Oop's another chapter! Just joking, Enjoy!

He was eight Again, The boy's arms encircled his little brother Pitir and his even younger sister Irina. They were hidden in the back of the closet but he could still hear the shouting and breaking glass, the boy heard his mother's soft voice rising trying to calm his father down. Then the harsh drunken voice of his father shouting, he wanted to go out to protect his mother, but she had told him to take Irina and Pitir and go to the closet. Irina sniffled quietly, tears and snot running down her face and soaking into the boy's shirt, Pitir was quiet his small hand clutched his brother's arm tightly and the boy felt it tighten convulsively as the noise got louder and closer. He heard his father ask his mother "where are the kids, you don't hide my own kids from me!" His mother said something to soft to hear and his father shouted an obscenity, the yelling started again in earnest, his father's shouts laced liberally with invectives. His mother screamed and he couldn't take it, he knew what he had to do "Pitir, Irina stay here" he said disentangling them from him and standing up, moving towards the door, he paused his hand on the door knob, he looked back into the gloom of the dark closet and said "don't come out until I or Ma come to get you" somewhere from the dark he heard his brother's whispered Reply of "da". Then he stepped out. His father's back was to him, so he didn't see him at first, he moved away from the closet so his father wouldn't know where he had come from. His mother who was standing in front of his father, moved to avoid a piece of glass that his father threw and saw Chekov standing there, her eyes widened as she silently pleaded with him to go back and hide. He could see a bruise forming on her face where his father had struck her and numerous cuts and bruises on her arms where she had tried to fend off his drunken blows. His father turned around to see who she was looking at and saw him standing there. "There you are" his father said slurring the words "where's Irina and Pitir".

"Outside in the barn" he lied to his father. "Outside in the barn" his father repeated his face darkening with drunken anger. "You are the oldest damn it, you don't leave them outside by themselves". "I-I-I" the boy stuttered "was just feeding the cows and they wanted to watch so-"The boy's words were cut off as a string of swearwords issued forth from his father "you need to learn some responsibility you little sh-"His father moved toward him, his hand raised, his mother rushed forward and grabbed the arm to try to hold him back, his father jerked his arm free sending his mother backwards. His mother picked herself up of the floor, a thin stream of blood trickled down the side of her face where glass ha cut her. "Andrei, No he's only eight!." His father turned to look at his mother a look of rage clearly evident on his face. "When I was eight I did more than him, I took care of things!" His father turned back to him "You need to learn things the hard way." His father struck the boy across the jaw he felt something crack, the boy tasted blood in his mouth, his mother screamed his name, then he was falling and everything went dark.

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Chekov sat up straight a strangled scream coming from his lips, his bed sheets were soaked with cold sweat and twisted around him, he had been having nightmares every time he slept for weeks, he couldn't even remember the last time he had slept well. He was thankful that his roommate wasn't here to witness this. He had avoided sleeping whenever the other ensign was around, when after one night he had awakened both of them with his screams, some nights he claimed that he wasn't tired and others he was with a girl. When in reality he had sat awake in a deserted corner of one of the Rec decks trying to stay awake to keep the nightmares from coming and the rush of memories that followed after, until he was too tired and succumbed to sleep. The dream was the last memory he had of his mother before she died. Nightmares of the day his mother had died alternated with memories of the failed attempt to transport Spock's mother from Vulcan and the other times that people had died because of him. The guilt gripped him tightly like a vise; memories rising up continually to recriminate him with the consequences of his failures.

He gripped the sheets tightly his knuckles white, trying to avoid remembering as image after image erupted in his mind, and bile filled his mouth. He barely succeeded in untangling himself from the damp sheets and making it to the toilet, before he was sick. Afterwards, he leaned back resting against the shower stall and let the cold metal soak into him, as the memories played themselves over in his head and his stomach dry heaved briefly, causing his mouth to fill with a bitter taste. He had thought about going to sickbay to get something to help, but that would have meant explaining why he needed it in the first place and he had no desire to relive any of this. He slowly picked himself up as his stomach settled, and walked on rubbery legs to the sink he turned on the cold water letting it run over his fingers, he looked in the mirror his face was gaunt, dark circles encircled his eyes, his eyes were rimmed red with tiredness, bruises still remained from his fight earlier. He was falling apart, ever since the Narada incident, something had been awakened in him that he thought he had put behind him. He splashed the cold water on his face trying to clear his mind of the guilt and shame that filled him.

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He was sitting on the edge of his bed; He looked at the bottle, running his fingertips around the rim and down the label. One of the engineering crew had given two bottles to him as a joke a few weeks ago, claiming all Russians liked Vodka even though he had told him he didn't drink. Instead of throwing the bottles away he had kept them, tucked away in the back of the cabinets near his bed. For the past few nights he had pulled one out, contemplating drinking it until he was no longer plagued by the memories that haunted him and collapsed into a dreamless oblivion. While one part saw it as his escape the other, the other saw it as a prison that he wanted nothing to do with it. He wouldn't become like his father. His hands trembled as he put it down but instead of throwing it into the disposal chute he found himself tucking it back in his hiding place. He looked at the chronometer on the wall and saw that in a few hours it would be time for his bridge shift, he was incredibly tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep, but dreaded what would happen if he did. Instead he pulled himself up and started putting the cabin to rights before his roommate came back from his shift. The sour stench of guilt and shame still permeated the air.

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