I made close friends and started getting invited to birthday parties. One of my closest friends, who lived nearby, had a birthday on May 1st and always threw big parties. I envied him because so many people showed up. For my birthday, fewer people came, though that was partly my fault—I didn’t want to invite everyone.
At these parties, we played a war game. We’d split into teams, grab sticks as pretend guns, and hide around the house, garage, or garden. If you saw someone first, you’d yell, “Bang bang! X,Y is dead!” It was like an advanced version of hide-and-seek. We also played regular hide-and-seek, and the houses and gardens had endless spots to hide.
The neighbor who filmed my baptism was my mother’s cousin. He lived across the street from us and worked as a photographer and videographer. One day, his son was celebrating his first Holy Communion, so my family and I went to a small village in the mountains above the suburbs to celebrate.
We had lunch at a quaint restaurant, and nearby were two narrow fields about 50 yards long, filled with fine pebbles—bocce courts. For those unfamiliar, bocce involves tossing a smaller ball toward the far end of the court and then trying to throw larger balls as close to it as possible.
We were having fun playing a match on one court when a group of locals arrived to play on the neighboring field. They were loud and aggressive, and their language shocked me. They started swearing in ways I’d never heard before, using phrases like “God fucked you,” “fuck you, whore Virgin Mary,” and “fuck you, Jesus.”
Raised as a Roman Catholic, I wasn’t prepared for such blasphemous language. It was jarring, and even more surprising was that no one said a word in response—not even my father. We all just stood there, quietly enduring their tirade.
The first grade ended, and I proudly brought home top grades. It was a reward that felt like an open door to a carefree summer. On weekends, my family and I would pile into our new car and drive south along the Croatian coast toward the charming town of Omiš. Unlike the pebbled beaches of the suburbs, the ones here were sandy, soft, and golden. Walking on them felt like stepping into a tropical paradise.
We’d spend the entire day basking in the sun and swimming in the pristine sea. My father would inflate a floating mattress, and we’d take turns using it. I turned it into an imaginary ferry, “transporting” tiny invisible passengers from one part of the beach to another. We’d pack food and drinks into a portable fridge, ensuring we stayed refreshed throughout the day.
As evening rolled in, we’d head home. Sometimes the journey back was slowed by traffic jams as the summer months brought an influx of foreign tourists. Once home, we’d enjoy a hearty dinner made with locally grown potatoes, tomatoes, and cucumbers, a true taste of the season.
On other weekends, I’d visit the same sandy beaches with my aunts and their friends. I distinctly remember one such trip: we rode in a red Ford Sierra, cruising south under the blazing 95°F summer heat. The radio played “Yes or No” by Divas, a song that felt like the perfect soundtrack to that moment. The warm breeze from the open windows, the chatter in the car, and the familiar melody blended into a memory that’s stayed with me ever since.
One afternoon, I was at home and decided to take a walk. I was on my way to Lenny’s house but paused halfway by the bridge over the river, where I spent some time tossing rocks into the water, enjoying myself. As it began to get dark, I had a sense that something wasn’t right, so I decided to head home. On my way back, an older girl stopped me on the street and asked why I was out so late on my own. I don’t recall what I said, but I clearly remember my mom being upset when she got home. She grabbed her belt and was about to hit me with it. I ran upstairs, hoping my grandmother would protect me, but eventually, I had no choice but to go back downstairs and face the punishment.
One afternoon, my brother and I were playing outside the house. We used a water hose to create puddles in the garden and played in the mud. My father came over, upset, and told us to go inside. I was in the living room with my brother and my uncle, who was watching Formula 1 with my father. Meanwhile, my father was in their room getting a belt. My uncle glanced at me with pity, like a helpless animal about to be punished, and I looked at him with envy, wishing I didn’t have to face the consequences. My father told my brother and me to go to our room, where he began to beat us with a belt simply because we had been playing with water and mud. As he hit us, he said, “Now you will see your God.” We cried, and when he finished, he told us to stay in our room and sleep, even though it was still early in the afternoon. After some time, our mom came in and comforted us, saying that Dad had gone too far.
I went to Split to visit my grandparents, where I spent time with my uncle Benny, my dad’s brother. Uncle Benny lived with my grandparents because he was disabled. He had been paralyzed in his arms and hands due to a mistake with a vaccine he received as a child, which led to him suffering from polio. The doctors responsible for the mistake destroyed all the documentation related to the vaccine administration. As a result, Uncle Benny’s right arm was completely paralyzed, and he couldn’t even lift it, unlike his left arm, which he could move while only being able to use a few fingers.
