April 22nd, 1983, The cold, damp air clung to me as I stood in the sea of motionless bodies. Fear was palpable, a presence that wound its way through the crowd like smoke, choking any hope of resistance. The makeshift stage loomed ahead—its sharp edges harsh against the gray light of the morning. The regime wasted no time. Overnight, they had erected this platform of horror as effortlessly as they crushed lives beneath their boots. General Igor stood at the center of it all, his uniform spotless, his posture commanding. His voice rose above us, amplified by speakers that hissed and crackled like sinister whispers. "Those who go against the Great Soviet Union and the People's Republic of China will face instant death," he declared. His tone was detached, as if he were reading a weather report rather than condemning lives.
I couldn't take my eyes off the family on the stage. A woman, her two children, and an elderly figure who must have been the young man's father—they stood like statues carved from despair. The mother's shoulders were rigid, her chin lifted as though defiance was all she had left. The children's faces were pale and streaked with tears, their small hands clutching at her skirt as if she could shield them from the inevitable. The elderly man's eyes were empty, lost to a grief so profound it seemed to have hollowed him out entirely. My chest tightened, and I felt my nails digging into my palms. No. Please don't do this. Let them go. The words screamed inside me, but my lips didn't move. They couldn't. To speak here was suicide. I bit down hard, the metallic tang of blood blooming on my tongue as I fought to silence my own mind. My knees threatened to give way beneath me, but I locked them in place. To collapse would draw attention, and attention was fatal.
The General's voice droned on, a mockery of justice. "Look upon the traitor's family. They stand before you as an example." His gloved hand swept toward them with theatrical flourish. "We will not tolerate disloyalty. Their actions—" he spat the word as if it were filth, "—endanger the unity we have built. They are to be executed for their disloyalty." I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw myself forward, to beg for their lives, to do anything but stand here like a coward. But I didn't move. I couldn't. My feet felt as though they were rooted to the frozen ground. My thoughts churned in a torrent of guilt and rage. Why am I still here? Why am I not doing something?
The sound of a rifle being loaded snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. Four soldiers stepped forward, their movements mechanical, their faces devoid of emotion. Each one took aim, the black barrels of their rifles aligned with the family. I clenched my fists tighter, my breath catching in my throat. No. No, no, no. The mother pulled her children closer, her trembling hands stroking their hair as though she could shield them from what was to come. The elderly man stood straighter, his hollow eyes staring directly ahead. The first shot shattered the silence, and I flinched violently, my entire body recoiling as though the bullet had torn through me too. The second shot followed, then the third, and the fourth—each one more deafening than the last.
The sickening thuds of bodies hitting the stage floor echoed in my ears, louder than anything else. I couldn't breathe. My chest felt like it was caving in, a black hole swallowing the air around me. The crowd around me was utterly silent, their faces blank masks of terror. But behind their eyes, I could see it—the same helpless rage, the same gnawing guilt that consumed me. The General's voice boomed again, but I didn't hear the words. The world around me blurred, the edges of reality softening into a haze of red and gray. My gaze was fixed on the stage, on the four still forms crumpled there, their blood pooling beneath them. This is what they do, I thought bitterly, my nails digging so deeply into my palms that I felt the skin break. They don't just kill people—they kill hope. They make us watch as they destroy everything good, everything human.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away. Don't cry. Don't let them see. My jaw tightened, and I forced my expression into something neutral, something that wouldn't betray the storm raging inside me. But as I stood there, my body trembling and my soul screaming, a single thought began to take shape—small and fragile, but persistent. This can't go on. I can't just stand here anymore. If we don't fight back, who will? The General's words faded into the background as my resolve hardened. The family's faces burned into my memory, their final moments etched into my soul. I didn't know what I could do, or if I would survive long enough to do anything at all. But one thing was certain: I couldn't be a silent witness any longer.
The typewriter sat in its usual place, an unyielding presence in the corner of the room. It loomed there like a silent judge, its cold metal frame reflecting the dim light filtering through the cracked window. I stared at it, my hands trembling at my sides. Lies. Murderers. Demons. Each word reverberated in my skull, growing louder, fiercer, until they were all I could hear. I forced myself to sit, the chair creaking softly beneath me. The paper before me was painfully white, unmarked, mocking me with its potential to become yet another weapon of propaganda. My fingers hovered over the keys, and for a brief, furious moment, I considered throwing the entire machine out the window. But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came. The consequences were clear. My family's faces floated into my mind, unbidden and vivid. Their lives weren't theirs anymore; they were leverage, chains forged by the regime to ensure compliance. Betray them, and my family would suffer as the young man's had.
The words I had written earlier stared back at me, bold and vile. I hated them, hated what they represented. I hated that my hands had brought them into existence. The traitors of the state, I had typed, the letters sharp and unforgiving. Beneath that, a column of names—names of people who had died because they dared to hope, to resist. I tore the paper from the typewriter and crumpled it, hurling it toward the corner where similar wads of paper lay scattered like casualties of my conscience. I tried again. The keys clattered beneath my fingers, the sound jarring in the suffocating silence of my apartment. But my mind was a storm of rage and anguish, my thoughts colliding with one another. I couldn't focus. My hands hesitated, my chest tightening as I fought the urge to scream. How can I write this? How can I let them use me like this?
The paper came out again, its edges torn from my force, and I pressed my fist against my forehead, digging my knuckles into my skin. My tears spilled freely now, hot and stinging, falling onto the desk and smearing the ink. My breath hitched as a sob rose in my throat, and I clamped my hand over my mouth, terrified that someone might hear. Cowards! The word tore through my mind like a curse. They wouldn't know the meaning of loyalty if it stared them in the face. Every sentence, every paragraph they demanded of me was another blow to my soul. Loyalty? No, what they demanded was submission, obedience at the cost of humanity. The typewriter's presence seemed to grow heavier, oppressive, as though it mocked my indecision. I wanted to destroy it. To rip its pieces apart and scatter them into the void. But the weight of the regime's hold on me pinned my arms to my sides. The thought of my family—of their faces contorted in fear and pain—stayed my hand. My rage simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over, but I swallowed it down. You have to survive, I told myself, my voice trembling in the emptiness of the room. If you can survive, you can fight another day. But not like this. Not yet. I smoothed a fresh sheet of paper and rolled it into the typewriter. The machine stared back at me, indifferent to my struggle. My fingers began to move, slower this time, each key press a betrayal, each word a scar on my conscience. My tears didn't stop, but I kept going. For my family, for their safety, I would keep going—until I found a way to make these bastards pay.