The love of a cat. A letter of deception. And a trip to London. That was all it took to twist Zoran's life forever. But maybe after closing his heart to the world, this is exactly what he needed most to truly find redemption.
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They say that if you search for redemption, chances are, you might never find it. But Zoran didn't even know what he was looking for.
"I'm telling you Purina is a way better deal than Whiskas!" said Anne as she waved the two bags of cat food in front of Zoran. "And for you... only £29.99."
Zoran rubbed his stubbled chin and glanced back and forth between the two bags. Then looked back up at his neighbor, the shop keeper.
"...I always get Whiskas for my Babushka."
"Nonsense, nonsense!" insisted Anne, for the fourth time that afternoon. "Purina ONE wet cat food is a great way to add texture and variety to your baby's mealtime, and the high moisture content helps keep cats hydrated! Everyone is buying this!"
Zoran sighed and thought that the only way she would let him leave her shop would be if he bought what she wanted.
"Fine..." he gave in, sighing as he rummaged in his pocked for some extra coins. "But I'm telling you, if she doesn't eat them, I am bringing them back right away!"
The shopkeeper rolled her eyes at his remark. She knew Zoran didn't like the hassle. If you could wear him down long enough, he would give in. Especially for his cat. He didn't care much for other things.
The older man pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and walked down the stone paved road, between the narrow alleys and over the northern bridge. He climbed the stairs and entered the small apartment which served as his home.
He put his groceries away into a corner, and scanned the place with his eyes in order to spot Babushka. Her tail peeked from under the couch, and he knew she was probably taking a nap.
Zoran didn't want to think of the burden that the day left him with. His back hurt form carrying boulders and his hands were sore from the cement.
His mind craved for a beer, even though his conscience whispered it wasn't the best idea. He decided to quit.
It wasn't good for him.
His wife didn't like him drinking.
But she was gone. And he also had seven beers left.
He could quit tomorrow. It was a free day anyways.
He popped open a bottle and chugged it as if it were water. Then the second. And the third.
Zoran didn't like the alcohol's taste, but he thought it helped with the pain. And it did. For a while. Until it came to hunt him.
"We the people are free..." he mumbled passed out on the floor.
As he closed his eyes Zoran recalled the first thing he could remember from when he was young.
His mother and father didn't speak to each other that day. The radio played in a muffled way in the background of their living room. His father tried to turn it on with no success, each time glaring at Zoran who sat on the couch. The young boy, no older than five stared at the banner pinned up on the wall in front of him. Red, white and blue. Big bold letters stood out to him. But he couldn't read them yet.
Suddenly, the radio successfully connected, and Josip Broz Tito's propaganda echoed in Zoran's ears, which made him crumble his military-styled cap in his tiny hands. "WE, THE PEOPLE OF SOCIALIST FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF YUGOSLAVIA, ARE A FREE NATION..."
Zoran knew otherwise. He didn't feel free in his own home. With his own family. There was no love. No warmth. And his father's hands were heavier than he wanted them to be.
The older man opened his eyes. His sight blurred out in front of him. He felt his body dragging him down and his mouth dry.
He got up and struggled to drag his feet towards the table. Sweat dripped down his neck and his hands trembled as they clenched tightly into fists. His body froze as he recalled his father's voice and he stood there struggling to make the echoes go away.
He ultimately managed to grab a hold of the vodka bottle in front of him, but upon hungrily bringing it in for a chug, he realized its emptiness.
"Jеботе!" he cursed, and threw the bottle at the wall next to the couch, making the glass shatter all over the floor.
Zoran slapped himself repeatedly, letting out a series of indistinguishable swear words. He dug his teeth into his lower lip and started swinging his hands around in a crazy fit, pushing the plates and bottles off the table.
From under the couch, a black fur ball with a loud noise, sprinted across the living room and scooted behind the worn out drapes.
"Babushka..." cried he, scooting down.
Zoran held his knees close to his chest as he wept, and fell asleep on the concrete floor next to the table.
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