April 17th, 1983. The rain pelted the ferry's steel deck, blurring the unforgiving glare of Soviet searchlights that swept across the harbor. New York was shrouded in darkness and mist, its streets under the boots of conquerors, its skyline littered with banners declaring the triumph of a global regime. Around me, the passengers stood silent, terror palpable in every motionless figure. Ahead, Lady Liberty awaited her destruction, explosives rigged to her base, a grotesque mockery of what she once represented. I tightened my grip on my notebook. I had carried it from Paris, through smuggler's routes and underground networks, seeking refuge in America only to find it now under the same iron grip I had fled.
The Soviets controlled Europe, North America, and Northern Africa, while their allies, the Chinese, governed Asia, the Middle East, Oceania, South America, and Southern Africa. Together, the two empires had forged an unyielding global dominion, united not by ideology but by the cold calculus of power. What set them apart from the world they crushed was their technology—an arsenal beyond imagination that rendered traditional resistance futile. Soviet forces had perfected cyber sabotage decades ahead of anyone else. They infiltrated and controlled American systems remotely, from its power grids to missile defenses, turning the nation's own technology against it. Drone fleets patrolled the skies, capable of precision strikes on targets identified by AI surveillance, leaving no room for guerrilla tactics to succeed.
Meanwhile, the Chinese brought their mastery of social control, deploying facial recognition systems paired with behavioral analysis algorithms that mapped and predicted the thoughts of entire populations. They installed towers equipped with mind-scanning technology, purportedly capable of detecting dissident thoughts before they became actions.
In America, these technologies worked in tandem, crushing rebellion at its conception. The Soviets' use of electromagnetic weaponry had incapacitated entire military bases without a single shot fired. Tactical EMP devices neutralized aircraft, vehicles, and communication systems in mere seconds, leaving defense forces blind and powerless. Once the infrastructure was paralyzed, armies of autonomous tanks and robotic infantry swept in, ensuring swift and efficient occupation.
America's economic collapse had been similarly orchestrated, combining Soviet cyber attacks with Chinese trade disruptions. The famine was engineered—agricultural drones poisoned crops across the Midwest, while financial algorithms manipulated stock markets to create chaos. The people were left desperate and divided, ripe for conquest. As I stood on the ferry, Lady Liberty's dim torch came into view through the rain—a flicker of defiance in a world that had forgotten the meaning of freedom. Around me, Soviet soldiers patrolled the deck, their rifles slung casually as though they carried no more weight than umbrellas. One of them passed close, his eyes cold, and I felt his gaze sweep over me like a predator assessing prey. I lowered my head and gripped my notebook tighter, as though I could shield my thoughts from the scanning towers that lined the shore.
The loudspeaker crackled. Midnight. That was when the explosives would detonate, tearing Lady Liberty apart in a final demonstration of absolute control. Her destruction was not merely symbolic; it was a declaration that resistance was futile, that hope was obsolete. The ferry shuddered as it docked. The passengers moved like shadows, heads bowed, silent in the rain. Around us, surveillance drones hovered, their cameras whirring softly, capturing every detail of our movements. No one dared a wrong step, a miscalculated glance, a whisper that might be detected. As we disembarked, Lady Liberty loomed behind us, her light fading into the mist. Midnight was coming, and with it, her annihilation. But the fire in my chest refused to die. They could destroy her, but they could never extinguish the stories she inspired. The harbor was alive with motion—soldiers patrolling with precision, drones humming overhead, and vehicles idling at strategic points, their engines rumbling like caged beasts. The Soviet and Chinese flags fluttered boldly from makeshift poles, casting long shadows over the throngs of subdued civilians. Towering above it all, Lady Liberty stood as the centerpiece of this spectacle, her proud visage awaiting annihilation beneath the cold rain and merciless scrutiny of her captors.
The Soviets and Chinese had ensured no detail was overlooked in this display of absolute power. Surveillance towers lined the perimeter, their cameras scanning every face for signs of dissent. Armed soldiers formed rings around the crowd, their rifles gleaming, their presence oppressive. The harbor itself had been transformed into a stage of conquest—a sprawling mix of steel, rain, and fear where freedom's last remnants were to be snuffed out. Propaganda banners hung from cranes and walls, their bold slogans declaring a new dawn of unity and prosperity under the Soviet-Chinese alliance. Broadcast screens played clips of cheering crowds from other occupied cities, carefully curated to paint a picture of acceptance and liberation. Lies. Every image was a lie. Among the gathered civilians, no one dared speak or move unnecessarily. Families clung to each other, their expressions hollow, their postures stiff under the watchful eyes of their oppressors. Around me, whispers of prayers mingled with the sound of rain—pleas for protection, for salvation, for miracles that would never come.
Behind the barricades, a team of Soviet engineers worked on the detonator, their tools clicking and sparking in sharp contrast to the silence surrounding them. The explosives had been rigged days ago, secured by a joint task force of Soviet and Chinese specialists. Their placement was meticulous, designed to not only destroy the statue but to spread debris far enough to disable the harbor itself. Then, the crowd hushed further—a stillness so complete it felt suffocating. The air shifted, heavy with anticipation. From the center of the platform, a man emerged, his figure imposing even before he spoke.
