Their first day in the city of Prague proved worthless for any traveling for two brothers, Ivan and Charlie Sorokin. Blazing storm and ice, constraining all vehicles and peoples indoor.
The brothers too, remained at their hotel rooms all day, only meeting up for meals, and then a smoke at the end of the day in Ivan's room. They talked of the day and the unfortunate timing they both had decided to visit a country for touring and vacationing.
Charlie had been in a particularly foul mood due to all his wasted time.
"There was never a time when nothing hurt." Ivan climbed into the fresh, but warmed up sheets, already having smoked through the day and deciding on no more, the last few of his syllables muffled as he hid his head under the quilt.
"Never was a time when blood was poetic when it was still flowing out of the gash, brother, there was perhaps only regret. It's only after time passed, when either the one became a martyr or a veteran, that pride filled his chest at the beauty of his sacrifice."
A bittersweet smile spread across his face. The corners of his lips shifted the fabric of the quilt ever so gently. Some good had come out of this conversation from his half, as well as the day spent in bed, reading and snoozing.
Whilst Charlie's mind wandered elsewhere. He rose from the rocking chair to pick up the ashtray Ivan had been hogging to himself all evening and set it on his lap, finally lighting up his cigarette after an evening of resisting.
" You are right, brother, that there has been a time when nothing hurt, but so shall it be. Why commend the pain? Why make it pretty? It's injustice, I say, to diminish a feeling incurred at a particularly harsh time, just to call it 'poetic' at a later time. Dear brother, if a soldier dies, would you celebrate his sacrifice? Would you call it a poem? Why must idealists think of the world as beautiful in the first place? It's unapologetic and harsh, it needs and demands everything you own. Why? Why? must you give it all you have and then put on it a flower crown and write letters of affection to it?
"I ask myself if it's necessary for my words to take such a serious turn when all we should be mourning is our day and money lost because of the storm, but I shall say, it couldn't be any more insulting to put a smile on your face after hearing about a man who was killed for merely a concept, than to kill the man with your own bare hands."
Charlie paced around the room, restless.
"What is beautiful is a woman." He began once more. "A satin gown. A happy dog. A setting sun. Beauty is purity, is it not? Not beautiful, a bleeding bastard, as you say, or misfortune, or lost money! Then one starts to find everything beautiful! They'll find it beautiful the drunken bachelors on the streets. Or the beaten wives in the hands of ill men. What say you? Is a hardship to look forward to? Just to make a lesson of it later?
"'I'll make a romance of this': they will begin to think! Of their illogical behavior! And begin to search for a 'hidden' meaning behind every templedly bad decision. To form a poem from the blood spilling from the crushed head of their enemy. Quill with their innards. Vile! Vile! The issues with being an idealist!
"Put pigs blood on this! Call it a night! Give me a minute to take in your thoughts. A puff and rest ought to fix it!" He huffed, crushing his cigarette butt on the resting ashtray on the chair, before he stormed out of Ivan's room, in a hurry and already thinking of a few more things he had forgotten to mention in his say.
As all finally fell silent, the pitter patter of the rain seemed to have taken up its place in the room, deafening if you were sitting by yourself.
Light snores could be heard, too gentle to catch amongst the noise.
Ivan had fallen asleep quite a while ago, right after he had covered his head with his quilt, having not heard a single word his brother had said.
[a.n. : inspiration: Anton Chekhov.]
