Mammatus
A Squid With a Rocketship
So...It's been a while. And anyway. I had a meditation session the other night where I went back to my Russian PL. I was taken to a very painful time for me from a time during 1943, I believe.
I was almost finished with putting on my uniform for another day at being a guard, and was about to walk out the door of my Moscow apartment when the phone rang. It was an older phone, similar to the rotary model. It was a brownish color, sort of a faded red.
I lifted the phone to my ear in confusion, who could be calling me now?
I was surprised to find that it was my own mother, all the way back in Novosibirsk. Her words were hard to understand, as she mumbled and sounded as if she had been crying. She only managed my brother's name (Dmitriy, I believe, but I could be wrong) and said "he's dead".
I knew my brother was fighting in WW2. He was in the Red Army afterall. But the words that my mother had managed sent a shockwave through my body. We were both very close my brother and I, and I had assumed that the lack of letters he usually sent me was because he just didn't have time.
"N-No...No....That's...That's a lie!" I yelled, barely containing myself. My mother tried to console me, but it I hung up the phone on her. I couldn't talk. I couldn't breathe. I sunk to the floor in desperation.
"It's got to be a lie..." I whispered, tears falling down my cheeks. I pulled my legs into my chest and buried my head in my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. This wasn't happening......
Then the memory faded out and then back in.
.......................
I was back home in Novosibirsk, and found out to my relief that he was simply MIA. My sister was there, and we all eagerly awaited news about my brother. Days went by, and finally one night, we were given a letter. My father opened it tentitavely, and no sooner had he read than he had slammed it down on the dinner table and stared out the window where no one could see him. A few silent sobs wracked his body, although he tried to compose himself. My sister dived for the letter, and began to read it out loud.
I didn't want to hear it. I knew what it meant. I left the room in a hurry and stood outside looking at the stars.
"Please God....Bring him back to us...To me...." I prayed silently, a few stray hot tears running down my cheeks. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible for his demise, even if I knew it wasn't my fault. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see my mother standing there, with a worried expression on her face.
"He's not coming back--Is he?"
Those were the last words I managed before breaking down in my mother's arms, violent tremors surging through my body with each attempt at holding back tears. It was no use.
I don't believe it ever sunk in. For days afterward, and even after I returned to Moscow, I expect a letter to be waiting for me. I looked out the window, expecting to see him come strolling up the road. When it didn't happen, I was reminded of why, and I would do my best at holding back tears. I had a job to do and had to stay composed.
Besides. Soviet men are supposed to cry.
When I was brought out of meditation...I was crying. A lot. In honesty, I don't think I've cried that hard over a PL memory since my memory about my daughter in my Roman PL.
And although I know that this was in the past of a past persona...I still miss him. A lot. I sometimes wonder though, if he's still around somewhere and I just don't know it. I don't know. Maybe that's just wishful thinking.
I was almost finished with putting on my uniform for another day at being a guard, and was about to walk out the door of my Moscow apartment when the phone rang. It was an older phone, similar to the rotary model. It was a brownish color, sort of a faded red.
I lifted the phone to my ear in confusion, who could be calling me now?
I was surprised to find that it was my own mother, all the way back in Novosibirsk. Her words were hard to understand, as she mumbled and sounded as if she had been crying. She only managed my brother's name (Dmitriy, I believe, but I could be wrong) and said "he's dead".
I knew my brother was fighting in WW2. He was in the Red Army afterall. But the words that my mother had managed sent a shockwave through my body. We were both very close my brother and I, and I had assumed that the lack of letters he usually sent me was because he just didn't have time.
"N-No...No....That's...That's a lie!" I yelled, barely containing myself. My mother tried to console me, but it I hung up the phone on her. I couldn't talk. I couldn't breathe. I sunk to the floor in desperation.
"It's got to be a lie..." I whispered, tears falling down my cheeks. I pulled my legs into my chest and buried my head in my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. This wasn't happening......
Then the memory faded out and then back in.
.......................
I was back home in Novosibirsk, and found out to my relief that he was simply MIA. My sister was there, and we all eagerly awaited news about my brother. Days went by, and finally one night, we were given a letter. My father opened it tentitavely, and no sooner had he read than he had slammed it down on the dinner table and stared out the window where no one could see him. A few silent sobs wracked his body, although he tried to compose himself. My sister dived for the letter, and began to read it out loud.
I didn't want to hear it. I knew what it meant. I left the room in a hurry and stood outside looking at the stars.
"Please God....Bring him back to us...To me...." I prayed silently, a few stray hot tears running down my cheeks. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible for his demise, even if I knew it wasn't my fault. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see my mother standing there, with a worried expression on her face.
"He's not coming back--Is he?"
Those were the last words I managed before breaking down in my mother's arms, violent tremors surging through my body with each attempt at holding back tears. It was no use.
I don't believe it ever sunk in. For days afterward, and even after I returned to Moscow, I expect a letter to be waiting for me. I looked out the window, expecting to see him come strolling up the road. When it didn't happen, I was reminded of why, and I would do my best at holding back tears. I had a job to do and had to stay composed.
Besides. Soviet men are supposed to cry.
When I was brought out of meditation...I was crying. A lot. In honesty, I don't think I've cried that hard over a PL memory since my memory about my daughter in my Roman PL.
And although I know that this was in the past of a past persona...I still miss him. A lot. I sometimes wonder though, if he's still around somewhere and I just don't know it. I don't know. Maybe that's just wishful thinking.