General Igor appeared, stepping onto the platform with a presence that seemed to darken the night itself. I had heard his name whispered in fear since Paris fell—a man known not for battles won but for the lives destroyed in his wake. He was not just a conqueror; he was a butcher. He had overseen massacres that wiped out entire villages in the name of "cleansing," leaving streets painted red in his wake.
From where I stood in the crowd, I could see the sharp gleam of medals on his chest. They shone as if proud, though I knew they were less for valor and more for the atrocities they represented. My breath caught as his cold gaze scanned over us, his eyes calculating and predatory. When his voice rang out, amplified by the loudspeakers, it was sharp and unyielding, each word meant to break what little spirit remained. "Today marks the victory for the Soviet Union and China," Igor declared, his words cutting through the thick air. He sounded as though he spoke an undeniable truth, not a declaration of tyranny. "We stand here today to bring this icon of oppression down and liberate the American people!" His hand swept toward Lady Liberty, her shadow looming behind him, wires glinting from the explosives that hugged her base. A symbol of freedom turned into a grotesque display of their control. Around me, no one moved. No one dared. Every person was frozen in silent fear, breaths held, eyes downcast. "For too long," he continued, his tone rising, "this statue has stood as a lie. A monument to division and inequality. But no more. Tonight, we erase the falsehoods of the past and usher in a new era—an era of unity and strength, under the banner of the Soviet Union and China."
I clenched my fists tight, the words sickening me as they spilled from his mouth. Unity? Strength? These were the banners under which they had slaughtered innocents, razed cities, and extinguished hope across nations. I glanced around the crowd—faces pale, shoulders trembling. Behind me, a muffled sob escaped a child before his mother hushed him, her hand covering his small face protectively. Igor smiled then—a slow, cruel smile that didn't reach his eyes. He raised one gloved hand, signaling to the soldiers at the detonator. They moved in perfect synchronicity, their rifles slung casually as if this were another mundane task. "Let this serve as a reminder," Igor said, his voice dropping to a tone almost intimate, yet no less terrifying. "Resistance is futile. Hope is obsolete. Strength belongs to us." As the clock struck midnight, the detonator's sharp click echoed through the harbor, followed by a deafening roar that seemed to split the very air. The first explosion tore through Lady Liberty's base, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The ground beneath her shuddered violently, and cracks spiderwebbed up her proud form, splitting her foundation like fragile glass. Her torch, once a beacon of hope, was the first to fall. It toppled in slow, agonizing motion, the golden flame extinguished as it plummeted into the harbor below. The water erupted in a geyser of spray and debris, the sound of the impact reverberating like a death knell.
The second explosion followed, more powerful than the first, ripping through her midsection. Her arm, outstretched in eternal defiance, snapped at the elbow, the severed limb crashing down onto the platform where Igor stood. He didn't flinch, his cold smile unwavering as the chaos unfolded around him. The statue's head tilted unnaturally, the crown that had once welcomed millions now crumbling piece by piece. Shards of copper and steel rained down, slicing through the air like shrapnel. The crowd flinched collectively, some shielding their faces, others frozen in place, their horror too great to process. Finally, the third and final explosion erupted at her base, a blast so powerful it sent a shockwave through the harbor, knocking several people to their knees. Lady Liberty's torso collapsed inward, her once-proud form folding like a house of cards. The sound was a cacophony of grinding metal and splintering stone, a symphony of destruction that drowned out even the storm.
As her remains plunged into the water, the harbor was consumed by chaos. Waves surged outward, slamming against the docks and drenching the crowd. Smoke and dust billowed into the air, obscuring the scene in a choking haze. The torch's remnants floated briefly before sinking beneath the surface, swallowed by the depths. Igor stepped forward, his boots crunching over the debris that had scattered across the platform. His voice cut through the din, calm and unyielding. "Freedom is a lie," he declared, his words carrying over the stunned silence. "Unity is strength. And strength belongs to us." The crowd began to disperse, their movements slow and mechanical, as though the destruction had drained them of whatever will they had left. I stood frozen, my notebook clutched tightly against my chest. The image of Lady Liberty's fall burned into my mind, a symbol of hope reduced to rubble and ash.
(ooo)
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.
(ooo)
April 19th, 1983, the echoes of Soviet propaganda drilled into my ears as their triumphant anthem blared through the streets, defiling the silence like an uninvited specter. It wasn't enough that they had shattered us—they had to poison every corner of our lives, even the air we breathed. The music grated on my nerves, each note a cruel reminder of what they had stolen from us. All other music—all films, books, and art that didn't fit their narrative—were erased as if they had never existed. Los Angeles, once a beacon of creativity and freedom, was now a graveyard. I had read about the massacre—six thousand people, slaughtered like cattle for daring to fight back against their monstrous machines. Even the city's brightest stars, the faces and voices that had once inspired millions, were dragged into the mud. Some bowed, stripped of pride and dignity, reduced to puppets for Soviet propaganda. Others were executed for refusing to perform. Their blood stained the streets, invisible yet omnipresent.
