Russian twist: A short story

Long live comrade Granovsky

To the friends I lost and those who will be

Moscow, january 2047

The silence of a house got disturbed by what was to be one of the not so many programs on television, as some family got their chilling time into some dusty blankets, always checking out with the corners of their eyes the portrait of their leader hanging on their wall. Comrade Granovsky, all prideful into the picture laid his eyes like an eagle over them, like he was assuring them that the Patria was blooming. But the truth was more consistent - it bleeds.

It was all a fuss, as in the awful beating of snow in the face, you got to finally make something out of your existence, as the Gouvernment got some real money into television for a first time premieré, and you would get to be the first that hear the rules of the programme you get to participate in, but it all seem to be a preparation for an old nazi-like morbid experiment. How much ingenuity to posses just to figure out the intention of a government whose only needs are never restrained by what the plebeians want, but by their own desires? Your future is more uncertain that the one of a moribund that just discovered a miraculous cure.

What is the last thing you remeber? The first breath you took as your lungs clinged to your life, the first laughter of joy, tear of sadness, and all those things altogether that you forgot to live? Or maybe you are just like them - yes, those from outside, looking at the world like Lewis Carol's Alice through some looking glass waiting for something magical to happen.

The world itself lost its magic. Maybe it wasn't even there.

What are you waiting for, as you are going to be in a cold artificially enlighted room with the three persons you care most about as one of them wants you dead? 'Get out, you moron!' you whisper to yourself, as you see Granovsky's man looking at you with that cutthroat look as he was driving the car like Hades' Charon did with the mythical wooden boat, and if looks could kill...

You can't, face it. The Gouvernment wouldn't allow you, as they would get their bazooka and shoot you in the head, spilling your dumb brains all over the ground of Russia. A sweet comeback to the nature, a unique reunion, all a pleasant surprise for your leader - a worthy sacrifice to the d'yavol.

Who would want you dead? The question lays hard on your shoulders like the Earth itself on the ones of some ancient god. Since the never ending communism, people began to care only for themselves. The "ratio", as they use to call the short amount of food made their minds go crazy. They need supplies to get their minds clear. Otherwise, they get more and more towards their animal instinct. The only question is who is going to be the predator.

'But killing?'

The car takes an awful turn toward what it seems to be a lonely road at the periphery of Moscow, as you catch a glimpse at the dusted, polluted window just to see the building that will contain your killer. Maybe he is already there, waiting.

The old Red Square got its pale-faced citizens like ghostly figures that are holding into their last chance to life, as disease is spreading like the black plague in the polluted air. Some claimed it is the radiation from the reactor that exploded in 1986, but who could believe a conspiration theory that could be against the belief that the Patria has enough care for their children? Not far from there, the memory of Lenin lies in its mausoleum, and close enough, the shape of a construction starts to get a clear contour beneath the dust.

But who cares about the place of execution that could, in time, proliferate?

People are watching. Disgustingly, with their disturbing stare only a predator would get to earn their prey. Like they never learned their lesson hundreds of years ago, when they cheered when a gladiator got killed and eaten by lions.