Gone in a Cloud of Smoke

(Prologue)

The television light served to illuminate the apartment that was dimmed in the evening. I took a seat on the carpet that was bristly and itched my skin, crossing my legs together and leaning against the sofa that was located behind me. On the little, fuzzy screen were two reporters speaking in a frantic tone, their thick Russian spilling together.

“It is chaos here in the city of Manhattan!” the male reporter with a receding, brown hairline shouted as he held an earpiece. English subtitles were written at the bottom of the screen. Behind the man was a busy street corner occupied by a furious mob that was waving signs for picketing. A drawing in the distance showed what appeared to be a bottle of beer. My young, grey-blue eyes widened at the scene.

“The United States is going crazy as we are visiting to report on the substance ban that passed this morning, May 30, 2015,” the female reporter, a slender woman with blonde hair that was worn straight and reached to her shoulders. “No alcohol, no already illegal drugs, no prescription drugs, absolutely nothing that can be abused. Citizens have been cut off from everything that they are used to, and the outcome is not good!”

My focus was centered entirely on the screen from the television, drinking in the sounds of angry Americans and yellow cars quickly speeding down a damp, gloomy street. It took me a bit to realize that my father had been nudging me for my attention.

“Andrei!” he smacked the side of my shoulder with an irritated look on his rough face.

I simply held my hands up to assure him that I felt his gesture. He grunted and fell into his blood-red armchair, and he ran one of his hands through his short, grey hair. Grabbing the remote, he switched off the channel broadcasting from America and took a gulp of his fresh, home-brewed vodka that had a twist of lime.

As I climbed up onto my father’s lap, my mother in the tiny kitchen with a little Ilia, I could not help but think of the Americans.

~~~