My hands flew across the typewriter's keys as though my life depended on it—because it did. Each keystroke sent shivers down my spine, the cold mechanical clicks filling the suffocating silence of my apartment. The blank paper had transformed into a battlefield, demanding lies that burned into its surface like scars on my soul. I had already typed the headline: "Soviets Liberate America!" My stomach turned at the sight of those words, their bold declaration mocking everything I held dear. But there was no room for hesitation. They were watching. They were always watching. Beneath the headline, the report took shape with precise, cold language, mirroring the regime's demands. I forced myself to write about the General's "unifying leadership" and the "strength of the Soviet-Chinese alliance," though every word felt like sandpaper against my tongue. I described the statues being torn down, the banners raised high, and the people "celebrating their liberation." Lies. All lies. The truth was etched in the faces I saw on the streets every day—hollow eyes, bowed heads, and shoulders weighed down by despair. But that truth belonged to my notebook, hidden safely beneath the mattress.
The details came mechanically, my mind detaching itself from the act as though my fingers were no longer mine. I painted their false narrative carefully, knowing that one error could cost me my life. Typos were unforgivable. Missed deadlines were mortal sins. When I finally yanked the page free from the typewriter, the adrenaline coursing through me felt like a sickness. I stared at the paper, bile rising in my throat. The lies stared back, stark and undeniable, demanding my submission. I placed the completed report on the desk, aligning it perfectly to avoid suspicion. The weight of the task lifted slightly, but I knew it wasn't over. My gaze drifted to the clock. The soldier's words from last night echoed in my mind: "You will attend Russian classes in the future. No English. No French." My stomach twisted at the thought. They weren't just taking our words—they were erasing our voices, replacing them with the cold, clipped syllables of their own language. I exhaled shakily. Okay, now I need to attend Russian classes. There was no choice. Refusal meant death.
As I descended the narrow staircase to the apartment entrance, the folder tucked securely under my arm, my chest felt constricted, as if the walls were closing in with every step. The paper inside bore the lies I had just written—words I despised, yet words I knew might keep me alive for another day. My fingers tightened around the folder, the edge of it digging into my palm like a dull blade. The entrance was guarded, as always. Two soldiers stood there, rifles slung casually across their shoulders, their faces devoid of emotion. I flashed my badge—the one emblazoned with the Soviet crest—and their eyes flicked briefly to the folder before they waved me forward. Even with the badge, their gazes lingered, as if searching for any crack in my mask of obedience.
"You're late," one of them barked in broken English, his Russian accent thick and harsh. I forced a meek nod, suppressing the retort that burned on the tip of my tongue. Time was not my ally here; survival depended on submission, on playing the part they demanded. Outside, the air was heavy with dampness, the distant hum of drones punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of boots against asphalt. Two more soldiers fell in step beside me—one Russian and one Chinese—forming an escort that left no doubt about my position. As we moved down the street, I clutched the folder tighter, its weight seemingly growing with each step. The city was alive with the sounds of military might. My gaze was drawn to the road ahead, where two tanks rumbled forward like metallic beasts, their treads grinding against the cracked pavement. The street quaked beneath their massive bulk, and I felt the vibrations through the soles of my shoes. Behind them marched a formation of soldiers, a grim display of the regime's global reach. Their uniforms bore a mix of flags: Cuban, North Korean, Nicaraguan. Allies of the Soviet-Chinese alliance, their loyalty forged through fear and power. Their faces were as unreadable as stone, yet the weight of their presence was suffocating.
The streets were barren, except for scattered groups of workers trudging toward their assignments. Their eyes were fixed on the ground, their postures hunched with exhaustion and resignation. Overhead, surveillance drones floated like vultures, their cameras swiveling incessantly, capturing every shadow, every breath. We arrived at the printing office after what felt like an eternity. The entrance was flanked by yet another pair of guards, their rifles gleaming ominously in the faint sunlight. One of them motioned for me to halt and extended his hand. I handed over the folder, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. He opened it, his eyes scanning the printed report with a detachment that made my skin crawl. When he nodded and handed it back, a small part of me exhaled. I had passed this test, but I knew more lay ahead. "Move," the Russian soldier behind me commanded, his voice sharp enough to cut. Without a word, I complied, stepping into the dimly lit interior of the printing office.
The sound of machinery filled the space—a monotonous hum punctuated by the occasional clatter of paper being fed into the presses. The air was thick with ink and sweat, a cloying mixture that settled uneasily in my lungs. The workers at the printing press didn't look up. They moved mechanically, their hands ink-stained and trembling as they fed the machine. I wondered if they, too, had typed their lies before bringing them here. Were they like me, trapped between survival and defiance? Or had they already surrendered entirely?
Within the cramped, dimly lit office, a woman sat rigidly behind a desk, her uniform impeccable, her expression carved from stone. The Soviet insignia on her shoulder glinted faintly under the flickering overhead light. Her gaze pinned me the moment I stepped through the doorway, cold and unwavering. "If I am not mistaken, madam, you were meant to arrive here on time—not keep the soldiers waiting!" she snapped, her voice sharp, fluent English tinged with a thick Russian accent. The disapproval in her tone hit like a slap, leaving no room for argument. "Hand me the papers and sit down," she barked, her hand outstretched expectantly. I nodded quickly, my hands tightening around the folder before I stepped forward and placed it in her grasp. She snatched it from me, her fingers closing around it with the efficiency of a predator taking its prey. Without another word, I moved to the chair opposite her desk, my eyes never leaving her face. I was so focused on her that I misjudged the seat and nearly missed it, barely catching myself before I toppled over. My cheeks burned, but I swallowed my embarrassment, lowering myself carefully and sitting as still as the air around us.
