He gets to work

Alex stood there fuming, fists clenched at his sides. The door to his room was still open and the house felt suddenly too quiet except for the faint sound of her footsteps retreating. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered to himself, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He meant it, too. At least in the moment.

It wasn’t that he hated her. Not really. Or maybe he did, sometimes. Natasha had always been strict, even before Dad passed. But after the funeral, it got worse. Like she was trying to control every little thing to keep the world from falling apart again. No more lazy mornings. No more leniency. Just rules and expectations and disappointment in those icy eyes whenever he fell short. There used to be warmth there, he thought bitterly. When he was a kid, she’d ruffle his hair and call him her little bear, her voice soft with love. She’d make pancakes on weekends and let him help in the kitchen, flour everywhere, both of them laughing. Now it was all lectures and punishments and “make something of yourself, Alexei.”

He kicked at a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, sending a sock flying. The room really did smell. Once she’d pointed it out, he couldn’t unsee it. Or unsmell it. Part of him wanted to just say fuck it and leave it, but he knew better. She’d check. She always checked. And the attic… Jesus. That was going to suck.

With a heavy sigh, Alex walked out into the corridor. The pull-down stairs to the attic were at the end of the hall, the cord hanging down. He reached up, grabbed it and gave a yank. The mechanism creaked loudly as the folded stairs unfolded and lowered to the floor with a thud. Dust drifted down from the opening above. He stared up into the dark square hole, the musty smell already hitting him.

At least there might be some old toys or video games up there from when he was a kid, he thought. Something worth salvaging while he wasted the whole damn day. Anything to make this slightly less miserable.

Alex put one foot on the bottom step, testing it, then started climbing. The wood groaned under his weight as he ascended into the dim, stuffy space above. The attic air hit him immediately, hot, thick with dust and smelling like old cardboard and mold. A single bare bulb hung from the rafters, casting long shadows across stacks of boxes. He pulled the cord on the light and stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, already regretting every life choice that had led him here.

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered again, quieter this time. Part of him knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Mom worked hard. She had kept everything together after Dad died, paying the bills, making sure he stayed on track with school. But the way she rode his ass about every little thing… it grated. No room to breathe. No room to just be a normal fuck-up for a while. He kicked a small box out of his way and got to work.

He started sorting through the endless cardboard boxes, deciding what to keep and what to trash. Most of it was junk, old clothes, broken appliances, paperwork from Dad’s old job. But then he found a box of photographs, tucked away near the back.

Alex pulled it open and sat down on the dusty floor, cross-legged, the stack of pictures in his lap. The first few were from when his parents had just met. Dad in his military uniform, looking sharp but not movie-star handsome. He was a veteran who hadn’t gotten enough of serving, apparently. Went straight into a low-level executive gig in the Capitol after that. Treated the work like it was sacred, stayed humble even when he rubbed shoulders with senators and big shots. Alex stared at a picture of the two of them on a date in front of the Washington Monument. Dad had his arm around Mom’s waist, both of them smiling. She looked stunning, much younger than him, supermodel level pretty, long blonde hair blowing in the breeze, those icy grey eyes sparkling in a way Alex almost never saw anymore. How the hell had Dad bagged a woman like that? Alex wondered it every time he saw one of these. But from the stories, Dad had been funny. Really funny. The kind who could make her laugh until she cried with the dumbest dad jokes.

A small grin tugged at Alex’s mouth as he flipped through more photos. He could almost hear Dad’s voice cracking those terrible puns. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other? They don’t have the guts!” Mom pretending to groan but leaning into him anyway. Those days felt so far away now. Alex kept looking, one hand resting on a tall stack of nearby cardboard boxes for balance. He was lost in the memories, not paying attention to how the stack shifted under his weight.

The boxes gave way suddenly. Cardboard crumpled, the whole pile toppling over with a loud crash. Alex tumbled with them, hitting the floor hard on his side. Dust exploded into the air like a cloud, thick and choking. He coughed violently, waving his hand in front of his face, eyes watering.