CW: rats, mass destruction, blood, injury, nudity, body horror (fantasy), kidnapping, child abuse (physical), guns, child sexualization (parental)
And if I could reach you somehow, what would I say? My thoughts are disordered, disjointed. I try to write it down on whatever I find; the hood of a car, bright wood, sheets of metal. I try to make the words come out. I'm walking down an empty street. A few insects crawl beside me. Rats gnaw fruitlessly on the shards of glass that poke out of the windows & doors. I'm not sure what words to use; how do I feel about my home becoming a location? I see a bus map beside a pile of shards: a relic of some yesterday before ruins, when the words had a use. I point at where I am, to make where I am a place. I try to think of the words.
I'm beginning to forget my name. Though I remember yours, dear Lanka. People here are chalk, soft and powdery; they crumble and spread into the wind when I squeeze them. I walk down empty streets, and I watch for dogs in the little tunnels between the buildings. I wish I could call out for you in the courtyards between the tall concrete buildings, under the thousands of clotheslines hanging above me like nerves. I wish I could call out your name, to hear it echo and bounce in the empty canals underneath rusting, bronze bridges; to hear it bring life. I am learning to put it all into words somehow.
And what I find here in this winding, circular walkway of shuttered stores? I hear my own footsteps, I hear my own heartbeat. A woman's face, red-cheeked, blonde; her face explodes with light. I am in the presence of civilization. And what is crunching 'neath my feet? Plastic, cardboard, Styrofoam; a can of Coca-Cola sticks to my ragged shoes. I am in the presence of civilization. The woman is smiling, but I can tell it's not honest. I wish I could call out your name. I walk down the corridors beneath the empty overpasses; dozens of cars lay still, rusting with wheels strewn on the asphalt. I remember that we walked beside each other, our hands joining together. Do you remember the pink flamingoes in the sandpit? They looked like beacons in a still pool of grey. You took the flamingoes in your hands; you raised your leg, you presented them to the sky. Then we watched the sun set over a great big lake that glowed with mysterious green vitality. It was the greatest day of my life; I do not share that memory with anyone, fearing that they might crush it in their greedy little hands. I grasp the handle of the Tokarev; cold, functional steel steadies my nerves.
I'm beginning to forget my name. I am the only one left. If someone called it out, I could not respond. I might recognize the shapes, the way the pitch goes from one to another-- I could not respond. She called me 'Natalia,' or 'Nay-toe's child.' And am I supposed to believe that you're really there? Through the doors made of crumbling steel, on stairs down into deep tunnels flooded with rain? Am I supposed to believe that you're there; rushing through my veins, dancing in the light that peers through a window? Are you there when I feel the heaviness in my chest, when I smell the ben-zin as it burns my nose, in the claws and jaws of stray dogs? And are you there beside me on this ship, rudderless, drifting in free space, awaiting eagerly for the sun to break through the clouds just one last time? Are you really there? I find it hard to believe.
I walk through the park. I'm trying to find you somehow, though I know you won't be there or here. I walk past the park, down the train tracks. Beside me, there's a creek in which a train has collapsed. Green vines rise up from the cracks. I spit down into the creek. Further down the train tracks, I step into an abandoned train. It's filled with curse words, curses; a makeshift table and a few bottles of beer. The windows have all been shattered. I walk down towards the station. The walls are covered in black soot, they form shadows of the past as it might have been once. Men at the booth, selling phones. Women in their Sunday dress. It's the dust that sticks to the walls. A few pieces of metal hang from the ceiling of the station. The heat of the sun makes the wires bleed and melt. The walls howl as the wind rushes through the cracks. It makes me feel calm, in a bittersweet way.
And I remember your face. How it changes; you were brash, then shy. Your lips pursed; they folded into themselves. You smiled, without judgement. The edges of your hair were colored like the sun. It made me feel like something powerful was growing inside me. I lean down besides the plants which have all withered, calcified and turning gray and white. I grasp one of the flowers; it crumbles in my hands. The dust spills and attaches itself to the braids of my hair. A plume of ash is taken by the wind. Is that really you?