She opened the folder with brisk movements, her eyes scanning the document like a hawk searching for flaws. The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching into eternity as she flipped through the pages. Her expression remained unreadable until she finally let out a curt hum. "Hmm... no errors. Good. Spelling is top-notch," she muttered, her tone grudgingly approving. My shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, though the relief was short-lived. "And—" her tone shifted back to its sharp, barking quality—"I expect this to be rewritten in Russian by this time next year!" The declaration hit me like a blow, and I opened my mouth to respond instinctively. "Oui, madam," I said automatically, the French slipping out before I could stop it.
Her eyes snapped up, and her glare was like ice. "Oui?" she repeated, her voice laced with disdain. "No. You will respond in Russian. Is that clear?" My throat tightened. I nodded quickly, the words catching in my throat before I forced them out. "Da, tovarishch," I said, my accent clumsy but passable. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, her expression a mix of irritation and superiority, before she returned her attention to the document.
The woman rose abruptly, her movements sharp and commanding, as if the act of standing was itself a declaration of authority. Her uniform seemed to gleam under the flickering light, and her posture exuded rigid discipline. She leveled her gaze at me, the steel in her eyes sharp enough to cut. "I am from Belarus," she began, her voice cold and clipped, every syllable laced with pride. "And I have taken the time to study Russian for the motherland. I studied hard and worked tirelessly to praise our great Soviet leader, whose vision has brought unity and strength to nations that once stood divided." Her voice seemed to swell with reverence as she continued, her words sharp yet imbued with a fervor that made my skin crawl. "We are the architects of a new world—a world that is no longer tainted by the chaos of individualism, but united under the banner of progress and stability."
Her chest puffed slightly as she shifted her stance, her expression fierce and unyielding. "It is through devotion and sacrifice that we rise, madam—devotion to the Party, to the cause, and above all, to our great leader. While others cling to the remnants of a flawed, decadent system, we march forward, victorious. And I have spent years preparing myself to contribute to this triumph, even mastering languages that I was once told I could never learn, all for the glory of the Soviet Union." Her voice dropped into something colder, more commanding. "Even now, I have taken the time to speak to you in English," she said, her accent thick but her fluency impeccable. "But by orders, you will address those higher up in Russian. It is the language of strength. It is the voice of unity. Is that clear?" Her words landed like hammer blows, each one pounding into my mind with relentless force.
My fists tightened in my lap, my nails digging into my palms as I fought to keep my face neutral. I could feel the burn of frustration bubbling beneath the surface, a fury so intense I wanted to lash out. How dare she? Her arrogance was suffocating, her loyalty to the regime flaunted like a weapon. Were it not for the ever-present eyes watching my every move, the threat of a firing squad hanging over my head, I might have done something reckless—something irrevocable. My hand itched with the urge to slap the smugness from her face.
But I didn't. I couldn't. Instead, I forced myself to nod, my expression carefully blank. "Da, tovarishch," I said, my voice quiet but steady, the Russian words tasting foreign and bitter on my tongue. She stared at me for a moment longer, as if assessing my worthiness to even occupy the same air as her. Then, with a sharp exhale, she returned her attention to the papers on her desk, her approval grudging at best. I stayed seated, my body rigid, every muscle tense with the effort of maintaining composure. The room seemed colder now, the air heavy with unspoken menace. Somewhere outside, a drone hummed faintly, its mechanical presence a constant reminder that the world beyond this office was no safer than the one within.
(ooo)
April 20th, 1983, The classroom was a stark, lifeless shell of a space, stripped of any humanity or warmth. The walls were bare except for a single Soviet flag hanging at the front, its bold red and gold dominating the room with an almost oppressive presence. A blackboard stretched across one wall, where Cyrillic letters were scrawled in stark white chalk. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, their harsh glow casting an eerie pall over the already grim environment. At the front of the room, the instructor loomed like a shadow of control. His massive frame filled the space with an unspoken threat, his tailored uniform tight around his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The rifle slung casually across his back added weight to his intimidating presence, as if his sheer physicality weren't enough. His jawline, rigid and severe, gave him an almost statuesque quality, marred only by the deep scar running along his cheek—a cruel reminder of the battles he had undoubtedly survived. Every step he took sent sharp, heavy echoes through the room, and each of us flinched in unison.
I recognized him immediately. Two nights ago, his knock had shattered the silence of my apartment, and his sharp, clipped voice had sliced through what little remained of my resolve. "You will attend Russian classes," he had commanded, his words leaving no room for objection. "No English. No French. Russian and Chinese are the languages of unity." His piercing eyes, as unyielding as steel, had bored into me, scanning for any sign of defiance. Now, standing before us, he wielded a piece of chalk in one hand like it was a weapon. Each stroke on the board seemed deliberate, almost violent, as he wrote out the first phrase: Добрый день-dobry den. Beneath it, he added the English translation: Good day. "You will repeat after me," he barked, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. "Dobry den'."
