Blog Posts

When I was 16 our flat was getting refurbished and hence, my family had to temporarily move to a different place for a couple of months. My parents have chosen a building right opposite of ours and the flat in there was spacey enough to fit all four of us plus our cat. The rent was affordable and the interior was pleasant, much like the one in our property. Thus, to say it felt like we’ve not even moved was an understatement. The place was cosy and much like home, so our primary first-world problem at the time was solved. The second one was for me and my sibling to pick our rooms. Not that we were competitive but we were competitive. Always wanting to be the ones with the better everything. Typical sibling rivalry. But surprise, surprise, we’ve not needed to fight over that issue as both the rooms were equally spacious. But when I took one step inside, the room started to feel off. Like something was trying to pull me back and tell me this was a bad idea. It felt wrong as if I shouldn’t be there. But rationalization’s been telling me a different story. What’s a bad idea? Sleeping in a room? Alright, do like your cat does and curl up on the sofa. Obviously, logical reasoning won over. What else was I supposed to do? Go to my brother and tell him to switch rooms because ‘mine has a creepy ambience’? Tough chance. Besides, he’d probably tell me I’d feel at home if that’s the general aura of it. But that’s the interesting bit, every other room felt normal, no heebie-jeebies. This one? Not so much. Something about it didn’t feel welcoming. At that time I brushed it off and blamed it on not being used to the new flat. General anxiety. I firmly believed I’d get over it after a week or so. So, I gave it my countdown...

“This is it!” Dima raised his clenched hands to his chest, his face full of determination and his smile smug. “This is our moment to shine. We’ve been waiting for a whole year and now we finally get our chance.” His friends listened to him with awe and open mouths from the floor, cans of weak alcohol symbolically by their sides. Dima would always get excited during Pride month, otherwise known to filthy commoners as June. Nearly every flat surface of his room proudly displayed rainbow flags, even his bed covers were swapped for ones with rainbows. Ordered off Amazon, of course, since Russia doesn’t like the gays. Dima had sent email after email after email to local authorities in hopes of getting a permit to hold a Pride parade in Moscow’s city centre. At first, they were ignored, then he received a polite warning to cease this form of harassment. Even though he hated to admit it, the reply gave him butterflies. A small sense of growing excitement, one step closer to reaching his goal. Even though the emotion was short-lived. Fleeting. Like forbidden summer romance. But this year he received a response that granted him permission to hold a parade in the city centre. It’s the best email he’s received in his mundane 18 years of existence. He’d finally be able to join forces – and hands – with his fellow LGBTQ+ comrades as they’d sing and march into the red Kremlin sunset. “I’ve already created an event in Vkontakte, Odnoklassniki and even Facebook. I’ve invited everyone!” He accentuated the last word. “Did anybody respond to the event?” Natasha had raised her hand before speaking. “Well…” Dima drawled and rolled his eyes to the side. People responded, sure. Nearly every single person that received an invite responded. Just with words not spoken by those of higher society...