Thirty-Six Hours Later
Alina
When I bought my bright yellow suitcase, I daydreamed about epic travels, wild adventures, and speeding through flowery meadows and past crystal-clear seas on high-speed trains.
But if I ever find myself stuck in a train compartment again with snoring ladies munching on fried chicken for breakfast, or neighbors who seem determined to celebrate a year’s worth of holidays in one night, I swear I’ll never take this suitcase anywhere again.
My head is pounding like there’s a metal ball trapped inside, slamming against the walls of my skull with every move I make. So, despite the lively chatter of the other passengers, I’m still sprawled out on my bunk. There’s only one perk to having the top bunk on a train, and right now, it’s my saving grace.
If you pick the lower bunk, you’ve got to be ready for the folks above to climb down in the morning and plop right onto your bed. But with a top bunk, you can lounge around the whole trip, only climbing down for a cup of instant coffee, lovingly prepared by the conductor.
On the other side of my compartment, some college kids are brewing instant noodles—the smell gives it away—and singing Ukrainian folk songs, which pleasantly surprises me. Not the noodles, of course, but the songs. If my snoring lady neighbors started singing about the viburnum outside the window, I wouldn’t bat an eye. But when young girls opt for “Green Rye” over pop hits, it fills me with pride for the younger generation. I even start humming along under my breath to the few lines I know.
The general vibe of the passengers distracts me from the persistent, dark thoughts creeping into my mind like cockroaches. While I can somewhat push those thoughts out, I can’t stop touching my neck. Every time I think about that night, tears stream down my cheeks uncontrollably, and my hand instinctively clutches my throat, as if to protect myself from a man I once loved.
The night after I got to my parents’ house, I sobbed like a wounded dog. My head throbbed from endlessly replaying that horrific scene. At first, I cried over what I saw, then over the betrayal, and finally out of pity for myself. When the tears dried on my cheeks, I felt nothing—as if they’d washed away not just the memory, but the last few years of my life. Even the memories felt unreal, like there was no good, no bad. Nothing at all.
And that’s a good thing, because with every new message from Oleg, I realized how lucky I was to see his true colors now, before the wedding.
Before, I naively chalked up his jealousy to love and concern for me. Now, I see clearly that he used it as a tool to control me. But why did it take me so long to figure this out? Did I really need to experience violence to get my head on straight?
Now, I’m not even sure it was ever love. One day—that’s all it took to cry him out of my system and let him go. Waking up the next morning, swollen from tears, so much so that even my parents barely recognized me, I felt an emptiness I’d never known before. There was no love left, no affection, no friendship for that man. It was like some kind of spell had been lifted. I’m not against shedding all this crap called love, because I don’t want anything to do with someone I’d recently planned to spend my life with.
Ahead of me, I’ve got almost a week to distract myself, to clear my mind of my ex and the image I saw in that changing room, and finally, to purge from my heart everything I once called love.
Everyone’s crowding into the train car’s vestibule, bundled up in parkas with oversized suitcases. The shoving is insane—not even an apple could fall in this chaos; even a sardine in a can might be jealous of the space. I get that the stop at the station is only three minutes, which is nothing, but do people really think if they don’t get off in time, they’ll have to jump out the window while the train’s moving? I grumble to myself like a cranky old lady, even though I’m standing in this crowd too. I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back and lean against the wall to wipe it off with my clothes. I shift from foot to foot to loosen up my muscles, since my legs are starting to go numb from the awkward position.
As soon as the conductor clicks the latch on the train door, everyone surges toward the exit, elbowing each other and rolling over feet with their wheeled suitcases. I try to get out as fast as I can before someone shoves me under the train. I’m terrified of stepping over that gap between the platform and the train—or from a dock to a boat. My phobia whispers in my ear, “One wrong step, and you’ll fall into that hole, you klutz.”
When our group finally spills out of the train, Marina counts us to make sure no one’s missing, and we shuffle toward the station exit, dragging our feet. Taxi drivers, lurking on the platform like undercover agents, cautiously approach the new arrivals, whispering offers for their services. But we confidently head to the parking lot, where a transfer to the hotel—three cars for twelve passengers—should be waiting for us.