The room murmured the phrase in a fractured chorus, our voices trembling and uneven. Beside me, a young woman stammered, her voice so shaky it nearly broke. She looked barely more than twenty, her wide, fearful eyes darting nervously around the room. Her hands gripped the edge of her desk as though holding herself steady. She was trembling so badly that my heart ached despite the oppressive fear weighing on me. Without thinking, I slid my hand under the desk, my fingers searching for hers. For a moment, she froze, startled by the unexpected contact. Her wide eyes met mine, and I offered her the smallest, most reassuring nod I could muster. Slowly, she reached out, her cold, trembling hand gripping mine like a lifeline. Her fingers clung desperately, and I squeezed gently in return, hoping to steady her. The instructor spun around suddenly, his eyes snapping toward our side of the room, and we both froze, releasing each other's hands instinctively. His glare swept over us, sharp and probing, like he could sniff out fear and uncertainty. My heart pounded as I forced myself to stare straight ahead, my face carefully neutral. After a tense moment, he returned to his pacing, his boots pounding against the floor with brutal precision. "Louder!" he roared, slamming the chalk onto the desk at the front of the room. The sound ricocheted through the silence, making us jump. "You are not children! Repeat with conviction!"
"Dobry den'," we chanted in unison, our voices louder now, though they still trembled. The woman beside me stumbled over the pronunciation, her fear palpable. The instructor's boots thudded toward us, each step reverberating like a drumbeat of dread. He stopped beside her desk, his shadow swallowing her whole. "Stand!" he barked, his voice shaking the air. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her notebook like it might shield her from his fury. "Say it again!" he commanded, his tone cold and unrelenting. "Dobry den'." Her lips quivered as she repeated the phrase, her voice barely above a whisper. "Louder!" he growled, his presence overwhelming, his scarred face only inches from hers. Her second attempt was stronger, though her voice still faltered. He stared her down for another agonizing moment before turning away with a grunt of disdain. "Unacceptable," he muttered, moving on as if she were no more than a speck in his periphery. She sank back into her seat, her cheeks streaked with silent tears.
The lesson dragged on with more phrases—polite responses, formal greetings, and the official way to say goodbye. Each word tasted bitter, a forced erasure of the languages and identities that tied us to our pasts. "Do not mumble!" the instructor snapped at another journalist, slamming his palm down onto the man's desk. "Speak clearly, or you will regret it!" His aggression hung over the room like a storm cloud, suffocating any attempt at resistance. By the time he finally declared, "Class dismissed," we were all slumped in our seats, drained and defeated. The young woman beside me gathered her belongings with trembling hands, her gaze fixed on the floor as if afraid to meet anyone's eyes. As she turned to leave, she paused for the briefest moment, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you," she said, the words fragile but sincere. I nodded, unable to speak. Words were dangerous here. Connections were dangerous. Yet, as I walked out of the room and into the cold, grey world beyond, I couldn't shake the feeling that the simple act of holding her hand had been a tiny flicker of rebellion—proof that even in the face of overwhelming darkness, humanity endured.
With the bathroom key cold in my hand, I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The faint creak echoed in the otherwise silent, sterile space. The air was damp and chilly, carrying a faint metallic tang that only added to the oppressive gloom. Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered weakly, casting harsh reflections on the cracked white tiles. Setting the key on the edge of the sink, I stared into the mirror, my reflection pale and haggard. My hair was messy, loose strands clinging to the sweat on my brow, and dark shadows lingered under my eyes. I exhaled shakily, finally releasing the breath I'd been holding since leaving the classroom.
I had barely begun reapplying my makeup—a feeble attempt at maintaining composure—when the faint sound of sobbing broke through the quiet. My hand froze mid-stroke, the lipstick trembling in my grasp. The sound was coming from one of the stalls, the door left slightly ajar. My stomach twisted as I recognized her—the young woman from the Russian lessons. Her slight frame was curled up on the floor, knees hugged tightly to her chest. She was shivering violently, her blouse too thin to protect her from the cold that pervaded the room. Her soft sobs were barely audible, but they carried the weight of someone unraveling. My heart ached as I watched her, small and vulnerable, as though the world had crushed the fight out of her entirely. "Are you alright, dear?" I asked gently, my voice hesitant but sincere. She flinched, her head snapping up to reveal wide, tear-filled eyes. Her face was flushed, streaked with tears that glistened under the fluorescent light. Her lips quivered as she opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she buried her face against her knees, her sobs muffled.
I hesitated, unsure if approaching her would only make things worse, but something about her vulnerability pulled me closer. Slowly, I crouched down, careful to keep my voice soft. "It's okay," I murmured. "You're safe here." At first, there was no response, just the quiet sound of her shaky breathing and the occasional hiccupped sob. Then, finally, her voice broke the silence, fragile and raw. "I... I didn't mean to mess up. I tried, I really did..." She shook her head furiously, as if to banish the memory. "He yelled at me. I thought—" Her voice cracked, and she couldn't continue. "You did nothing wrong," I said firmly, trying to steady her spiraling thoughts. "That man..." My voice faltered for a moment as I suppressed my own anger. "He's a brute, and his cruelty isn't your fault. You were brave to stand there." Her shivering grew more intense, and I noticed her fingertips were turning pale from the cold. Without hesitation, I removed my scarf—a thick, woolen thing that had been shielding me from the city's unrelenting chill—and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. "Here," I said softly. "You're freezing."
