“Alevtina! We’re heading out!” Her stepmother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and grating as ever. “If you get hungry, check the fridge.”
Yeah, right. As if she doesn’t know that Alka hasn’t wheeled herself out of her room in ages. Lately, it’s just taken too much energy. But Alka wouldn’t ask for food to be brought to her either. She had no appetite. Even when her stepmother came to feed her, she could barely force down a bite.
Her stepsister popped into the doorway, twirling to show off her new rhinestone-studded jeans. She made her usual goofy face, then vanished just as quickly. A lively, rosy-cheeked troublemaker, she never bothered with small talk with her disabled sister.
Alka didn’t hold it against her, or her stepmother for that matter, though sometimes she couldn’t help but think they were straight out of a Cinderella story. No, it wasn’t that they hated her—they just didn’t pay her much mind. They lived their own lives, full of endless errands, worries, and events. Meanwhile, Alka’s world was confined to the four walls of her tiny six-square-meter room. Against one wall sat her specialized orthopedic bed, opposite it were two mismatched wardrobes—one for clothes, one for books—a small desk, and an easel. Alka was a decent artist, since her illness left most other joys of life out of reach. But for the past month, she hadn’t touched the easel. Lifting her arm had become too hard.
Oh, how could she forget? She also had a balcony! A tiny little balcony, fenced in by rusty iron railings. The view wasn’t much—just the residential sprawl of Obolon. But for Alka, it was a window to the big world outside. She could sit there for hours, watching kids rush to school, prim old ladies walking their tiny dogs, or the janitor scraping her ancient broom across the asphalt while cursing out residents and passersby alike. Yeah, that was pretty much her only source of joy. She could’ve gone out there now, escaped the stuffy, cramped room, and breathed in the fresh air—laced generously with exhaust fumes and the stench of nearby garbage bins. But it had been raining for three days straight. And today, it wasn’t just rain—it was a downpour. Thick, forceful streams pounded against the glass balcony doors, looking like they might shatter through and flood the room, hunting for prey.
“Where are you going in this weather?” Alka called out. At least, she thought she called out. In reality, her voice was faint and weak.
“What weather, sweetheart?” her stepmother replied from the living room, her tone altered—probably because she was applying lipstick. “It’s beautiful out there.”
“But it’s pouring outside… You’ll get soaked!”
“What are you talking about, kiddo? The sun’s shining bright, it’s warm and lovely…”
“At least take umbrellas.”
“What for? To swat away mosquitoes?” her stepsister chimed in with a snarky tone.
Were they joking? Mocking her? Whatever. Their choice. If they wanted to get drenched, let them.
Alka shrank into herself, imagining how miserable it must be outside right now.
The front door slammed shut with a loud bang. Her stepmother and stepsister had left for some avant-garde art exhibition, not even remembering that today was Alka’s birthday. Her twentieth, a milestone.
No, she wasn’t expecting a big celebration with balloons and noisemakers, or a giant cake with twenty candles. But a little attention would’ve been nice. Just a tiny bit. A simple “happy birthday,” a wish for something—anything—even if it could never come true. Just a wish…
Alka’s eyes started to itch strangely, and she felt betraying tears on her cheeks. How many years had it been since she’d let herself cry? Ten, at least. Not even when it hurt. Not even when she felt humiliated. Not even when she was scared. Because tears wouldn’t help anyway—they never had. People would just pity her, pat her on the head, and look at her with eyes that screamed, “We feel sorry for you, but there’s nothing we can do. That’s just your fate.” And that pity on display would hurt even more, feel even more humiliating, even more terrifying. But Alka had long since forgotten how to be afraid. Afraid of what? Death? This wasn’t a real life anyway. It was just constant pain. Maybe in the next life…
Alka hadn’t even cried the day before yesterday when her doctor came by to discuss the results of her annual comprehensive checkup. When Dr. Lydia Petrovna refused to talk over the phone and insisted on stopping by in the evening, Alka knew it couldn’t be good news. No one was expecting anything positive.
