Suvorovskaya.

A Story by Viktorsha

A small part from my story. More to come.

When I was three, my father died of the third degree burn on his arm, from falling asleep while smoking. My parents were split up at the time, so when the accident happened the only people who were at his apartment, were him and my grandmother Galina. It was the night of his thirtieth birthday; the guests were long gone with the distant noise of clinking glasses, vague commentaries and the final memories of Valera Uliyanov.

On a cold November afternoon, my Mother arrived home from the hospital after visiting Papa. Her coat glistened in the light with tiny spectacles of raindrops running down her cheek. When I ran to welcome her, her hair smelled of rain and sweet perfume which was slightly faded by the dust of the forever busy Moscow streets. The emerald in her eyes twinkled with sadness, and with this observation I understood that it was not the raindrops that so beautifully accented her face, but the salty tears.

After a week of intense medication at the emergency room, my father’s condition got worse, and he passed away. That afternoon I felt nothing. I thought the reason for that was because I was too young to interpret the tragedy of someone’s death, but even today, sixteen years later I don’t feel any bits of the stomach twisting sadness.