She clutched the scarf like it was a lifeline, her trembling hands gripping the edges tightly. For a moment, her sobs quieted, though her breathing remained shallow. I stayed crouched beside her, giving her the space she needed. "What's your name?" I asked quietly, hoping to anchor her in something familiar. "Clara," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Clara Winters." I nodded, repeating her name gently. "Clara. My name is Suzanne. You're not alone, Clara. You're not the only one who's scared." Her gaze flicked to mine, and for a brief moment, her fear melted into something else—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of trust. But it didn't last. Her expression crumpled again, her voice trembling as she continued. "They took my brother," she said, the words spilling out in a broken rush. "He was only fourteen. They said he was 'spreading dissent.' But he wasn't. He was just a kid." Her shoulders shook as her sobs grew louder. "They dragged him away in the middle of the night, and now they're watching me. They're always watching. I thought if I just... if I followed the rules, maybe they'd leave me alone. But now I've messed up, and they'll—"
"They won't," I interrupted, my own voice trembling slightly. "You're doing everything they ask. You're surviving. That's all we can do right now. But you're not alone in this. Do you hear me, Clara? You're not alone." She nodded weakly, though the haunted look in her eyes remained. The weight of her trauma was palpable, an invisible anchor dragging her down. Her fear—of being watched, judged, and punished—was all too familiar. I felt it too, pressing against me every moment of every day. But seeing it reflected so plainly in Clara's trembling form made the weight unbearable.
The sound of heavy boots in the hallway shattered the fragile stillness. Clara's eyes widened in terror, and she clutched the scarf tighter, her entire body tensing. I stood quickly, extending a hand to help her up. "Come on," I said firmly.
"You can't stay here." She hesitated for a heartbeat, then took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. Together, we stepped out of the stall, her weight leaning into mine for support. At the sink, I grabbed the bathroom key, pausing briefly to glance at my reflection. My face was still pale, my lipstick smudged, but it no longer mattered. Clara's well-being mattered more. The door creaked open, and we stepped into the harsh, unfeeling corridor. The moment of solace was over, replaced once more by the cold, gray world outside. But as Clara adjusted the scarf around her shoulders and straightened her posture ever so slightly, I saw a faint spark of resolve in her eyes. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Even the smallest flickers of hope could burn brightly in the darkness.
Back in the corridor stretched ahead like a tunnel into despair, dimly lit and filled with the faint hum of surveillance drones hovering in the distance. Clara clung to my side, her steps unsteady and her trembling fingers clutching the scarf I had given her as though it might shield her from the horrors of this oppressive world. Her tear-streaked cheeks glistened faintly under the flickering light, and I could see her struggling to keep her breathing quiet and even. "Clara," I murmured softly, my tone low enough not to draw attention.
"You have to stop tearing up. They'll see." Her wide, fearful eyes met mine, her lips trembling as she tried to nod. I placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, guiding her forward while my other hand gestured subtly for her to wipe her face. She sniffled once, then pressed the edge of the scarf against her eyes, dabbing away the last traces of tears. Her breathing still hitched every few steps, but at least she looked less fragile than before. The sound of boots approaching snapped both of us to attention. My grip on Clara's shoulder tightened, and I nudged her slightly to straighten her posture. The figure coming toward us was unmistakable—a soldier dressed in the dark uniform of the Chinese division, his presence radiating authority. His holster gleamed under the corridor's harsh light, the grip of a handgun protruding ominously at his side. His cold, narrow eyes locked onto us as we approached, his stride purposeful and intimidating.
"You two," he barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip, sharp and accented. "Get moving. NOW!" He punctuated the order with a jab of his finger toward the classroom door down the hall, his body rigid with command. His tone left no room for hesitation, and his glare lingered on me for just a second too long, as though daring me to challenge him. I felt Clara stiffen beside me, her trembling returning with full force.
Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the scarf tighter, her fear radiating off her in waves. If we weren't under a regime, if his handgun weren't just a swift reach away, I might have given him something to regret—a sharp rebuke or a well-aimed kick to his most delicate anatomy came to mind. But in this world, anger had to be swallowed, defiance buried beneath layers of submission. I forced my jaw to unclench and gave a brisk nod, pulling Clara gently along as we obeyed his command without a word. As we passed him, I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, heavy with suspicion. It took every ounce of control to keep my steps steady and my expression neutral. Clara faltered slightly, her foot catching against the floor, and I tightened my grip on her shoulder to steady her. My pulse quickened, but I dared not look back.
(ooo)
April 21st, 1983, "Halt!" The soldier's shout exploded through the night, sharp and merciless, striking me like a physical blow. My breath caught in my throat, and my body moved before my mind could catch up. I scrambled beneath the bed, my hands slipping against the cold floorboards in my frantic rush to find cover. The first gunshot rang out, deafening and brutal. My ears seemed to vibrate with the impact, and I felt as though the sound had torn straight through me. Then came the second, and the third, each one louder, angrier. The gunfire filled every corner of my small apartment, pressing against me, crushing me. I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn't help. The noise was inside me now.
I tried to steady my breathing, but the panic was relentless, clawing its way up my throat. My body shook uncontrollably, and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. Then came the sound that shattered the last thread of my composure—a heavy, sickening thud. The unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Someone had tried to escape the curfew. Someone had died. A wave of nausea rose in my chest, and a sob escaped before I could stop it. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, but I couldn't move to wipe them away. My body was locked in place, paralyzed by terror. Then, to my horror, I felt another warmth spreading, unwelcome and mortifying. I had lost control of my bladder, the fear too overwhelming for my body to contain. I gasped softly, the shame hitting me almost as hard as the terror. But even that paled in comparison to the violent pounding of my heart as more gunfire echoed outside.