The doctor examined her as usual, playfully tapped her on the nose, and said her condition was stable, that the key was to keep her spirits up. But her eyes… her eyes told a different story.
They left Alka in her room, but she managed to quietly wheel herself to the door leading to the living room. She overheard Dr. Lydia Petrovna tell her stepmother that she had two to four months left, no more, and that they needed to prepare.
Alka wasn’t afraid of dying. But she was terrified of the process of dying. Dying slowly and painfully, losing her mind to the agony, tearing through the silence with helpless, hopeless moans. She’d seen and heard enough of that in the hospitals where she’d spent months of her short life. She’d seen the dying—gaunt, almost translucent, with dark circles under their eyes, pale, bitten lips, worn down beyond recognition. That was what Alka feared, what she rejected with every fiber of her young soul.
The rain kept hammering against the windows, begging to be let into the apartment. Muddy streams blurred the outside world into something indistinct. Her thoughts flowed like a slow river, pulling her back to a distant past, to the origins of her illness. Maybe she just wanted to confirm that nothing could’ve been changed anyway.
Alka was called a “Child of Chernobyl.” Her father, Ivan, and her mother, Natalia, lived in Pripyat and worked at the nuclear power plant. They were so young. On April 26, 1986, when the explosion happened, Ivan was among the workers trying to extinguish the fire. Those first responders took the full brunt of the radiation. Natalia, an accountant, was at work too, and got her share of exposure before the evacuation was organized. On top of that, she was pregnant with her first child. She was twenty, just like Alka is now. Of course, after the evacuation and medical exams, they convinced her to have an abortion. More accurately, no one even asked for her opinion.
After the disaster, Ivan and Natalia were given an apartment in Kyiv. But it was a small price for their ruined health. Months in hospitals, in sanatoriums. The young woman withered away, regretting only one thing: the abortion she’d been forced into. Pregnancy was out of the question in her condition. Doctors were adamantly against it, and her body wasn’t up to the challenge either. Then, years later, when no one could’ve imagined it—a miracle happened. Natalia got pregnant again. When tests confirmed it, they immediately sent her for another abortion, saying she couldn’t carry or give birth in her state. And she ran away. She fled to distant relatives, telling no one where she was going. Ivan went with her. He was against it too, knowing her frail, illness-ravaged body couldn’t handle the strain, but he couldn’t go against Natalia’s will. Those were seven months of happiness in her life, seven months when a smile never left her lips. She constantly talked to her unborn child, bonded with it. Her eyes glowed with quiet joy and contentment, as Ivan later recalled. Yes, those were seven months of shared happiness for them.
The baby girl was born at seven months—her mother’s body couldn’t hold on longer. Natalia passed away, managing only to see her newborn daughter and give her a name. She was thirty-seven.
When the baby was finally allowed to leave the neonatal unit for preemies, Ivan returned to Kyiv. As the doctors had warned, the girl inherited a host of illnesses from her mother. A laundry list of complicated names—Alka didn’t even try to remember them. What did it matter what they were called, if they made her feel this awful, made her this weak? The name Alevtina means “strong,” but in reality, it was the opposite.
Her father poured everything into his daughter, combining his love for her with the love for his wife who’d left them so soon. Doctors were amazed the girl survived at all, and it was probably only thanks to her father’s devotion. But she grew up so fragile, like a delicate stem you were afraid to look at too hard. Alka never went to kindergarten or school. Teachers came to her at home. In the end, she even earned a high school diploma. Her father’s health worsened with each year, requiring long hospital stays, and there was no one to leave Alka with. To avoid abandoning his daughter, he remarried when Alka was ten. Her stepmother, Kateryna, and her daughter, Lyubochka—Alka’s age—moved into their apartment, and they managed to upgrade to a three-bedroom. Most likely, it was the prospect of gaining living space that convinced the lively, dark-haired Kateryna to agree to the marriage. And Ivan, sensing he didn’t have much time left, secured a wife who could look after his daughter. Alka even suspected it was a marriage of convenience, because she never saw love between her father and stepmother. They lived like cordial neighbors. Everything went “according to plan.” Her father passed away a year and a half after the wedding, and Kateryna and her daughter became the full owners of the three-bedroom apartment in Obolon. If you didn’t count Alka—but who would? While her father was alive, Kateryna paid much more attention to the girl, but with each passing year, Alka felt more alone, more unneeded. Especially after her health forced her into a wheelchair at just thirteen. Interaction with her “family” was reduced to a mandatory breakfast brought by her stepmother. For lunch, they’d just leave some food, which Alka almost never ate. And they only took her out for walks when a hospital visit was necessary. So, her entire world shrank to the size of her tiny room and an even smaller balcony. She’d long grown used to the pain inside, but the weakness kept getting worse, stealing her last bits of joy. She barely got out of the wheelchair anymore, her thin, fragile bones deforming from constant sitting, adding even more pain.
