April 18th 1983, The typewriter sat on the desk, cold and unfeeling, waiting for the next lie to be stamped onto its blank page. "Soviets Liberate America—" I froze. My hands hovered over the keys, trembling as if they could no longer bear the weight of what they were commanded to do. The air in the apartment was thick, stale. For a moment, the silence was deafening. The typewriter seemed to glare at me, silent and judgmental, its presence growing oppressive. How could you make me write that horrible lie, Suzanne? The unspoken accusation gnawed at my frayed nerves. It was suffocating. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in on me, the peeling wallpaper curling at the edges like they too sought to escape. My chair creaked softly as I pushed back, unable to face the emotionless machine a second longer. This was not writing—this was betrayal masquerading as work. Each lie I typed brought me one step closer to losing myself, to forgetting who I used to be.
Once, my hands had been guided by passion, by a desire to fight for something meaningful. I had written about freedom—the kind you could feel in the wind as you stood on the cliffs of Étretat, or in the determined voices of women marching through Paris for their rights. My journals had captured the profound beauty of the world: wildlife thriving in the French countryside, sunrises that kissed the lavender fields, and the quiet courage of people yearning for change. Those words had been my armor. Now, they felt like relics from a life I could no longer claim. Outside, the city sat in eerie silence, but it was never truly quiet. The faint hum of surveillance drones patrolling the skies was a constant reminder of the watchful eyes above. A poster plastered across the wall of the neighboring building proclaimed triumphantly, in bold, merciless lettering: "Unity Through Strength." Below it, a makeshift checkpoint stood, manned by soldiers with grim faces and sharper eyes. No one moved through the streets at night unless they had a death wish—or something far worse to fear.
Soviet and Chinese soldiers roamed unchecked. Their red armbands were more than symbols of power; they were badges of their monstrous cruelty. These men were not merely conquerors—they were predators. To them, women were trophies, disposable and voiceless. The thought made my stomach churn, the bile rising as I remembered the horrors I had seen. Every night, the screams echoed through the concrete jungle. Each cry was a dagger to the soul, followed by the grotesque laughter of their tormentors. Those red demons reveled in their crimes, their laughter slicing through the darkness like a blunt blade. There was no escape, not for those poor souls dragged from their homes. Hell awaited those monsters, of that I was certain. I paced the cramped apartment, my heart pounding as I tried to shake the images from my mind. My gaze flicked to the window, and I pulled the curtains tighter. Even here, behind these flimsy walls, I could never feel safe. My eyes darted toward the mattress, where my defiance lay buried. Beneath it, my notebook rested, filled with words I could never allow anyone to see. Truths I couldn't speak aloud. Stories of hope I clung to like a lifeline.
The typewriter loomed in my peripheral vision, its blank page still mocking me. If I didn't finish the report soon, someone would come knocking. That's how it worked. Hesitation meant suspicion, and suspicion meant interrogation—or worse. Then, a knock shattered the oppressive silence. Three sharp raps echoed through the room, heavy with intent. My pulse spiked, my breath catching in my throat. I stood frozen, every nerve in my body on edge. No one visited me. No one dared to risk the attention of the patrols. A second knock followed, louder this time, and more impatient. With shaken hands, I spoke again, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Who is there?" My voice cracked, barely audible. A reply came, sharp and commanding. "Open the door!" The voice carried a thick Russian accent, each word laced with the weight of authority. My chest tightened, my pulse quickening. It was never a good sign when a soldier appeared at your door. People vanished overnight—neighbors, colleagues, friends. Their apartments remained untouched, their belongings frozen in time as if waiting for someone who would never return. I took a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and stepped toward the door. My hand trembled as I gripped the handle, my mind racing with possibilities. What had I done to draw their attention? Had someone reported me? Did they know about the notebook hidden beneath my mattress? The door creaked open, and the eyes of a demon met mine. He was tall and broad-shouldered, a Soviet soldier whose presence filled the doorway. His gaze was cold, unyielding, never leaving mine, as though he could see straight through me to every secret I tried to hide. The red armband on his uniform was vivid in the dim light, a chilling reminder of the power he represented.
