for approval. I already know I hardly get approval so lets start from the very beginning, shall we? My name is Anya Jovovna Grigorieva. My name's a mouth full because my dad is a Russian man. To better understand me, lets start with my parents. My dad, Jov, was born right before the collapse of the Soviet Union on the outskirts of Moscow with his parents. He had a sister once who was older than him who died when my dad was four. None of them talk about her and they keep their hard outer shell when she's mentioned. My dad only said her name once: Anya. But anyway, they were a simple muggle family trying their best to live pay check to pay check while my dad attended school. They never had a easy life growing up and even while attending school my dad had to hold up a job, two at one point when he got older. He use to spend long nights on the floor with little sleep trying to complete his work after a long afternoon on the job, reminding himself that if he finished it he would be out of there in no time. My dad told me one time when I was little as a bed time story the night he remembered the Soviet Union fall. It was in December of 1991, and he had sprawled out on the floor with his readings all around him. It was Christmas day and his dad had gotten him fresh new books as a reward for the excellent grades he had been pulling along with keeping up a steady job. They all had sitting quietly around when they heard cheering outside. It was the middle of December, almost January, and people were out in that awful snowy weather dancing around. They had thrown on their coats and boots and all three went outside to see what the commotion was all about. Gorbachev had reigned and he said he had never felt so peaceful than at that moment, standing out in the falling snow. It's haunting to realize that before people in England were fighting Voldemort a second time, me dad was living in a country with it's own corrupt ruler and system. The day the communist fell in Russia was a day of hope for my dad. A day that pushed him onward. While Gorbachev was no longer in power, my dad still wanted out. He worked his way through school, hitting the books harder than ever after his two jobs and school. Finally, his schooling was complete and immediately he was offered a decent position in sales at a high-end company in Russia with it's base in London. For a man in his early twenties fresh out of school, this was quite an accomplishment. He worked two years in the office in Moscow before being offered a position in London. True, it wasn't as wonderful as the position he had at that time but it was a way out of Russia. So he took it. They saw something in the young man they liked, that only after two years, he was offered a job at the home base. He had a hunger for knowledge and he really never stopped working, never stop trying to improve. That's how he made it to London with the one English course they made him take. He was still bloody awful at English. Even I could tell you that, considering he finds it ten times easier to talk to me in Russian. English was hard for him. So when he came to England, not only did he have a culture shock but then there was that language barrier. He only knew the basics, the most important phrase to him being "where's the toilet". My mum, Ilene, was born and raised in Whales with a very quiet childhood, coming from a family a bit more privileged than me dads. She too was a muggle, coming from an all muggle family. She was from a quiet town with a quiet life and moved to the city with an ambition for fashion but a knack for teaching. She struggled in a salon, to say the least, trying to keep up with clients and expectations that she just didn't meet. It didn't take her long before she was back in the school system with a life change for a new ambition with teaching. She wanted to teach primary school if she could, toward the upper grades. And what was her concentration? It almost sounds so perfect that it should have been made into a sappy movie where everyone can guess the plot. English. They met, from what mum mentioned in passing at uni. She took some night courses for her teaching degree while she worked during the day and my dad took some English courses. He was improving, apparently, but like I said he's never been the language. Apparently mum was just eating dinner and dad approached, purposely sitting on the bench with a charming smile next to her. Apparently they hit it off immediately. I don't care for details or how it's possible considering they are complete opposites of one another. But she helped him with his English and after a year of dating the married. Now it's my turn. I came shortly after their marriage, nine months exactly, on October 19. My parents debated three days after I was born on my name. My dad suggested Anya from the beginning and the more my mom said it, the more she loved it. However, she wanted Anne to be my middle name. Yet, what took her a while to understand was that Anya was the Russian version of Anne and would be pronounced the same way when visiting my grandparents in Russia if that were to happen. I would have the same first and middle name. So eventually, mum gave in and let dad give me a middle name that followed the Russian tradition. Jovovna. It's my dads first name with a feminine suffix, the way it was done there. We lived in an apartment just outside the city, which was convenient for both my parents as they both worked and attended class (well my mum did at that time) in the city. My mum said she took me to class as a baby once and got annoyed stares they second I entered the classroom. However my mum tried hard to convince them that I was a very quiet baby, very intuitive. It wasn't until halfway through the class did everyone understand and the envy grew amongst other parents in the room as they looked at me. Mum said I just sat in her lap while she took notes and looked curiously at the professor when he lectured. She said I didn't make a sound, almost as if I were soaking in every word the professor said. She said I was