The blinds were drawn on every window in the little studio apartment, but the light from outside still managed to sneak in a glow around the edges that wasn't enough to stir Aleskey from snoring off a drunk in his bed. As the day passed, what ended up waking him up was the shrill cry of the baby next door. The sound easily penetrated the wall and his warped his dream. His brow furrowed. He frowned. Seconds later, he shot up with a stricken look on his face and his eyes wide with panic. A beat later and the headache kicked in with the same amount of pain if he had his head beaten with a sledgehammer rather than a shot too many at the party last night. 

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. He didn't know which he preferred; The nightmare or the hangover. A colorful Russian curse left him. He was never having kids. Ever. 

Slowly, he rose from his bed and stumbled to the bathroom, removing his clothes as he went. Moments later, he emerged, at least physically recovered after last night's romp with a towel around his waist. He navigated easily around his cluttered apartment in the relative darkness. He didn't own much and what furniture was in the apartment when he first moved in he got used to having. The clutter came from clothes and an empty bottle here or forgotten pack of cigarettes there. He went to the drawer and pulled out a few fresh clothes and put them on, habitually rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He didn't expect May in America to be so... hot. And it was only going to get worse, his friends told him. He couldn't fathom it getting any hotter than it already was.

The baby next door was still crying. He could hear the faint murmur of the baby's father trying to shush it to sleep as he went over to the kitchenette corner of his flat. Nothing seemed to be working. If anything, the poor bastard wailed harder and harder, making the pounding in his own skull go harder and harder. It was just one of those days. He snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and chugged it as he navigated his way to his bed again. He reached under the bed and pulled out Iskra's case. It came open with a few snaps of the latches and he threw her strap over his head. 

He settled down on the bed with his back to the wall and the guitar in his lap and the water bottle within arm's reach on the mattress. He quickly tested the strings for intonation. That sound alone reached the ears of the baby and quieted it down somewhat. He searched his fogged memory for a moment and let his fingers pluck out the beginnings of a [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-978MokOGJQ#t=59]lullaby[/url] his mother used to sing to him. Soon, he joined his voice with the guitar. His throat was a little dry and unsteady from disuse, but it did the trick. By the time he was finished, the baby had gone silent. 

"[i]Finally[/i]," He sighed in his native tongue and let his head rest against the wall. 

"Thanks again," The weary father from the other side of the wall.

There was a delay in his response as he translated it to English, but it was slurred and raspy anyway. "My pleasure."