"Mademoiselle Rousseau," he said, my last name a bitter contrast to his thick accent. The sound of it left me cold, as though he had dragged a piece of my identity into his grasp. "You are required to cover next week's media page for the General's birthday." His words were sharp, clipped, with no room for refusal. "He expects perfection. No mistakes. Is that understood?" I nodded, the action reflexive, my voice momentarily lost. The General—General Igor. The name alone was enough to send shivers down my spine. Writing for his birthday meant crafting yet another piece of propaganda, another lie to prop up the regime. But I knew better than to resist. "And," the soldier continued, his tone dropping into something even more menacing, "you will attend Russian classes in the future. No English. No French. Russian and Chinese are now the state-ordered languages. Do you understand?"
My stomach twisted at his words, and a bitter taste rose in my throat. No English. No French. My native tongue, stripped from me as though it were a crime to speak it. Language was power, identity, and now they sought to erase even that. My voice was barely steady as I replied, "Oui… I understand." The soldier's eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, as though daring me to challenge him. When I didn't, he stepped back, his boots heavy against the wooden floor of the hallway. "Do not disappoint us," he said, and then he was gone, his figure disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. I closed the door slowly, the lock clicking into place with a finality that left me breathless. My legs trembled beneath me as I sank into the nearest chair, my head falling into my hands. The General's birthday. Russian classes. The erasure of my language, my identity. They were not satisfied with controlling my words—they wanted to control the very essence of who I was.
"No, please stay away from me!" The desperate cry pierced the stillness of the night, sharp and raw. My breath caught as I froze in place, every muscle in my body tensing. Outside, the sounds of mocking laughter echoed, cruel and unrelenting. Russian voices mingled with the occasional Chinese accent, their taunts cutting through the air like jagged glass. Another poor woman was being tormented, her pleas drowned out by the jeers of her captors. I moved to the window, my hands trembling as I pulled the curtain back just enough to see. The street below was dimly lit, the flickering light from a nearby lamppost casting long, distorted shadows. A group of soldiers surrounded her, their uniforms dark and imposing. She was young, barely more than a girl, her face pale with terror as she tried to shield herself from their advances.
"What's the matter, American? You no like Soviet men?" one of them sneered, his English broken but deliberate. The hypocrisy of it burned in my chest. They forbade the use of English, yet here they were, wielding it as a weapon to mock and humiliate. Though it wasn't my native tongue, their taunts filled me with a rage so fierce it threatened to consume me. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I fought the urge to scream. I was powerless to stop it. To intervene would be suicide, and yet the helplessness was unbearable. My mind raced with thoughts of what I could do, but every option ended the same way—with me joining her in their cruel game. The laughter grew louder, more grotesque, as one of the soldiers grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him. She stumbled, her cries muffled as she tried to resist. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to look away, to close the curtain and block out the horror, but I couldn't. To turn away felt like a betrayal, as though I were abandoning her to their cruelty.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. Crying wouldn't help her. It wouldn't change anything. The world outside my window was a nightmare, and I was trapped in it, powerless to wake up. The soldiers' laughter faded as they dragged her down the street, their voices growing distant until only the faint hum of a drone remained. I let the curtain fall back into place, my hands trembling as I stepped away from the window. My chest heaved with shallow breaths, the rage and helplessness swirling inside me like a storm. The sounds of her screams lingered long after she was dragged away, echoing through the night like a haunting refrain. The mocking laughter of the soldiers followed, sharp and cruel, cutting through the oppressive silence of the city. My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white with the force of it.
"Monsters!" The word seared through my mind, but even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't enough. Monsters were creatures of myth, of nightmares conjured by the imagination. These men were worse—demons, nothing but demons in human form. Their laughter was a grotesque symphony of cruelty, a sound that would haunt me long after the night was over. The woman couldn't have been more than twenty-one. Her voice, so young and desperate, had carried a rawness that spoke of innocence shattered. She would be dead by morning. I knew it as surely as I knew the sun would rise. The soldiers didn't leave survivors—not after they had taken what they wanted.