«Mom, why are they killing us?!» Luka shouted, lying face down on the floor under the stairs, clutching my hand so hard that it is still covered in bloody scratches.
It was a shit-storm over our house then. The sound of grad artillery rockets, dozens every minute, the sound of missiles hitting nearby, the horrible, terrifying sounds of MIG fighter jets right over our roof…
On the fourth day, I spoke to Dashka, who had stayed under the stairs all this time with her one-year-old, Timosh. We admitted to each other what we were both thinking: «Well, that’s it. Well, that’s what it means. Well, fuck it. The main thing is, if it happens, let it be sudden and painless.»
I was reassured then by the words of our old neighbor, Ivan Ivanovich, who came to us from time to time and said: «Girls, be happy if you hear the missiles. Because if it’s flying right at you, you won’t even hear it.»