The Pompous Sketch Series, #1

I remember it like it was yesterday, lying in the August sun with Ekaterina, our two little girls frolicking in the lake. The cacophony of their voices was like a distant echo of angels. I turned to my wife, a lens flare, a warm squint. The sun lit up her skin, behind her the pollen waltzed in the grass with the butterflies. The small white towel covering our basket of food was still warm to the touch; vatrushkas, syrniki, blini. The wine I had made my chest warm and my head fuzzy and I concentrated on Ekaterina, trying to make her open her eyes and smile at me. 'Open them'. Then the sun disappeared. I shiver and see my breath hang thick in the dim morning light. Yes, I am in Petropavlovsk mine. I simply forgot. 'Vernutʹsya k rabote, zek' someone shouts at me: prisoner number 3288, sentence: eight years.