Ninety Seconds (1/?)
anonymous
March 18 2009, 17:39:47 UTC
((Anon is sorry for the sheer sucktitude of this fill, but Anon has tried anyway.))
He hadn't been old enough, when she passed away, to remember his mother as well as he'd liked. Damn cancer, getting in the way of his plans by taking her away from him. Damn war, getting in the way of his better dreams. He tried to remember her voice, warm like a wool blanket in his mind, but all he could hear was his own desperate groans.
Would no one soothe his misery? Would no one take him the fuck out of here
( ... )
Ninety Seconds (2/?)
anonymous
March 18 2009, 19:31:01 UTC
So Pasha was to die alone. No matter. He figured it would be the best way to die, after all. No more beatings that always came whenever he came back from the wretched hive of combat. No more of the cherry-red blossoms of blood from the ass. If he had thought five seconds ago that life wasn't cruel, he had convinced himself five seconds later that maybe life wasn't beautiful.
He still heard his sister's voice. He didn't want to explain to her, ever that he was dying. Maybe things were better this way.
The thing Pasha wanted to remember the most about her voice were her lullabies, or maybe the soft chanting after they fought. Instead he thought of the deserted apartments, of more beatings, of having to lie desperately to his father and sister in his letters home.
That was when he noticed the voice had changed. It wasn't his sister's.
It wasn't low and soothing, like he'd imagine the sweet embrace of death or the sorrowful comforts of his country to be, either. It was shrill like an angry child's, with all the innocence and cruelty.
Re: Ninety Seconds (2/?)
anonymous
March 22 2009, 02:35:48 UTC
I really like the thoughts of the soldier here, and the images you make of his disillusion. And as a fan of Russia, I am curious about where you're going from here~
Ninety Seconds (3/?)
anonymous
March 23 2009, 00:54:09 UTC
(As a note to the last part and to this one: I was referring to "dedovschina", or the customary beatings that older, more experienced conscripts give to newbs in the army. Also, the hygiene and conditions of Russian soldiers during the Chechen War was pretty bad. Dysentery was pretty common, hence the "blood from the ass" comment
( ... )
He hadn't been old enough, when she passed away, to remember his mother as well as he'd liked. Damn cancer, getting in the way of his plans by taking her away from him. Damn war, getting in the way of his better dreams. He tried to remember her voice, warm like a wool blanket in his mind, but all he could hear was his own desperate groans.
Would no one soothe his misery? Would no one take him the fuck out of here ( ... )
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He still heard his sister's voice. He didn't want to explain to her, ever that he was dying. Maybe things were better this way.
The thing Pasha wanted to remember the most about her voice were her lullabies, or maybe the soft chanting after they fought. Instead he thought of the deserted apartments, of more beatings, of having to lie desperately to his father and sister in his letters home.
That was when he noticed the voice had changed. It wasn't his sister's.
It wasn't low and soothing, like he'd imagine the sweet embrace of death or the sorrowful comforts of his country to be, either. It was shrill like an angry child's, with all the innocence and cruelty.
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