Revolution

   1905, Russia

     The cold winter had come to suffocate the ground and top off the roofs of buildings. The wind gnawed and chewed on bare flesh, and the whistling was strangely ominous when contrasted to the silence. The grey clouds guarded the sky and threw their thickness over the horizon, blotting out the sun, and leaving the world wondering where the bright light had gone. Men and women exhaled thick steam, and many drank more alcohol and smoked more than normal in an attempt to warm up. A barricade constructed out of planks, tables, broken carriage wheels, crates, and cabinets stood in the street of Moscow. It reached higher than a grown man with his child on his shoulders. 

     Vasili Alexeivich Sokolov nervously ground his teeth on a cigar, denting its cylindrical shape. His green eyes, full of dark edges, watched a woman at her apartment window. Her blonde hair glinted in the sunlight, and she was motionless for some time. A dancing candle sat in her hand, moving as if a violin was playing a song behind her. Just before the curtains were shut, the woman crossed herself and placed her palm on the window. A solemn feeling hit Vasili at that moment. An emptiness in his stomach suddenly numbed his skin and halted his mind. The silence on the street was deafening. Not a soul to be seen but those revolutionaries behind the barricade. 

     The corruption of the Russian government, and the actions of the Tsar, caused recent uproars in the public. The labor workers were on strike, on account of their unsanitary living and working conditions, as well as the thousands who were realizing the state of things was growing worse. Factory workers died everyday, some in unspeakable ways, and even children were forced to work in the same conditions. Families who lived in the factories were given no elbowroom, their neighbors so close they could feel one another’s breath. Those with stable jobs outside of the factory could barely afford a one bedroom apartment. Food shortage was near as well, which was one of the major influences of the revolution. 

     Vasili, after puffing smoke, brought the cigar back to his chapped lips. His rough hands had the scars of many street fights, for his knuckles alone were wrought with lines and incompletely healed gashes. 

     “Can you spare one?” asked Rodion Antonovich, the man sitting in the chair next to Vasili. Without answering, Vasili took one Sobranie cigarette from his pack, and handed it to Rodion. He also did his companion the favor of lighting a match. 

     A song played from the phonograph in the bar behind them. It was a charming song about a man journeying the countryside. In the chorus, he spoke of a beautiful, rosy horizon that followed a blizzard in the harsh winter. 

     “Do you have a family?” asked Rodion. 

     “Had one,” Vasili muttered. Rodion sighed and blew smoke. 

     “I’m sorry.” 

     “Don’t be, you did not know.” 

     “Is that why you joined us today? If you don’t mind me asking?” Rodion said. Vasili did not answer, instead he brought the cigarette to his lips. Rodion sighed a second time. 

      There was a man somewhere in front of Vasili, who was quietly humming with the song coming from the bar. His voice was peaceful and melodic, relaxing the tension in Vasili’s bones. 

     With reddened eyes, Vasili heard the disarming voice of his own mother. It sounded and felt just as smooth as stroking one’s fingers on water. Her words came with the gentle wind, as did her touch. Before she died, Vasili still only being a boy, she sang lullabies when he couldn’t sleep. He always had nightmares and was afraid to let them return. He was scared of the shadows he’d seen in the night. 

     How often must a man be alone to think, and find the devil’s claws nearing the corner, until he realizes who he truly is? Vasili thought to himself. We are nothing but boys. Tall children fueled by the anger our parents taught us not to nurture. Kindling in our minds are ideals which are nothing but hopeful imaginings. The horizon will be red tonight as the sun sets, deepening the hue of all the leftover ink on the ground. The scene will be an artists’ tragedy, as well as his haven.

     He tried to imagine what the artist would see in the aftermath, and which side lost the most men. Vasili thought of the countless voices lost, ones never to slip again from the lips of their owner, nor touch the brisk air. Also, after seeing a young man holding a small teddy bear, he thought of the families they’d leave behind. The teddy bear reminded Vasili of his daughter. He could still hear her quiet whimpers as the life in her left, stolen by the illness that plagued her, and the starvation that weighed on her. Her eyes were fogged, it was a wonder how she had the energy to smile and talk in her last moments. She was far too young to die; her baby teeth were still falling out. After that, all his beliefs in the government were lost, and his motivations for revolution, and for a greater life, were sparked. 

     Where is the man and his gun when the smoke clears? Are they standing, or are they lying on the ground? The voices in the air are haunting; they come bodiless. I cannot say what should be done because I do not know what should be done. I can only pray to the Lord that those who will still live after this will know the right answer. Vasili then realized his hands were shaking uncontrollably, and his knees seemed to be knocking against one another. Sitting down against the wall of the apartment building, he tried to calm himself. 

     However, just as he did so, a voice echoed in the distance with grave news. In an instant, the revolutionaries jumped to their feet and clutched their rifles. Some spilled their tea in the rush, and others, like the one with the teddy bear, began to weep. The military troops were on their way to the barricade. Their shadowy figures were beginning to seep through the snowy mist. Vasili grabbed his rifle and joined the revolutionaries at the barricade. He had not realized it until that moment, but he knew then that he was going to die. There was no doubt. The only hope in it was that he may see his family again. Looking over at his comrades, he saw the same consciousness in all of their eyes.