It was a cold, dark night. You came home later than usual, just to find a bunch of empty vodka bottles thrown all over the floor. Making your way through the mess, you found your husband Nikolai on the living room couch. He looked really mad, extremely drunk like many other nights. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming home this late?” He asked, his Russian accent thick through his words. You knew the rules. You had to give him an excuse he’d buy or God know what he was capable of doing.