A Goddamn Moskal

Several days passed with the demeaning tasks of swabbing and cleaning up the pigsty of an office. Little of interest was left behind by pedantic office-workers when the day came to a close. It was almost as if they all worked a strict, secret project, protecting every little detail with utmost care. Not many words were spoken between coworkers. Silence boar an ominous cloak over the whole office. Every laborer styled the typical apathetic glare, avoiding eye-contact as much as possible. No friends ever spoke, no kin ever talked. The whole building, at least on the lower parts, bore an eerie resemblance to a madhouse, only difference being this was voluntarily, to some extent. Whether the higher-class on the top floor shared these traits or not, Artiom did not know, it somewhat intrigued him whether this filth actually discussed politics or instead their friday-night escorts.

Judging by the current status of which the country had descended into, it could only be the latter, or something so vaguely similar it made no difference. Artiom stood perfectly still behind the bars of the service-elevator. People roamed by like ghosts. He would stand like this for hours on end watching these soulless carcasses dragging their tired feet around. At times he’d whisper silently as if to catch the attention of passerby’s, but no matter how loud the voice, how inviting the words, they ignored and stared into the ground as if programmed to do little else. Artiom imagined them strung up from computers, desks and papers, like eerie sculptures displaced from an art-gallery. Little by little, he tweaked the office so as to appeal to his personal ideal. In the foreground he saw a tired middle-aged woman, heavy smoker judging by the wrinkles on her face and her throat-tearing coughs. She’d be the magnum opus, the most grandiose of the lot. She’d be the one with which all others be presented. The mother of this exhibition, and all of those to come. A manifest to the disarray of all artists, present and past. Artistry that has succumb to the decadence of society for hundreds of years. Popular morals spread like an infectious disease among all of those eager to create. Artiom was no carrier, he bore no connection to any such boundaries. They had been crossed over a one-way bridge a long time ago. He was in exile from his compatriots. Or rather, as he would see it, the only sane in a nation-wide madhouse.

The elevator rustled as it started to descend. He passed the second floor, during working hours it remained dormant, just as it had done the last few days. Further investigation into the contents and intents of the floor remained an interesting idea. The elevator stopped at the bottom-floor. Artiom was greeted by Anita who had no interest in being polite and instead uttered; “You look completely psychotic.”

“I expect nothing less.”
He replied.

“I need to talk to you in the rec-room.”
She instructed, immediately heading for it herself whilst Artiom followed close behind.

“We haven’t had a chat about wages and worker-rights and all that.”
She said, and sat down behind a cluster of sloppily arranged papers.

“First of all, write your signature on these…”
She muttered indirectly whilst fiddling with the other papers.

Artiom signed neatly with his fake name and realized it wouldn’t matter if anyone found out that his name belonged to no one. Atleast no one he knew about. It was all a matter of time, and time was on his side he thought, as he gladly signed paper upon paper. He didn’t even bother giving each paper any attention, he might as well have signed his own testament.

“If you look right there you’ll see…”

“Are you a smoker, Anita?”
Artiom interrupted.

“So what if I am?”

“Just wondering, might have to be so indecent as to ask a fag of you.”

She looked at him confused, but hurried back to her papers.
“Uh, you’ll see that we have strict confidentiality. Anything that happens, has happened and will happen will not leave this office, any shape or form, alright?”

“Considering this keep, if I may call it that, is guarded by heavily armed soldiers, may I conclude that doing so would have dire consequences?”

“I would not advice it, no.”

Artiom smiled riley and sat back as Anita fumbled around with her papers and forms.

“For how long have you worked here?”
He asked, slight demeanor in his tone and a smug grin plastered rigid on his face. Anita looked at him with utter disgust. His huge stature imposed a disconcerting presence wherever he presented himself. The woman couldn’t help but to feel that creeping sense of unpleasantness whenever Artiom came near, worse be it when he opened his mouth.

“About 14 years now, I think…”
She continued flicking through her papers as if to make sure she hadn’t missed an important paragraph.

“Have you ever felt, trapped?”
He replied.

“I have had no reason to, how do you mean trapped?”

“You work 10 hour shifts within armed concrete walls that would stop a rocket, bulletproof windows shut you inside, guards make sure you leave with nothing but the clothes on you. You have more than enough justifiable reasons to feel trapped inside this damp basement.”

“It may seem strange to a man of your size but some of us feel safer with guards around us and walls to protect us, it might seem a strange concept for the likes of you but trust me.”
She had a sudden assurance in her voice, she did not trip over her words like she had used to. It seemed rather, pre-composed. It was either that or she had simply had enough of Artioms questions, he thought to himself. He enjoyed this. The pointless ramble about trivial things such as work and private affairs. It took him away from his usual conformity of discussing the end of someones life. He knew little about the act of small talk person to person, unless it supplemented his ego or was engaged by him and maintained by him. He saw little use of time-consuming banter unless it was that of his own mindless rambling.

“I can imagine the pleasure of a safe environment, but I can assure you that one such is merely a dream of those who have experienced too little hardship. If you’d have seen what I have seen and experienced what I have experienced, you would nod in consent.”

“I have lived through the war, Pavlov. My father was killed infront of me when we visited the local market to get rations for the winter. I had his head, or whatever was left of it all over me when they hurried me away. So don’t tell me about hardship.”
Anita steamed with fury as she looked deep into Artiom’s eyes. Artiom styled a smirk face when he heard her shouting. Artiom had expected her to leave his vicinity at the sight of his grin, however strong as she was, she stood fast, persistent. She shoved the remaining forms his way and kept her sight locked on his eyes. Artiom felt obligated to play along. It wasn’t so much the empathy of which she so deserved that bent him, it was rather a metaphysical notion that brought him back a few years to a murky memory he could barely remember. All that he felt was a minor aching and that creeping sense of dread, as if he’d forgotten the most important moment in his life.