Ben C. O. Grimm

Damn these Russians. Crass creatures, full of liquid convolution. Glaring eyes, pupils narrowed to a catlike slit. Avoiding the charred path, dodging the gnarling monsters in a ridiculously ill-conceived ambuscade. Can't say they really touch me, they just brush past, with vernicular balance. I'm on hands and knees, my breath enveloping my skull, slowy crushing me. I dream of a bucket, filled with my damp remains. With remarkable care, my eyes have been placed in the center. They seem to move, searching the sky for the rest of me. No way of knowing where I am. No eyelids to wipe them clean. Where am I, and why can't I see? The Russians lift me up, they swing me around. A marching band is playing some obscure anthem. Who are these people waving banners? I ask for a light. Those eyes again. A paper crown. Sharp fingernails. How does it all fit? I want to run, to pick up the pieces that are scattered all over the place. It never ends. I seem to spill more than I can gather. My guts have a faint color. They move as if I'm no longer in control. A dog growls at me. It's between me and him. The tug-o-war attracts a small crowd. They're not cheering. They aren't even interested. "Kick the bucket", the paper crown says. "What, and lose it all?", I ask. I want to ask the voice inside my head. But it's gone. It joined the parade, and it sings in tune. Drastic measures are called for, but the call goes unnoticed. I must make it to the hill. My lungs hurt, but the marching band doesn't stop. The blood, diluted by the melting ice, trickles down the cheap shoes of a solitary, callous peasant. He's gloating. He speaks to me in Russian. He doesn't seem unkind, but I feel ill at ease. He may be a madman, explaining to me where the axe will cleave, where the knife will penetrate, where the bullet will exit. Maybe he's routinely muttering his final prayers, asking for forgiveness. Asking who? Arteries are pumping, drowning out the music. I feel my temples, but my fingers touch in mid air. The smell of iron is nauseating. I feel cold. Someone pour some hot water over me! Rinse the blood. Cleanse the eyes. Make me whole. The shoes step aside. A child looks at me in disgust. Its eyes are older than mine. When the dog starts to lap her thighs, her expression changes. I'm the focal point of a new experience. Why am I all over the place? How can I become one again, and hide behind a tree? I see the whites of her eyes. Her father is holding her hand, but he's in a different world, three feet up. When the girl starts to tremble, the dog goes berserk. Its bright red shaft starts to ooze, and I turn away. I want to hold my breath to avoid the sulphuric smell, but the marching band is trampling my lungs. The sky is the only way out, but hands are pushing me down. The bucket is getting cold. The crowd is growing impatient. Damn these Russians.

© Ben C. O. Grimm