beyond fascinated with him that she brought me a few more times before class ended. It saved babysitting money and I was quiet. It was perfect and it seemed that even from that early age I had my dads thirst for learning. Fast-foward now and I'm four. This is the first time my grandparents from Russia. My Babushka, or Baba as I called her for short when I was little, was so excited to see me Deduska (me grandpa in English) told me she nearly hopped out of her seat in the plane ten times. Baba can be described as a hard person, her fingers callused to the bone after years of hard work, her face more wrinkled than many other women her age in London with fewer worries and hardships in their lives. But yet, once you got past her cold exterior as an outsider, my Babushka has so much to offer. Yes she's strict, but that's how she was raised. Though, mum says she doubted Babushka ever really like her all that much, she was only tolerated because she birthed me basically. I actually remember their visit. This was the first time, when Babushka took over the kitchen from my mother, that I was introduced Borshch (a Russian soup). Both my parents said even at age four I devoured that soup. What can I say? I know what I like. What's the harm in admitting that? Through childhood it's not hard for me to go back an pinpoint why my parents marriage failed to last. They argued all the time. My dad even got so mad at times he would just ramble off in Russian so fast my mum couldn't follow. But I could. It was my second language,a] as he spoke it to me from the womb I assume. I mean, my mother picked up on some Russian over the years, but once he got fired off and started speaking it in full speed mode, she wouldn't try to follow him. Instead she would huff and puff and run into their bedroom and slam their door as loudly as she could, but not without saying one find word that would just sit in my dads mind, making him even more angry. I remember once I walked out to go to the bathroom after one of their usual spats and he just sat in the chair, cursing to himself in Russian. He looked like a madman. So when their divorce came when I was seven, you think I would have expected it and I did. Yet, I went into some strange stage of shock and horror and I remember sadness taking over my body no matter how hard I fought it. I couldn't and even as a seven year old I had dark thoughts...ones I won't go into much detail here. Compassionate, change the world do-gooders might have their hearts break in half and come out to help me. I don't need any help, I managed this long on my own, didn't I? So lets get back on track. That night I ran to my room crying and gripping my pillow like I wanted to rip it in half because I did. I remember thinking why couldn't they just fix it? Was this marriage all an act? Why did they put up with each other if there was nothing but problems? Why did they let me get use to both their company at once if they knew they didn't care about each other the same. Then on that track, my seven year old mind went to if they cared about me the same way. Well, of course they did. With my dad it was more apparent though. I heard him through my door, while they discussed what would happen with me, say that he wanted as much time as he could get with me. An equal slit and my mum agreed immediately. Anyone, even me then, could tell that he put as much time into being my dad as he did to his work. My mum however...I'll get to that later. But I refused to come out of my room that night. I only opened the door for the Borshch my dad made and left for me. It was still my favorite food. Well, right after they told me the next day mum's mum called her, telling her that he dad died. My grandpa. Again I was hit with grief. In less than two days two drastic things happened to me...and I didn't know how to handle my emotions. I ran off to my room crying for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. But this time I was more receptive to their comfort. But before you go away because you're bored of my story, which is likely, things got interesting here. My dad came with us to Whales to attend the funeral. My mum needed his support and I couldn't deny that it helped me too. It was a Catholic church where the funeral and visitation was held. Her family were strong catholics. Mum joined her sister while dad walked me to say my goodbyes to the casket. I cried, looking at his face for only a second before taking in all the flowers around him. Then I squeezed my eyes shut...then felt a wave of heat hit me like a blanket. The room went silent following a collective gasp. I opened my eyes: all the flowers had caught on fire. I yelped and hid behind my father who was staring at the flowers dumbfounded. Someone shrieked something about the devil. But I was distracted by the look my mum gave me, the one my dad had when he looked down. They seemed certain I had something to do with it. And I did. It was my first sign of magical powers. And they only progressed from then on. I went to primary school in London and I somehow made a pencil attack this annoying muggle boy names James who did nothing but torture me with harsh words. No matter how many times I outsmarted him, he never shut his mouth. I remember wishing something insane, like a pencil attacking him, would happen. And it did. My teacher was freaked out and considering I went to the same school me mum taught at, she raced down the hall to drag her in the room so she could see what I had done. But the pencil had stopped by then. On the bright side, that was the last time James ever bothered me. Though my teacher watched me like a hawk from then on. Smaller occurrences of strange things happened over the years and neither one of my parents nor myself knew why this was happening. Why couldn't I be normal for fucks sake? And I noticd something in my mum too. Yeah, sure, I know she loves me and I'm her only daughter and all that sentimental shit. But she acted different towards me since the divorce. It's not that she hated my dad, but they didn't get along like