Then came the crash. Glass shattered somewhere in the room—the window, I realized, struck by a stray bullet or its proximity. Tiny shards scattered across the floor, glittering faintly in the dim light. The sound froze me in place, every muscle locked, every nerve raw and exposed. If I had been near that window… I couldn't let the thought finish. My whole body trembled, and I pressed my face against the floor, feeling its cool surface against my burning skin. "Oh mon Dieu," I whispered, the words fragile and desperate, barely audible over the ringing in my ears. I didn't even know who or what I was praying to. Perhaps it was for forgiveness. Perhaps it was just for the world to go silent. The footsteps of the soldiers thundered outside, boots striking the pavement with heavy precision. My tears continued to fall silently, my body curled tightly beneath the bed as if I could fold myself into nothingness. My breath hitched in sharp, uneven gasps, and my pulse roared in my ears like a drumbeat of dread.
The seconds dragged by, each one heavier than the last. My world had shrunk to this space beneath the bed, this sliver of shadow and silence where I prayed they couldn't find me. But even as the soldiers' boots began to fade into the distance, the fear remained. It was in my chest, in my trembling limbs, in the still-warm evidence of my loss of control. I stayed there long after the noise had stopped, unable to move. My body felt like it had turned to stone, rigid and unyielding, and yet inside I was crumbling. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the faint metallic tang of fear—my fear—clung to me like a second skin. I felt the sharp press of tears drying on my face, and my muscles ached from the effort of holding myself so tightly. When I finally crawled out, the cold floor against my knees sent a shiver through me. I glanced at the shattered glass scattered across the room and the faint reflection of my pale, haggard face in the shards. My legs wobbled as I stood, and I hugged my arms around myself, trying to hold on to what little strength I had left. I'm alive, I thought numbly, the words hollow and meaningless. But as I stared at the broken window and the silent street beyond, I knew the night had taken something from me. Something I might never get back.
The bathroom mirror reflected a face I could barely recognize—pale, tear-streaked, and trembling. My chest still heaved with shallow breaths, and my hands, clammy and shaking, struggled to turn the faucet. I splashed cold water onto my face, hoping to wash away the lingering terror. It didn't work. My eyes kept darting to the doorway, half expecting another sound, another shatter, another scream. I peeled off my clothes, the remnants of fear and humiliation clinging to me like a second skin. The water from the shower stung as it rushed over me, but I didn't care. I scrubbed myself furiously, as though I could erase the vulnerability that had overtaken me. When I finally stepped out, I grabbed a towel and held it tightly around me, shivering—not from the cold but from the memory of what had just happened.
Cleaning the mess beneath the bed was mechanical. My hands moved on their own, wiping, sweeping, discarding, as my mind replayed the sounds from outside. The sharp crack of gunfire, the terrible finality of that heavy thud. It was easier to focus on cleaning than to face what those sounds meant. When the main room was as spotless as I could manage, I stared at the shattered window, its jagged edges gleaming faintly. It seemed to mock me, a reminder of how fragile even the illusion of safety was. I couldn't stay there. Not tonight. The bathroom had become my refuge, and I wasn't ready to leave it. I gathered my blankets, my pillow, and a few extra clothes for warmth, bundling them up as I returned to the small, cold space. The tub loomed before me, its surface unyielding and uncomfortable, but I didn't care. It would protect me better than any bed ever could.
I arranged the makeshift bedding as best as I could, softening the harsh edges and layering the blankets to keep the cold at bay. When it was ready, I climbed in, curling up against the porcelain sides. The blankets pressed tightly around me, and I hugged myself beneath them, trying to convince my body that I was safe. But I wasn't. My heart still raced, and every creak of the floor, every faint noise from outside, sent a fresh spike of fear through me. I closed my eyes, pulling the blanket over my head as though the layers of fabric could shield me from the world. My body trembled with exhaustion, yet sleep refused to come. Instead, I lay there, staring at the small, cracked ceiling above me and listening to the steady rhythm of my own breathing. It was the only sound I could rely on now, the only proof I was still here. Still alive.
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.
(ooo)
April 23rd, 1983, the smell of ink and stale air clung to the printing office, an oppressive scent that mixed poorly with the knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. I sat rigid in my chair, willing my trembling hands to stay still as the woman before me methodically flipped through the pages I had submitted. The faint hum of machinery filled the silence, its rhythm steady and indifferent, unlike the frenzied chaos boiling within me. Her sharp eyes moved across the pages with an almost predatory precision, as though hunting for errors not just in the text but in my very soul. Each time she paused, her lips pressed into a thin line, and my pulse spiked. My heart thudded against my ribcage so violently it seemed a miracle she couldn't hear it.
Every second stretched unbearably, each turn of the page echoing in my ears louder than the whir of the presses.
The fingers I had folded tightly in my lap twitched involuntarily, betraying the carefully neutral mask I wore. My mind was a storm of thoughts I dared not voice, phrases that burned through my skull like wildfire. "Your regime is a joke. You destroy lives. You murder families." The words screamed silently in my head, but outwardly I was composed, my face an impenetrable façade. The woman—stern, severe, and unyielding—finally set down the first stack of papers. Her eyes, cold and calculating, snapped up to meet mine. I fought the instinct to avert my gaze, though my nerves frayed further beneath her scrutiny.
