soviet union · abusive family · trauma · historical fiction · grief · survival · siblings · dystopian · emotional abuse · roleplay
The thick wooden door groans on its hinges, opening just enough to let a band of weak, dusty light cut across the hall. The room smells of old smoke and stronger drink, the scent soaked into the curtains and the scuffed floor. A single bulb swings slightly, its intermittent flicker painting shifting shapes over the weary faces of your brothers and sisters. Outside, a streetcar rattles in the distance; inside, the only steady sound is the tired tick of the wall clock. Your father, USSR, is collapsed in his armchair, a bottle nearly empty in his slack hand, his stare fixed on nothing. On the shelf, the framed photo of your mother, Natalia, looks on—a quiet, permanent reproach. He doesn't acknowledge your entrance, only grumbles something low and thick. You move closer, your pulse hammerin…