they use to. But it was like someone opened her eyes and shined a flashlight on me. I think she noticed how much I was like my dad. Once I would even correct my teachers on knowledge they clearly messed up on, and only stopped because she kept scolding me about being rude about it. I was plenty smart. When upset I would, and still do, ramble in Russian like my dad does (though slower than him that my mum actually understands what I say). Hell I even look like my dad. Lean, muscular figure, drastic and classic Russian cheekbones that seemed to run through the heritage, and the same sheet of dark brown hair. They only thing clearly that came from her are my blue eyes, which is astounding that I got them over my dads dark brown and almost black eyes. You would think that trait would have been more dominant. But anyway, with all these habits and traits I shared with the man, I think I reminded her too much of Jov. She became more distant than how she was earlier in my childhood. I would be lying if I said it doesn't hurt that she did that too me. It's not my fault I share so much in common with him. If you didn't want me to, you shouldn't have reproduced with the main with the dominate genes. When I was elven things were getting out of hand. My powers were showing off more often. But around this time my mum started dating Roger Morris, an accountant. He seemed like a normal muggle guy and my mum took to him immediately. He had a son who was only a year older than me who went to school at some special boarding school for kids with talents. Whatever that meant. His names was Kaiden and I didn't meet him until he returned home that summer. They were so excited to introduce us that I resisted. This meeting cut into my time with my dad by a day and we were suppose to leave for Russia for a week in two days at that time. So I was resistant and stubborn. When they introduced us that night, I only spoke in Russian and called him some very unfriendly names that not only got me a murderous look from my mother to speak English but a whooping that night. I spoke English. When I got back from Babushka's, my first time in Russia (which was the best trip of my life) whenever I went to stay with me mum, they always threw me and Kaiden together and we bickered from the start. I called him names in Russian while he picked on me. One night his Babushka (or grammy as he called her) babysat. She didn't know about his special school. And while she made us cookies in their kitchen, Kaiden poked fun at me and took it too far. I somehow sent a toaster after him. He stared at it in shock before running from it, laughing of all things. Grammy didn't find it so funny and chased it with a broom while I laughed in the background. Our parents walked in on the sight.Roger was shocked for a minute, mum trying to find an excuse clearly, but he held up a hand and walked over and grabbed the toaster. I guess my shock made it stop attacking Kaiden. Apparently Kaiden's special school was a place called Hogwarts, we found out. He went there to learn how to control his magic. Before his mum died when he was little, Roger knew she was a witch. She had been a muggleborn but a witch nonetheless. She knew she was sick and told him all about Hogwarts and what to expect from their child in the future before she passed. Sure, he knew what to expect but it was still odd being a muggle, single father with a magical son. But it all made since when Kaiden explained his first signs of magic. It sounded like mine and my mum soaked in every word, thankful for a reason for all this other than I'm possessed by the devil. They weren't expecting me to show magical powers, but since I did I could tell they were quite excited and intrigued. It made me feel special for once. The good kind. When we told my dad...It took a good five hours before it sunk in. He's a smart man, but for him admitting that it's possible for me to be magical was crazy. Magic was for fools who needed hope, something feeble to hang on to while they tried to be oblivious to the harsh reality of the world around them. He refused to believe his daughter who one of them. We argued as I tried to explain it wasn't like his views, bringing up the flowers at the funeral. How he knew it was me. I could tell he was still set on his views of magic, but he bit his tongue and listened. He finally accepted that maybe, just maybe, this could be true. He was still as supportive as a stubborn Russian man could be. It wasn't long after that that I got my Hogwarts letter. I went with Kaiden that september to Hogwarts and I hung around him quite a bit at first.. Our parents were to marry that December so I just called him my step-brother even before it was official. I was sorted into Ravenclaw as soon as the hat hit my head and the next day Roger wrote to congratulate me. I hit it off in the house wonderfully, already making better grades than Kaiden in just my first term at Hogwarts. But eventually we grew closer as years past. Why, just last winter I discovered something about myself. I'm bisexual. I haven't come out to anyone but Kaiden, the only one I think who would understand. My dad would have the same reaction (if not worse) as the one when I told him I was a witch and I'm not ready for that yet. I excelled at the sport quidditch incredibly. I was good at a sport for once in my life. Really good, actually. I never feel at home unless I'm holding a broom in my hands, feeling the wood of the handle between my fingers as I lift into the air. I forget everything in the air. So now I'm taking each day one step at a time while I work on coming out of the closet. I still feel like a dark shadow follows me constantly. My dad wants to get me checked for depression each time he sees me but I refuse. I can fight it. It's just sadness. Only on my really, really bad days do I wish I listened to him. Only then but it doesn't last too long. Now I just have to get through my fifth year in one piece. I still have a whole book to write, this was only the first few chapters. |
Bay. 21. 8+. GMT. |
N/A
