Three hard knocks wake Svetlana Alexandrovna from her sleep. She makes a frustrated noise at first from her interrupted sleep, but then is focused on the fact that she’s the only one in her bed, when there should be someone else right beside her.
“Misty?” Svetlana looked around the room and the adjacent one with the two girls. But he was nowhere to be seen.
The knocking raps again, this time waking Lyubov up. “Who’s knocking…?” the nine year old drawled sleepily.
Meanwhile, the three year old Nadezhda Mstislavovna barely stirs. Maybe she too awoke a little herself, but was too intent on staying asleep.
Sighing knowingly, Svetlana Alexandrovna begins to get out of bed. “I believe your Papa is having another one of his ‘episodes.’”
She pads over to the door, opening it to a very displeased man on the other side, looking to be in his 20s.
“I just came back from work to find my wife crying,” he begins without as much as a greeting, “she said she was asleep, then woke up to YOUR husband staring down at her!”
“Did she wake him up?” asked Svetlana.
The man’s face twists up in bafflement, “Wha– what, wake him up??”
“You are not the first person to knock on my door about this,” she elaborated, “my husband has a very persistent sleepwalking problem, that is why I asked.”
He slowly processed the information, before responding with a critical expression, “Are you sure this isn’t some drunken episode of his? Or an excuse of Mstislav Yurievich’s to act like some kind of pervert?”
Svetlana’s eyes narrowed in a glare, “Yes, I am very sure in fact. Please, answer the question.”
Her sharp tone makes him oblige, “Oh er– no, he left the room before I came back.”
“Do you know where he is then?”
“He’s in the downstairs corridor, near the kitchen.”
Lyubov Mstislavovna suddenly runs up from behind. “I’ll go get him!” she offered eagerly. Without hearing her mother permit her, she hurried out in the hallway and down the stairs.
First she looked to the left where it led to the kitchen. “Papa?” Lyubov looked around towards the other way, seeing her father slowly walking down the adjacent hallway. “Papa!” she called out. Once she ran over to him, she matched his slow pace.
His expression was typical of somnambulists; eyes glazed over with the haze of unconsciousness and an overall vacant expression. He was mumbling something, albeit mostly incoherent.
“Papa?” Lyubov attempted to get his attention, but Mstislav gave no reaction.
She gently grabbed his hand and rubbed his arm, which after a little while, made him gradually stop walking. Wakefulness stirred in his eyes and he turned to see Lyubov standing beside him, a gentle smile forming on his face. “Bochka? What're you doin’ out of bed, eh?”
Lyubov giggled a little bit, “I should be asking you that question.”
“Oh? Oh! Was I…?” Mstislav pressed a hand to his forehead, then looked around the corridor, “This ain’t the bedroom. Where’re we?”
“Just downstairs,” she answered. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
He nods in agreement, “Good idea. You’re smarter than me, y’know that?”
“But you’re older than me!”
“Just ‘cause I’m older don’t make me any smarter,” Mstislav takes his daughter by the hand as he is being led back down the hall and up the stairs. “You’re too kind to me…”
When she sees her husband and daughter appear in the hallway, Svetlana Alexandrovna sighs with gentle relief. Mstislav is handed off to her by Lyubov and she wraps her arms around him.
He whimpered a little from the hug, “I’m real sorry, Lana…”
“Don’t say that, darling,” she crooned, before looking at Lyubov, “Thank you, Lyubov. Now give Papa a kiss goodnight.”
Immediately, the girl planted two kisses on each cheek before giving a third on his temple, “Goodnight, Papa!”
The three reenter the room. As Svetlana is settling Mstislav back on the bed, he instinctively leans forward and reaches for something underneath the bed. But his wife caught his wrist before he could grab onto something.
“Ah-ah, you drank plenty tonight already.”
“I’m sorry,” Mstislav said again, this time more sulky.
“Why don’t you pray instead?” Svetlana asked sweetly, rubbing a specific spot on his back, “I think God would rather have your head full of angels than full of moonshine when you fall asleep.”
He nods in acknowledgment. “I know, I just,” he looks down, “I don’t want no ‘nother nightmare.”
“If you do, I’ll be right here when you wake up.” She proceeds to lay herself down, guiding Mstislav onto the mattress as she does so. Her leg instinctively wraps itself around his torso when he settles, “I love you, Mstislav. Please get some sleep.”
“I’ll try, Lana,” he smiled tenderly, closing his eyes while taking hold of her hand and raising it to his lips, mumbling a muffled, “‘Love you too.”
Hours pass through the night and Mstislav Yurievich lies wide-eyed. He’s scared of sleeping. Scared he might wake up screaming and in turn, scare Bochka and Dechka to bits. Why did God curse people to dream? He wishes that naturally, he just never had ‘em at all. He doesn’t want to relive his own fuck-ups over and over again.
…but since Svetlana and the girls are asleep, he does have a chance to sneak a little swig. Just enough to drown out the noise.
No, no. He really shouldn’t. He gives them all too much trouble already.