Despite this, he could still eat and smoke on his own. Uncle Benny had a deep passion for cars, especially those from the 60s onward, and he knew everything there was to know about them.
My grandmother from Split had a yellowish complexion due to her cancer. I believe she also wore a wig. She passed away in August. We had to organize the funeral, and my parents took me to buy black clothes for the occasion. On the day of the funeral, we arrived at the cemetery, where my parents, my Split grandfather, Uncle Benny, and I were present. Everyone was crying, and my grandfather was sobbing as he said, ‘Look at my wife.’ He kissed her. Now, her face was pale, and she looked as though she was simply sleeping. At the time, I was 8 years old and didn’t fully understand the concept of death, so I didn’t shed a single tear. We buried her, and later, a Holy Mass was held in Split, in their neighborhood. I will always remember her as a wonderful grandmother who took me to Zagreb by plane and told me that I would be a good student and always do my homework.
At the end of August or the beginning of September, the whole family would head to the outskirts of the suburbs, where we had a vineyard. The air was filled with the wonderful smell of grapes, grass, and soil as we harvested the grapes. After harvesting the grapes, we would take them home and make wine. In the northern part of the house, we had a garage and large rooms where we stored the wine barrels. In November, the whole family would head back to the olive grove near the vineyard to pick olives. Then we also made olive oil. I spent time with some children who lived down the street. We would usually gather around their houses, but one time we were at mine, and we entered the large rooms with barrels of wine and olive oil. We played for a while, and then everyone went home. I don’t remember the details clearly, but at one point, my dad came and accused me of something. Apparently, I had opened the barrel valves, causing many gallons of wine to spill onto the floor. Then, he beat me. I don’t remember the full story, but that’s what I was led to believe for many years. I know I didn’t do it, because I wouldn’t mess with something like that. It was probably the children I spent time with. I was so overwhelmed by accusations and jokes about the incident that, over time, I started to believe it.
It was December 2002, and the Christmas and New Year holidays were approaching My friends and I bought some small firecrackers, and we had a lot of fun. We would place the firecrackers in various holes to create a bigger ‘boom.’ We also tried lining up 10-15 of them in a row for a bigger explosion. Some of us, myself included, would test our bravery by lighting a firecracker and holding it by the tip of our fingers, letting it explode in our hands. On New Year’s Eve, my parents went out to dinner. My siblings were already asleep, and only my grandparents were at home. Just before midnight, I went outside to light firecrackers. I ran into the kids who had spilled the wine earlier, and they were with me on the street. When the clock struck midnight, we started lighting firecrackers, and the whole suburb erupted in fireworks. As we lit and threw firecrackers, we gradually walked toward the house of my neighbor, who was also my classmate. I spotted him on the top floor of his house, standing on the balcony with his family, also tossing firecrackers. I wished my neighbor a Happy New Year and then went home.
As I entered, the fireworks and firecrackers had stopped, and I enjoyed the sudden silence. In that moment, I thought to myself, ‘I wish I were somewhere else, at a party with some cool people.’ My neighbor seemed to have that, at least he was with his family. For the first time, I felt the need to be somewhere where everything was perfect, somewhere I felt wanted and loved. I longed for an escape from reality, so I switched on the TV, and Total Recall had just started. It was a 1990 sci-fi movie about a man on a mission to Mars, tasked with liberating the planet. The film was filled with violence and was probably inappropriate for someone my age, but with no one around to stop me, I watched it and enjoyed every moment until the end.
That winter, I fell ill with a fever, and the experience was deeply unpleasant—I just wanted it to end. When I slept, I had strange and vague dreams, unlike my usual pleasant ones that I’d wake up remembering fondly. In those feverish dreams, I found myself in the middle of a cemetery at night, with indistinct voices of people talking in the background.
My uncle, who lived upstairs, owned a PlayStation 1. It was connected to an old TV in his closet, and we spent hours playing classic games. Even now, I can still recall the distinct smell of the vintage console. He also had a Walkman with headphones, powered by batteries. One night, I accidentally left it on overnight, and he was angry with me the next day. My father brought home a personal computer (PC) with the Windows 98 operating system. He primarily needed it for his day job and also for his duties as a secretary at the local soccer club on Saturdays. While tools like Excel or Internet Explorer didn’t interest me, I was eager to play games. Back then, games were simple but entertaining. I enjoyed playing 2D games like Dyna Blaster, while my dad would often play pinball.
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