"No errors," she began, her tone clipped and devoid of emotion. Relief flickered in my chest but was swiftly extinguished as she continued, "But—"
The single word hung in the air like a blade poised above my head. My breath hitched, the muscles in my neck tensing as my gut tightened further. I had rushed through the last set of pages in the throes of desperation and rage, and I knew there were weak points, vulnerable phrases that could betray me if she was looking hard enough. My fingers dug into my palms, anchoring me to the moment, begging the storm inside to stay contained. "You need to elaborate further on this matter," she said, her nails tapping against one of the pages in question. My gaze dropped to her hands, and I hated them—the manicured nails, the way they moved so deliberately, as if even her fingers carried authority. "And," she added, her tone hardening into something sharp, "do you have the paper about General Igor's birthday? I need to see that too."
The request—or rather, the demand—sent a fresh wave of tension through me. My jaw tightened briefly before I forced myself to comply. "Of course," I replied, my voice steady despite the screaming defiance in my head. I rose from the chair, feeling the ache in my legs from remaining still for too long, and handed her the second set of pages I had prepared with painstaking effort. She scanned them quickly, her stern expression softening into what could only be described as a smug smile—a weak, practiced thing that tugged at the corners of her lips as she read the praises I had written. Praises that turned my stomach to acid as I typed them. "Perfect," she said, her tone tinged with approval, and I hated her for it. Her satisfaction burned, the flames licking at my insides. I wanted to scream, "Murdering bastard!" after every line she read, wanted to tear the paper from her hands and shred it before her eyes. But the thought remained where it belonged—in the cage I had built inside my mind.
She straightened, the faint smile lingering as she continued, "By next year, the General wants this rewritten in Russian. Hopefully, those classes will help you there." Her words landed heavily, yet there was a casual cruelty in the way she spoke them. As if stripping me of my voice—my language—was merely procedural, a matter of bureaucratic efficiency. She leaned back, her nails tapping the desk once more, her expression morphing into one of condescending ease. "I hope Yuri, the General's son, is keeping you in line," she added, her tone laced with smugness. It clicked then—their connection. Of course the two are related. Their smugness was cut from the same cloth, their cruelty molded by the same hand. The realization only fueled the fire within me, and I clenched my fists tighter, nails biting into my skin as I fought to keep my emotions hidden.
"Yes, madam," I replied quietly, the words forced past the lump of rage in my throat. My voice betrayed nothing of the chaos spiraling within, nothing of the bile rising as I spoke their language of compliance. It was a small victory, though it felt hollow. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, as if savoring her perceived dominance. I met it evenly, suppressing the urge to narrow my eyes. Then she returned her attention to the papers, seemingly content with the veneer of submission I had presented. My hands trembled as I returned to my seat, the edges of my fingernails stained with red from gripping too hard. My mind continued to spin, the storm raging louder, fiercer. Your regime kills families. Your regime destroys lives. The words begged to be spoken, but I swallowed them down. For now, silence was the only weapon I had left. As I watched her cold, methodical movements, I made myself one promise: this submission, this silence—it wouldn't last forever. It couldn't.
(ooo)
Later that night, within my apartment, the silence pressed heavily against the walls, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. The dim glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across the room, stretching over the scattered papers and the typewriter that sat accusingly in the corner. The air was cold and still, carrying with it the weight of unspoken thoughts and decisions waiting to be made. In the center of the room stood a chair, its wooden frame fragile and worn, creaking faintly under the weight of what it was about to bear. Everything felt stifling—too quiet, too heavy—as though the room itself mourned the inevitability of what was to come. The sheet in my hands felt rough, unforgiving against my skin. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my fingers trembled as I tied the knot, the fabric rasping against itself in the silence.
No more.
The words echoed in my mind, heavy and final. I could no longer bring myself to type another word for them. No more headlines that celebrated their atrocities, no more pages filled with lies to prop up their grotesque reign. Every letter I had pressed onto the paper had been a blow to my soul, and now there was nothing left to give. The typewriter sat in the corner, a cold, unfeeling monument to my complicity. I tightened the sheet around my neck, the knot biting into my skin as I secured it to the beam above me. My movements were slow, deliberate, as if my body resisted the act even as my mind demanded it. My feet felt heavy, rooted to the chair, but I knew there was no other escape. The world outside offered nothing but more pain, more fear, more death. I had seen enough. I had heard enough. The screams of the innocent, the laughter of their tormentors, the constant thrum of the regime's propaganda—they echoed endlessly in my mind, a cacophony that I could no longer silence. I no longer feared hell. I was already living in it.
I closed my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids offering a brief, bitter solace. Images flashed through my mind—faces I had tried so hard to forget. Clara's tear-streaked cheeks as she clung to the scarf I gave her. The mother on the stage, holding her children close as the soldiers took aim. My own reflection in the mirror, pale and haunted, staring back at me with hollow eyes. The knot felt tighter now, a grim reminder of what lay ahead. My body trembled as I took a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs one last time. There was nowhere left to go but death. If this world belonged to them—these monsters, these butchers—then I no longer wanted any part of it. I would not give them another day, another word, another piece of my soul. I would take what little power I had left and use it to leave. With one final exhale, I stepped forward off the chair.
And then, silence.