The train was horrible.

She felt helplessness, anger and nausea all together, as if they were one emotion on it's own. She longed to draw, a piece of paper and a pencil, all neatly on a desk as she drew through the morning and into the afternoon. She wanted the feeling of her father's arms around her, the beautiful memories that swirled in her mind mere afterthoughts now. She hated the feeling of this, how cruel the NKVD were, how life was unfair. And hunger, it was something that spread across the train cart; because everyone wanted to eat, everyone was starving, and they could do nothing about it. It was Stalin's fault, it was the Soviet Union's fault, it was the NKVD's fault. It was all wrong. But all she could do was clutch her stomach while daydreaming about something nice to eat, like the loaf of bread she'd left on her windowsill.