Aidan's Fictions - Artem Konstantinovic

Snow and bones crunched under our boots as we marched back towards the village, hoping our evening would remain undisturbed so that we may have time to gather our minds after the intense fighting. Our numbers weren’t affected much, only about 1000 lost. Luckily my men seem to be in good spirits, hearts of iron these men have.

Our job was a simple one, hack away at their defenses and claim territory mile by mile, slow and steady.  I group the men at the entrance of the village, “2 hours ago this village was teaming with scum, thanks to your efforts this village is where we shall spend the night. Squad leaders lead your men to one of the vacant houses for debriefing then enjoy the luxury of a roof over your head tonight for tomorrow we continue onward, TO VICTORY!” “TO VICTORY” They responded before dispersing into the village. I make my way toward a large house with a balcony it seems right to me that the man in charge should get the big house. I leave my coat and belt at the door and make my way upstairs, standing on the balcony I see my men tearing down the flag and raising our own in its place. A smile streaks across my face contemplating our recent victory. I take a cigarette from my pocket and light it.

The sound of footsteps echo behind me, I turn around to greet the source of the sound. No one is there, just the dark bedroom. As I begin to turn back I notice a book on the floor of the balcony it is a plain white book which reads ‘The Communist Manifesto’. I reach for the book but my movement is interrupted by a grizzly Russian voice “You picked the wrong house fool!” he groans as he slaps me to the ground. My lit cigarette flies from my lips into the fireplace sparking it into life. I look up at my assailant and see a Man towering over me, his eyes burning red with hate the likes of which I have never seen. I reach for my Pistol “STOP!” He commands, I froze, completely unable to move.

The figure walks over to the tattered book on the floor as I lie there compelled to do something but unable to do anything. He picks up the book and holding it in his grip as though he is drawing his strength from it. “It is my country’s belief that those who share are bound to prosper together” He explained. “You entered our villages and shared with us your hate, your anger and your bullets. Allow me to reciprocate on behalf of my people and my countrymen.”

He walks towards the balcony bringing his fingers to his lips and lets out a deafening whistle that rings through the fields in all directions. As he turns back to me he lights his pipe and says “they should be here shortly” and begins to pace the room I can see flashes of orange light out all of the windows followed by rumbles of Artillery fire. He stands at the window next to me looking out into the village at my Inebriated soldiers “Have you ever heard of the feigned retreat? You people yearn for victory so much that as soon as you have a taste you believe the fight to be over. And now look at your soldiers, Squabbling and celebrating with booze and recklessness. I wasn’t even approached as I walked through the village square, never mind shot at.” A tear runs down my cheek as I remain there Motionless. Every word he spoke bursting with fact.

I muster up every morsel of strength and ask “Who are you?” The figure chuckles as he crouches down to meet my eye. His face, a map of scars. His left eye concealed by an eyepatch. He slowly draws his revolver and pulls back the hammer, resting the muzzle directly on the skull on my cap. With the mouthpiece of his pipe, he lifts up the eye patch to reveal his eye missing and the socket stuffed with tobacco. I hear the artillery drawing nearer, bringing its stereotypical whistling with it. He responds “Oh I won’t be making that mistake again!” ...

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