The chill of winter was in the air on that grey Autumn afternoon and though reluctant to bid farewell to Summer, Vacily yielded by buttoning up his jacket. "Winter must be coming." Announced the dark haired girl sitting idly on the backyard swing hanging from an old deciduous tree, it's branches all but bare with but a few golden leaves yet lingering. "Papa's buttoning up his coat."
She spoke in Russian, her words directed to her mother, a beautiful woman, with the distinct dark traits of her Roma heritage. She did not reply, just smiled and sipped her tea, while her husband continued to read the newspaper, the bold cyrillic headline saying, 'Krushchev's New KGB'.
"We should buy some more tea, before winter sets in." The woman mentioned, making simple conversation. The man nodded and pretended to keep reading, his eyes had wandered toward his daughter. How he loved to watch her swing in the backyard, but times were changing. She would be turning twelve soon and her maturing mind had long outgrown the confines of their private courtyard. How he wished he could bottle that fleeting innocence and store it away so that she would never lose it, but all too soon it would be gone. She no longer cared to touch her toes to the sky, nor had she requested for him to push her for some time now and he wondered where those years had gone, then all at once he would remember.
Stalin's 'terror state' had taken its toll on everyone, but it wasn't his regime that had stolen his time away but more appropriately the plot to kill the man, a task appointed to Vacily by an esoteric order within the Secret Police that had now become the KGB. The world would forever believe his death to be of natural causes, the truth only to be know by two others besides, Vacily. Now they were dead, and he was the last, or so he thought. Vacily wanted to stay in that perfect memory, one of the last days he would ever spend time with his beloved wife and daughter, but as always his dream would turn nightmare, a reality conjured by his arrogance, pride and foolish patriotism.
The distraught and devastated cries of a man echoed through the house and it was only when Vacily became aware of his own choking sobs that he realized those cries were his. With blood stained hands he cradled the body of his daughter, Rajisa, willing her to come back but she would never return. They had took her, the very ones who had set him on his course had learned the identity of the assassin and were now attempting to put him to rest along with the rule of Stalin.
Soft snow flakes sprinkled the coffins and melted across Vacily's face, a facade of tears trickling down his cheeks. There would be no more, only hatred from that point on, and how it pained him to stab at the very ideal that was the foundation of his core. He believed in communism, the ideal of it, but now he would do all in his power to undermine his own government and punish all those responsible to stealing away all that mattered to him.
"Major Rezanov." Bid the new world Czar, "I am very sorry for your loss."
President Krushchev's condolences were genuine and from the heart. He was unaware of the plot, and sought only to give words to comfort one of the person's integral in the reformation of what would become known as the KGB. They shook hands. Vacily's expression as bleak as the harsh Russian winter, thrust cool blue pools into the eyes of Krushchev and offered a somber nod, while all the while his blood boiled within.
How did you hear about us?
Google Search
Recent Profile Visitors
The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.
