But it hits here this time. Everything happens so fast—there is no chance even to get scared. The blast wave crashes through the walls, and the furniture falls on top of you. You lie pressed between your wardrobe and bed, cough, pant, and call for Makar and Sonia, but can’t hear the answer behind the agonizing whistle in your ears. A dazzling beam of flashlight pierces through the clouds of dust, and someone’s firm hands drag you out. Paramedics cover your shivering body and the old lady from the flat downstairs, wrapped in a blanket like yours, pats your hand. “You’ll be fine.”
It’s not that you don’t believe her, you don’t believe it’s happening. But when they find the bodies of your husband and child, reality bursts in with the power of a rocket. Only this time, it does kill you.
A shelter room in a hostel smells of desperation. Minimal allowance is all that connects you to the world as you know it—nothing else is the same. You ponder about your family, twisting the imaginary dagger in your heart, and feel void. Your heart has burnt with the house. You can’t make up for it. Why bother trying? But you scrap the remnants of hope and go back to work in a fortnight. Sit at your desk in the tidy bank office and open credits for people’s dream homes, cars, and all that makes little, if any, sense. You don’t need this job, but you need to keep going.
Your friends send you sorry messages and buy you dinners. You nod to their smiles and jokes about Putin and don’t believe a single word. Behind the glass wall of fragile safety, they are just like you before the hit. Now you know, coffee doesn’t smell strong, songs carry no meaning, and all you have, you’ll give away one day. You turn into a walking clock: your body functions on its own. No matter what, it keeps going. You breathe, you talk, you buy yourself a winter coat; you save a little, and obediently, you walk down the bomb shelter when the siren sings.
Then, gradually, you begin to understand why you really live. It has nothing to do with things you want, people you love, or those who throw rockets at your home.