Regina Saxony
on the topic of memories
Regina is about to sleep as she hears that voice radiating through the stairwell. Her heart pumps faster as she disregards her current night attire and sprints to the door. “Pavla!” She screams.
When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, her mouth drops agape with the sheer horrors of her friend. The smell was what Regina witnessed first. Stale blood mixed with Pavla’s seductive musk.
“Pavla!” She whelps, jumping over the ornate wrought iron banister and ultimately loosing balance upon landing. Regina stumbles over onto her side as she scrambles to her friend who desperately clutches her abdomen, wincing and breathing deeply. “Pavla,” Regina whispers, hearing the squishing monstrosity of innards gushing out onto the white coat, matting the fur down with the salinity of blood.
“Oh Regina,” She cries.
“I looked for you, I swear I did,” Regina’s eyes are clouded with tears, trying to pry Pavla’s fingers away from the gash erupting from what appeared to be the lower abdomen to the ribcage.
Steps sound on the concrete stairs and Regina thoroughly ignores them. If Pavla can even hear them, she does as well. Breathing became hard in those mere seconds of forever, accompanied by gasps of pain, Regina muttering her friends name in a soft, soothing incantation, and the sweet sound of church bells tolling—the last hour has passed and the new hour has come forth with new troubles and new experiences. The riots are still audible, the sounds of the angry people rise above, even above the harrowing fires of rifles, the utter fracturing of a despised system… “The Tsar is gone, Regina. He’s gone.” Pavla smiles.
“Whoa.” A neighbor proclaims as he reaches the bottom stares.
“Oh Regina,” Pavla enchants even in her fleeting time with that husk she breathily speaks in, “Oh Regina, you are the sweetest thing.”
“It's a strange time to live in,” The man has now kneeled beside the excessively bundled and exquisite woman. Pavla’s teeth chatter, her lips would be a deep indigo had it not been for the wine tinted paint that spread on them.
"No shit," Pavla laughs.
Regina wipes tears from her eyes, feeling the sticky warmness of blood smearing against her freshly washed cheekbones, cringing in fear and in an utter disparity. “She’s going to be alright,” Regina tells herself, but it only makes her more weepy and unwilling to accept what is happening.
“Don't lie to yourself, child, I’m dying. But I died for something.” Pavla musters as her breathing becomes lighter. The man removes Regina’s fingers. It’s still death—whether it was for something or nothing it’s still the same outcome and the same searing pain of the nothingness that will expand forever. At least this Earth is something. It is a rather fickle something, it is.
And in that moment, Regina bows her head. Sobs ripping from deep inside, a loneliness engulfing her entirety, everything is a razor pressing into her innocent skin. The man gestures to hold her, but Regina cannot take solace in someone else’s presence. Lying next to her friend, she begins to chant prayers, crossing the chest that was gently ceasing to rise and fall with the motion of life. Pavla tired of this, and told Regina something to the effect of:
“I’m a foul-mouthed whore, for fuck’s sake.”
And even after that, Regina began muttering Shakespearean sonnets she kept dear to heart. Huddling in that puddle of blood, she tried to console her dear friend, her dearest Pavla, until she wasn’t here with them any longer. There would be no more chats after a long night for her and a well-rested morning for Regina. There would be no more peeking over Regina’s shoulder to attempt to decipher Ilya’s shoddy Cyrillic. No more matronly mocking. No more petty fights. Nothing. Pavla would be nothing but a painstakingly bright part of the past only to be visited in searing remembrance.
Eventually, the man left. Eventually, people came to take away the body. Eventually, someone scrubbed the blood from the stairwell.
And, eventually, the capital moved to Moscow and the Germans were approaching Petrograd.
And, eventually, Ilya Volkov came back to her.
When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, her mouth drops agape with the sheer horrors of her friend. The smell was what Regina witnessed first. Stale blood mixed with Pavla’s seductive musk.
“Pavla!” She whelps, jumping over the ornate wrought iron banister and ultimately loosing balance upon landing. Regina stumbles over onto her side as she scrambles to her friend who desperately clutches her abdomen, wincing and breathing deeply. “Pavla,” Regina whispers, hearing the squishing monstrosity of innards gushing out onto the white coat, matting the fur down with the salinity of blood.
“Oh Regina,” She cries.
“I looked for you, I swear I did,” Regina’s eyes are clouded with tears, trying to pry Pavla’s fingers away from the gash erupting from what appeared to be the lower abdomen to the ribcage.
Steps sound on the concrete stairs and Regina thoroughly ignores them. If Pavla can even hear them, she does as well. Breathing became hard in those mere seconds of forever, accompanied by gasps of pain, Regina muttering her friends name in a soft, soothing incantation, and the sweet sound of church bells tolling—the last hour has passed and the new hour has come forth with new troubles and new experiences. The riots are still audible, the sounds of the angry people rise above, even above the harrowing fires of rifles, the utter fracturing of a despised system… “The Tsar is gone, Regina. He’s gone.” Pavla smiles.
“Whoa.” A neighbor proclaims as he reaches the bottom stares.
“Oh Regina,” Pavla enchants even in her fleeting time with that husk she breathily speaks in, “Oh Regina, you are the sweetest thing.”
“It's a strange time to live in,” The man has now kneeled beside the excessively bundled and exquisite woman. Pavla’s teeth chatter, her lips would be a deep indigo had it not been for the wine tinted paint that spread on them.
"No shit," Pavla laughs.
Regina wipes tears from her eyes, feeling the sticky warmness of blood smearing against her freshly washed cheekbones, cringing in fear and in an utter disparity. “She’s going to be alright,” Regina tells herself, but it only makes her more weepy and unwilling to accept what is happening.
“Don't lie to yourself, child, I’m dying. But I died for something.” Pavla musters as her breathing becomes lighter. The man removes Regina’s fingers. It’s still death—whether it was for something or nothing it’s still the same outcome and the same searing pain of the nothingness that will expand forever. At least this Earth is something. It is a rather fickle something, it is.
And in that moment, Regina bows her head. Sobs ripping from deep inside, a loneliness engulfing her entirety, everything is a razor pressing into her innocent skin. The man gestures to hold her, but Regina cannot take solace in someone else’s presence. Lying next to her friend, she begins to chant prayers, crossing the chest that was gently ceasing to rise and fall with the motion of life. Pavla tired of this, and told Regina something to the effect of:
“I’m a foul-mouthed whore, for fuck’s sake.”
And even after that, Regina began muttering Shakespearean sonnets she kept dear to heart. Huddling in that puddle of blood, she tried to console her dear friend, her dearest Pavla, until she wasn’t here with them any longer. There would be no more chats after a long night for her and a well-rested morning for Regina. There would be no more peeking over Regina’s shoulder to attempt to decipher Ilya’s shoddy Cyrillic. No more matronly mocking. No more petty fights. Nothing. Pavla would be nothing but a painstakingly bright part of the past only to be visited in searing remembrance.
Eventually, the man left. Eventually, people came to take away the body. Eventually, someone scrubbed the blood from the stairwell.
And, eventually, the capital moved to Moscow and the Germans were approaching Petrograd.
And, eventually, Ilya Volkov came back to her.
♠ ♠ ♠
meh