My name is Mikka
I often forget what it was like not struggling to survive, or what it felt like coming home from school to feel the warm embrace of my mother Lara and father Filip and to them asking me "How was your day?" or a simple "Love you".
I sometimes catch myself closing my eyes and just hoping to wake up to smelling the sweet pancake syrup, and the smell of my mothers perfume. But then I wake up to the harsh reality that all I had will never come back.
I was born in a small village where there were more cattle then there were residents, this village is called Pusta. My mother and father were farmers, who mainly sold beef. I helped my parents with training the horses, feeding the cattle, pigs and chickens. Id like to say having a farm was fun, until I was old enough to help my father with butchering the cattle. I never learned how to shoot a gun until then, I had just turned 18, my father handed me a rifle and helped me position myself correctly. "Take a deep breath" he said "Now slowly exhale and shoot". I jumped once the gun went off, the sound of the rifle was piercing. My hands were shaking with shock and anxiety. my father looked at me and laughed, he said "You're gonna need to get use to that sound sweetie". Little did I know, My father was right.
I'd like to think that forgetting my past, and forgetting what my life was is better, it brings out my weaknesses, and brings my guard down. I've never talked about what had happened, the day my life had changed for the worse. I would rather keep it that way. All that matters now Is survival.