Nothing could be changed. There was no one to blame. If not for the Chernobyl disaster, she might’ve had a different life. Or maybe not. If not for the disaster, she might not have been born at all. Her mother wouldn’t have had that first abortion, would’ve calmly given birth to her first child. Maybe soon after, they’d have decided on a second. And that would’ve been it. Two kids—a normal family. Alka might never have existed. But then again, what was the point of her being born? Who needed her life? Not her, and not anyone else. She never knew her mother. Her father was gone. Her stepmother and stepsister would probably be relieved when she was no longer around. Such a burden off their shoulders—imagine the relief. She had no friends. No one would even remember her. She felt worse and worse every day. Why drag out the agony for a few more months?
Alka shuddered. She’d never thought about ending her life before. But that was then. Now, knowing she wouldn’t last more than four months, why cling to these last days? What awaited her? Just pain, pain, pain…
Alka tried to push the dark thoughts away. Grabbing a pencil with a trembling hand, she reached for the easel. But she couldn’t lift her arm. The pencil slipped from her weakened grip and rolled under the desk.
She couldn’t even leave anything behind for the world. She had no strength left. Just sitting in this hated wheelchair, drowning in pain she couldn’t escape.
Couldn’t escape? But she had enough strength for this. She wouldn’t writhe in agony on sweat-soaked pillows. She’d spare herself the suffering and save her stepmother the hassle. It would be best for everyone. One moment—and it’d be over. Ninth floor. A short fall. A crash—and oblivion.
Sure, sometimes people fell from greater heights and survived. But no, she’d be lucky. She’d never prayed to God before, but now she’d beg Him, if He even existed. Just let it be quick. And final.
Alka wheeled herself to the balcony. The wet glass doors reflected her face like a mirror—sunken cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, pale, chapped lips, dull hair of some indeterminate color, a neck as thin as a bird’s, with awkward collarbones peeking out from under her shirt. And her hands—she looked at her frail, almost translucent wrists, blue veins bulging. Why should a creature like this live? No joy for herself or anyone else. Alka took a shaky breath and opened the doors. Cold streams of rain rushed in gleefully, slapping her face, stealing her breath.
“Why did Stepmom say it was sunny outside?” a puzzled thought flickered through her mind.
By the time she made it onto the tiny balcony, Alka was soaked to the bone, as they say. But it didn’t dampen her resolve. Alka didn’t know how to back down. She poured all her strength into standing and pressing herself against the wet, slippery railings. She glanced into the distance. Strange, the downpour was so heavy she couldn’t make out the familiar view. Not even the buildings were visible. Well, no point in delaying. With every passing second, it would be harder to go through with it. Alka looked down, to where the cold, hard asphalt awaited her, and whispered one last plea: “Let it be quick…” With a final effort, she tipped herself over the railing, murmuring like a prayer, “Just let me be lucky…”
At that moment, Alka couldn’t have imagined that instead of cold, wet asphalt, a magical new world awaited her...
Dear Readers! I’m starting to share this new book on the anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster, and it will be FREE for my readers! This is my gift to you. Alka has a long journey ahead, filled with incredible encounters, adventures, and slowly unraveling mysteries. What brought her to this world? What mission awaits her? Who is a friend, and who is a foe? Alka must not just survive, but triumph, because everything is riding on her...