Regina Saxony
on the topic of fiery fatigue
Regina waited for Pavla. It was nearing midnight and his watch ticked audibly on the dingy counters. Her shaky hand grasped another one of their chipped teacups. The earthy tea stung her throat as she swung her feet anxiously from the top of the kitchen table she was perched upon, staring down at the streets with their slight opulence cast from the moon above. In the dark, she kept the window cracked and the fire snuffed. Silence enveloped everything, the deafening silence of everything and nothing, her racing heart served as the metronome to this hell.
The hour passed and Pavla hadn’t returned. Regina remained atop of the kitchen table wobbling beneath her, staring, eyes aching with a fiery fatigue. Her arms curled around her knees as she waited.
An hour passed.
Another hour passed.
Regina began to soak the stale, almost moldy bread in the kvass for two, gulping down that earthy tea as she constantly darted from the petty domestic work to the window in dire hope to see her friend. Her last friend in the city. Pavla’s bed remained messy, almost as a testament to her character, a delightful mess. Clothing gleaming the bright morning light reek of strong perfume.
Wincing as she swallows the last of her soaked bread, Regina begins to dress. It strikes her that she should have left hours ago, she should have stopped Pavla in the first place. Whatever she should have done, Regina had a teary conviction about what she did do—nothing. Indifferently, Regina sipped on that nasty tea and spectated, as if she was above them all. She was no better than an uppity, entitled tsar on the throne.
Utterly conflicted, she tries to determine which side is better, if there’s even a side to pick. Long knitted socks gather at her knees in a slouching awkwardness. Her thick woolen dress is abrasive, but warm, and it’ll cut through the wind without fuss. Boots are laced. Stiff fur encases her curls in a racing urgency as she leaves the cold confines of the apartment.
When she reaches the snow covered street, the silence halts her and everything becomes hyper focused. The little snowflakes flitting to and from her line of sight, dancing in that foreboding wind, free. The cold isn’t a bother, the weather isn’t anything new. The perspective, however, has changed drastically as she scans relentlessly in the pure white powder. “Pavla?” She calls, the cloud emanating from her chapped lips in a slow haste. “Pavla Kirillovich?” Regina whispers.
She notices that randomly screaming a name isn’t going to be of aide. “Pavla?” It leaves her lips once again in a realistic finality.
An older woman is rested on a metal bench with the characteristic scowl of elderly, unhappy women.
“The protests were in the square,” The wrinkly woman recounts, gesturing her thickly scarved head in the general direction.
“Thank you.”
Regina musters.
The hour passed and Pavla hadn’t returned. Regina remained atop of the kitchen table wobbling beneath her, staring, eyes aching with a fiery fatigue. Her arms curled around her knees as she waited.
An hour passed.
Another hour passed.
Regina began to soak the stale, almost moldy bread in the kvass for two, gulping down that earthy tea as she constantly darted from the petty domestic work to the window in dire hope to see her friend. Her last friend in the city. Pavla’s bed remained messy, almost as a testament to her character, a delightful mess. Clothing gleaming the bright morning light reek of strong perfume.
Wincing as she swallows the last of her soaked bread, Regina begins to dress. It strikes her that she should have left hours ago, she should have stopped Pavla in the first place. Whatever she should have done, Regina had a teary conviction about what she did do—nothing. Indifferently, Regina sipped on that nasty tea and spectated, as if she was above them all. She was no better than an uppity, entitled tsar on the throne.
Utterly conflicted, she tries to determine which side is better, if there’s even a side to pick. Long knitted socks gather at her knees in a slouching awkwardness. Her thick woolen dress is abrasive, but warm, and it’ll cut through the wind without fuss. Boots are laced. Stiff fur encases her curls in a racing urgency as she leaves the cold confines of the apartment.
When she reaches the snow covered street, the silence halts her and everything becomes hyper focused. The little snowflakes flitting to and from her line of sight, dancing in that foreboding wind, free. The cold isn’t a bother, the weather isn’t anything new. The perspective, however, has changed drastically as she scans relentlessly in the pure white powder. “Pavla?” She calls, the cloud emanating from her chapped lips in a slow haste. “Pavla Kirillovich?” Regina whispers.
She notices that randomly screaming a name isn’t going to be of aide. “Pavla?” It leaves her lips once again in a realistic finality.
An older woman is rested on a metal bench with the characteristic scowl of elderly, unhappy women.
“The protests were in the square,” The wrinkly woman recounts, gesturing her thickly scarved head in the general direction.
“Thank you.”
Regina musters.