A Goddamn Moskal

A cold breeze swept in through the bedroom, gently caressing the blue cotton curtains, waking him from his slumber with a low howl. The clock said quarter past three a.m, just like it had done every night for the last two months. He sat himself up on the bedside and looked bitterly at the four digits blaring through a dirty plastic screen. In just about three hours’ time he would submit himself to another day of meaningless labour, despite his anxiety and his ten hours of dismay over what he’s doing. He knows of the perils of unemployment, the dishonor of having to live off of the government’s charity and “good will”. He considers calling in sick today, not because he suffers ailment, but rather because he has reached an impasse in his life. However he remembers that his six days are up, and that he faces medical evaluation. He bothers not pick up the phone and dial the eight numbers.
He will butter a stale piece of bread with the last bryndza soft cheese he has left and boil himself just enough water to warrant two cups of coffee with one spoonful of milk and one sugar each. The streets outside slowly awake in time for the districts radiobroadcast to crackle into life. Today it’s Tchaikovsky, tomorrow Galina Ustvolskaya. The schedule was always the same. Symphonies played over loudspeakers, with the head of the union interrupting to tell everyone it’s time to head off to work and school. The broadcast usually last about five minutes each time, every morning except weekend. He sported his government-issued trench-coat and headed out into the freezing morning of a snowy December day. Everyday followed the same routine; melancholy came over him, followed by sorrow and culminating in a crude depression of which he knew nothing about. He had a twenty two minute walk to the office where he greeted the armed sentinel, static beneath the falling snow. He clocked in at precisely two minutes before his shift started to get some time to prepare himself for another day of nothing. “Where does the time go?” He asked himself. “I’m working to get the money I need to live, but if I am not happy, am I still living?” The long arm drew close to ten past seven. He stepped out of the dressing room with a firm rapid gait, heading straight for the two figures looming inside the break room.

“Hey guys, any news or tasks for today?”

Anita looked furious and Artiom looked as though he’d forgotten his service key. Putra gently poured himself some coffee whilst this peculiar situation unraveled before him.

“Did you folk hea…”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, Putra.”
Came Anita’s voice.

“You we’re supposed to be in there…”
Replied Artiom.

“What the hell are you talking about, you big oaf?”
Artiom remained silent, as if remembrance silenced his speech and impaired his judgment.
At this point furious, Anita came barking onwards.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Is there something seriously wrong with that brain of yours?”

“Hey, Pavlov, you okay?”
Putra, gently asked.

“What, you’re taking his side now you fuck?”

“No, I just thought, you know… maybe he doesn’t feel good?”

“Oh, he’s perfectly fine, he’s just playing his cards right, aren’t you? Or have you just given up, huh?”
Artiom sat still, one hand griping the other, knuckles bare white. Putra sipped his coffee, burning his lips slightly, whilst Anita glared furiously at Artiom, still paralyzed with dead eyes.

“You got some demons you need taking care of? Fuck off and come back tomorrow.”
Anita exclaimed, reaching for a half-smoked fag in her breast-pocket. She knew it wasn’t allowed indoors, but who would tell her no? Putra stood idle, minding his own business, as if he thought he could drift away from the awkwardness that ensued. Artiom stood up and walked silent out the door and didn’t give a single thing as much as a glance on his way.

“Anything you wanna talk about?”
Putra asked Anita, nervously.

“Do I seem to be in the mood, Putra?”
She replied, inhaling deeply from the lit fag.

“I guess not.”

“No.”

Artiom headed out, into the murky backwaters of the ministry. The guard standing outside prompted him to stop, asking him why he was heading off, a simple explanation as to why he had to be excused and he was well on his way again. Though the winter frost permeated every living thing brave enough to dare it, Artiom seemed less than bothered. For deep within the secluded parts of his mind, over which he ruled supreme, trouble seemed brewing. An echo of a memory somewhere begged to be heard, screaming at the top of its lungs. Yearning to be sought after, cared for and understood. He knew it bore no relevance to who he was or who he had become, it was after all, an old memory, begotten long after he could recall what it even meant, and what it had done to him. Perhaps he should endorse its existence, so as to reference its meaning and understand it. Maybe then he could finally have it gone from his memory?

He could see the house before him. The flash, followed by the smoke, the pressure and the terrifying silence that followed. What happened in the days, weeks, prior to that very event? Just thinking back on it, he felt a terrible sting percolate his being.
He met Ljublina, a serious, middle-aged woman with her darkish-brown hair in a constant bun atop her head. Always in high-top rubber wellingtons. As far as he could figure out, he now remembered her more attractive than she actually was. Four children, two daughters, two sons. Husband got killed for whatever reason at the local market. She would often comment on Artioms shaved head, telling him it made him look like one of those neo-nazis you'd see heiling at a presidential rally. She liked holding hands.
He never counted the bodies. At that point it all seemed unnecessary, a blast that perforated rock surely would not leave a person to be mourned? Perhaps someone made it. Couldn’t have been her, she doesn't fit the profile, unless she was lying.