Chapter 6 : The Choke

‘’Alcoholism is not just a personal failing; it is a societal disease that undermines our future.”

— Mikhail Gorbachev

The shadow of alcoholism stretches across continents, cultures and centuries—a global pandemic that silently destroys lives while hiding behind social acceptance. Alcohol abuse often wore the mask of tradition—Russian vodka, German beer and French wine. In Lithuania, like many post-Soviet states, drinking was so normalized that sobriety often extracted suspicion. This cultural acceptance created a perfect storm when combined with post-independence trauma and economic instability. By the early 1990s, when Lithuania emerged from Soviet occupation, the World Health Organization (WHO) had already declared alcohol abuse one of humanity's most devastating public health crises.

Children of alcoholics were four times more likely to develop substance abuse problems themselves. This generational curse wasn't unique to Lithuania—from the barrios of Mexico City to the suburbs of Stockholm, children like Alex were learning the same painful lessons about trust, safety and survival.  While developed nations struggled with sophisticated addiction treatment programs, post-Soviet states faced their demons with virtually no support.

In 1990, the global alcohol industry generated $900 billion annually—a figure that tripled by 2020. Behind these staggering numbers lay countless broken homes, shattered dreams and lost childhoods. Yet nowhere was its impact more devastating than in the transitioning societies of Eastern Europe.

While developed nations were establishing specialized addiction treatment centers and trauma-informed care protocols, countries like Lithuania struggled with basic mental health services. Someone’s grandfather's violence wasn't just a personal failing—it was a symptom of a healthcare system ill-equipped to handle the tsunami of addiction and mental health cases flooding post-Soviet society. Lithuania's story wasn't unique, but it was particularly tragic.

In the early 90’s, while unofficially Lithuania was staggering out from under Soviet rule, the nation reeled into a new crisis: alcoholism. Alcohol, once controlled by Soviet anti-drinking campaigns, now spilled freely into every facet of society, leaving a collective wound. By 2010, consumption had tripled, with devastating consequences: 57% of murders, nearly half of all violent crimes, and countless broken homes bore its dark mark. In this era, children's playgrounds and schoolyards alike were tainted by the tang of spilled vodka—a society grasping for relief in a bottle. In homes across Lithuania, alcohol became both an escape and a prison.  For Alex's family, alcohol was more than a substance; it was a way to finish the day, casual dinners, scarred birthdays and friend meet ups, coloring every breath of silence with foreboding.

His mother’s choices, his grandfather’s violence, and his stepfather’s rage all drew an unspoken pact to look the other way—as if the air itself thickened with despair and the walls absorbed the poison. This poison was societal as much as personal, and yet in the corridors of Alex’s memory, it remained intimate and equally visceral.

On this day, the two brothers biked through the town, crisscrossing paths until they reached the home of the grandmother on Alex’s brother’s side.  His stepbrother, Dave, said he needed water, so they went in together. They poured big glasses, gulping quickly, when Alex noticed a figure swaying in the hallway. The smell of cheap, stale alcohol distorted the old man's form as he lumbered from the bedroom toward the toilet. In his drunken state, "Pape," as they called him, appeared barely human; his jerky movements resembled those of a puppet on invisible strings. Dave darted into the bathroom, leaving Alex alone, and in that instant, the hallway seemed to stretch and darken, each breath harder than the last.  As the grandfather approached, Alex’s instincts prickled and he took a step back, but the old man locked eyes with him.

“Alex, you bastard!” The words cut like a blade, ripping into the fragile calm. Before he could move, the grandfather lunged, grabbing Alex’s throat with iron hands. Alex felt his back slam into the wall, his feet barely skimming the ground. The chokehold was crushing, every shallow breath was a scrape of pain. The grandfather’s fingers dug deeper, his face twisted in fury, his words hot and venomous. “I will kill you, you son of a whore…you bastard!”

In a fog of terror, Alex’s vision began to narrow. His limbs flailed, but the influence of the man’s anger bore down. His chest heaved for air, the hall dimming around him. His thoughts fragmented, flashing back to other moments of violence, and then—nothing. He saw only shadows and light, a surreal blur as his consciousness slipped.  But just as Alex felt the cold edge of unconsciousness approaching, his brother leaped forward, grabbing the old man’s arm. With all his strength, Dave wrenched the hand down. Suddenly, air flooded Alex’s lungs, his feet hit the ground, and he staggered back. The grandfather stumbled, his eyes wide with a sudden, horrified clarity. "Oh, oh, God, Alex, I didn’t mean..." The words tumbled out, desperate apologies laced with alcohol and fear. But Alex’s trust had been shattered. 

The word “grandad” meant nothing now, just a hollow mockery.  And yet again, big brother wanted him to “swear” never to share what happened.  It was all blamed on the alcohol, and everyone was hoping it would soon be forgotten.  The corridor no longer felt like home—it felt like another trap, a place to be fled. He ran down the stairs onto his bike and pedaled hard, each turn of the wheel taking him farther from the old man's wrinkled face, the reek of vodka, the twisted snarl of his voice. The air hit Alex’s face, but it couldn’t wipe away the shame, horror and the feeling that somehow, he was to blame. In his mind, Alex began to twist inward, the self-blame eating away at him.

Alcohol, family, and a creeping sense of worthlessness wove around Alex like a spider’s web, seeping into every crevice of his existence. Over time, he dug deeper pits of memory—dark, damp, filled with the sharpest shards of the past—that followed him like shadows, pulling him back with every step. That day, cloaked in darkness, his grandfather’s violence was written off to the haze of alcohol. But to Alex, it was more than drunkenness—it was an indelible scar, a constant reminder that love could become a trap, family a cage, and home a place to flee.

He carried this secret alone, like a stone weighing on his chest. Each turn of the bicycle pedals, each gust of wind tearing at his face, couldn’t erase the shame, the fear, or the insidious belief that the blame somehow belonged to him. At school, he became a mere shadow—a boy teachers easily dismissed and friends avoided. Even gymnastics, once his island of freedom, now felt like another unreachable dream, faded under the weight of self-reproach.

At night, while others slept, Alex lay awake, listening to the house’s walls absorb the echoes of drunken shouts. A growing realization took root in his heart: the truth about that day—about his grandfather, his family, himself—would never see the light of day. And yet, somewhere deep within, amid the fear and silence, a tiny spark flickered—a faint but stubborn desire to one day break free. For now, though, he remained alone with his burden, imprisoned by memories that refused to let go.

Next week next chapter or You can find full story here - https://a.co/d/9KHWCqN