I didn’t bother asking about the trip details beforehand. I don’t know the hotel’s name, address, or how to get there, so I’m just trying to keep up with the group.
When I reach the parking lot, I see our crew has already crammed their suitcases into the trunks of the cars. Two of them are dark, almost black, but one is a vibrant blue, shimmering under the sunlight and drawing my eye. I toss my modestly sized suitcase into the trunk and hurry to snag the empty seat next to the driver.
Out of the whole group, I only really know Marina, and it’s thanks to her that I’m here. I met the others at the station while waiting for the train, but I didn’t even catch most of their names, so I’m not too keen on squeezing in with strangers in the backseat.
The moment the last passenger in our car takes their seat, the driver’s door opens, letting in a strong whiff of cologne and cigarettes, followed by the owner of the scent himself. Looks like I picked the right car.
What’s important on a road trip? Comfort and good conversation. Comfort? Check. The car is warm and cozy, clearly pretty new, with everything polished to a shine, like a cat’s… well, you know. As for an interesting conversationalist, that’s still TBD, but the fact that the driver’s easy on the eyes is already a bonus for this trip.
The drive to the hotel is quiet, at least for me. There’s lively chatter in the back, but I don’t join in. Uncharacteristically, I just stare out the window. The spontaneous, rushed packing and sleepless night in the “magical” train car have taken their toll, and I’m ready to doze off any second. Especially since the peaceful drive through a snowy forest in a comfy car seat is practically begging me to.
Unlike our city, where winter mostly means slush or rain underfoot, everything here is blanketed in white, and it thrills me. Pine branches sag under the weight of clinging snow, and the road feels like it’s running through a snowy tunnel.
We’ve been driving through forests and villages for about forty minutes now, and despite the neat little houses we pass, there’s still a sense of remoteness. Something tells me you can’t just up and leave this place easily.
The car stops, the driver cuts the engine, and the back doors open, letting a blast of cold air into the cabin. It snaps me out of my daze, and I realize I’ve been staring at the driver.
“We’re here,” he drawls, like he’s talking to a kid. He winks, pulls his hat down over his forehead, and steps out of the car.
Great, I’m such an idiot. I could just sink through the ground from embarrassment right now. He probably thinks I’m weird for zoning out and staring at one spot when I should be getting my butt up and moving. But I shouldn’t care. I’ll step out of this car, and I’ll never see him again, so there’s no need to blush anymore.
While I was busy gawking at the driver, the others are already trudging uphill toward the cabins, dragging their suitcases behind them. So, I hurry to catch up, wishing my suitcase had sled runners instead of wheels.
After conquering the steep climb, I stop in front of a row of two-story cabins lined up along a path.
When Marina invited me to join her group, I had other plans and had to decline, even though the trip was dirt cheap. One of the families who’d planned to go got sick at the last minute, and since the deposit was non-refundable, she was looking for friends to fill the gap.
So, since I agreed to join the trip at the eleventh hour, I didn’t have much say in accommodations. Though, if I think about it, I did have a choice—sort of. Option one: share a room with a family. Option two: bunk with kids, or more specifically, teenagers.
I immediately ruled out staying with a family. I didn’t want to feel like an intruder or cramp their style in any way, so that left only the second option. Heaven help me survive this.
For the rest of the day until dinner, we settled into our rooms, rested, and unpacked. The room was decent: four single beds, a couch, a TV, a spacious bathroom, and even a small kitchenette. The open layout made it feel roomy, and at first glance, there seemed to be plenty of space—until the kids started scattering their stuff everywhere.
During college, I chose to live in a dorm instead of at home, so I’ve got some experience with roommates who thrive on chaos and don’t respect personal space. At first, it drove me nuts, and I was constantly annoyed at having to clean up after my messy roommate. But eventually, I got used to it. Irina turned out to be a knowledge-hungry person who did everything with passion, read a ton, and aced her studies. The fact that her books, notes, and countless pencils migrated around the room all day, creating a mess, I chalked up to her creative process and just stopped caring. Turns out, a little indifference can make you a bit happier.
I step over a pink backpack and scattered slippers on the floor, then flop onto the couch next to Dmytro, a cheerful ten-year-old boy, to watch some cartoons.