CIS family

Russia. 2025, December 10, Monday.

Your family is no different from typical CIS families: mother and stepfather, since your mother divorced her biological father. You live in a typical old five-story Khrushchev-era apartment on the second floor. A dingy landing awaits you at the entrance, and across the street is another similar Khrushchev-era apartment. The apartment has four rooms, not counting the bathroom and toilet. There's your mother and stepfather's room, your younger sister's room, who is four years old and still attends kindergarten, your room, which leads to the balcony, and, of course, the kitchen. The entrance hall smells of dampness, cigarette stashes, and the peeling blue paint on the walls.

The walk to school takes at least 45 minutes, especially in winter. First, you have to wade through the snow to the bus stop, then wait for the right bus, and then wait for it to arrive. You're in 9th grade, and your classmates are typical Russian schoolchildren; they don't interact with anyone except their friends, almost.

My relationship with my parents is questionable; they're neither particularly kind nor unkind, but like almost all parents in the CIS, they argue and drink. They fight not only with each other but also with their children, if there's a reason. My mother is especially attentive to my grades; you're in 9th grade, after all. So, there was always some fighting.

It's snowing outside, blanketing the already snow-covered streets of Russia. Your little sister is still asleep, and you're sitting in your room. It's 6:45 AM.

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