How did I end up here? An abandoned gas station by the side of the water. I find a few cans of tarragon soda in a house blown up by fire; I chew on dry, fibrous meat and try to wash it all down. I feel blood seeping down my leg. I take off my clothes: the large overalls, my blackened socks, my tattered sneakers; I place them in a neat bundle beside the cans and the pistol, and I jump into the water. The water tastes metallic. I imagine spikes growing out of my head; I imagine metal instruments itching and twitching, with thick wires, breaking through the skin. I hum something to myself; the melody is plain, monotonous, useful like leather. The stillness terrifies me. I remember butterflies circling the bushes. I remember birds floating down to peck at the surface of the water. I leave the water; I cover myself in a few shiny survival blankets. I study my skin, which is full of craters and bulges beside dull hills. A powerful shiver makes my body shake and rattle. A strong sadness pours into my stomach and I feel it whine. I try to think of the words. I etch something into the survival blanket with a broken pen. I try to carve out my name, but I'm not sure of what it should look like. I imagine the surface of the water coming to life with ripples dancing freely among the stars. I forget how many days it's been. I hear the words, I can hear them. I lie on the cold concrete for a while.
I write you a letter, dear Lanka. I write you to confess. The memories of my life hit me in the head every vulnerable moment at 100km/h like they're riding Papa's KAMAZ. Life is the great forgetfulness; I forgot the moments of my life so easily that I spend most of my time tracing my steps backwards. I don't understand the boundaries between authentic memories and fantasies, for I'm a powerless spectator in either. I'm a gigantic drifting eye that roams the landscape; I'm an alien observer, watching from her spaceship somewhere remote and distant. I shut my eyes and sink within myself; what do I see?
I was taken from the closet by a few vultures, encircling the remains after the violence. I waited for the noises to stop before leaving the closet, but they never did-- the deep thumps were constant, followed by engines and whirring. The camp as I knew it had ceased to exist. I wonder what had happened to the wares of the bazaar: trampled, looted, or the sanctity of commerce upheld? I giggled; sarcasm always reminds me of my father. It's a hollow joy. I open my eyes and look down at my hands; their youthful plump is gone, I see functional veins. I look down at my body, I count the scars and bruises. I welcome the chill of the wind, I shake the habitual. I appear to myself as a pale vessel; the sun falls on my skin which eats up the heat with glee. The camp as I knew it became a flat crater. I remember the love songs on the radio. I am free; I have no home, I have no state. I am merely a vessel, a little coin that carries her value on her face. I am a symbol of pure intercourse between man, I am currency. I am Natalia, I am 'Nay-toe's child.' Take me, sell me. Make me useful again. There's nothing tying me down; I carry no burden of history with me.
When they took me I was so scared I fainted I fainted twice. I remember columns of white light collapsing before me. A lot of masked men. They put me in a truck; I was on a pile of cloth, beside other children. I did not know our fate. A woman opened her veil and shouted at me: "kuda nas perevezut?" I shrugged; I did not know where we were going. I would have said that I'd never known where I was going. A small boy jumped into my lap and held me. I thought it was precious, I embraced him tightly. He looked up at my damaged face with probing eyes. I am the shape of things to come. A few rays of sun break through 'tween the cracks of the truck's cloth exterior. I pointed towards the light, he followed my gaze. It never goes out. You are so free, it's terrifying. You are like mist, flowing through the breeze. I suppose I should be old enough to know. Without a name to put on our thoughts, they disappear; they don't even become memories. Without a name to put to ourselves, we're flesh and bone with no purpose beyond our function. I thought of a family adopting the boy, the mother cooing in his ear, comforting him by telling him it was all just a bad dream and that he was home now with papa and mama. I thought of Nay-toe's crest above him, protecting him from the ills of the world. Under the heat of that symbol, this other world is kept from you; you will know an endless stream of aisles, full of shining products. You'll sit in a car, licking ice cream. You won't ever hear the screaming under the asphalt. It's not in a language you care to understand. A girl beside me placed her wet face on my shoulder; they mistake my emptiness for strength.
After we'd been chased out of the truck by about two masked men, I looked at the cliffs below us: the rocks were full of dancing lights. They wore green overalls; they looked like they'd been assembled from a box. I saw a valley of amber glass beneath us, and the lights poured into the crystal and scattered with beams and flashes. The small boy took a grenade from one of the masked men's belt, pulled on the pin like it was a toy, pulled it back like canned fish, and there was a big commotion. A few women ran, screeching. A few of the masked men started to wrestle with the boy, who kept the grenade tightly in the middle of his chest. Another man without a mask jumped out of the truck with a piece of wood; he started beating the boy, hitting some of the masked men by mistake. The girl took me by the hand. She started shouting, "byegi!" Her face was red and swollen with tears, ripe with fear. "Byegi!" We ran between large pillars of glass, down the cliffs. I heard something explode behind us; I pulled on the girl's hand to force her to stop, and we tugged as I watched the smoke rise up from behind us. "Byegi! Suka, byegi!" I was disgusted by her, and I pulled on her arm and I pushed her down, and I forced her underneath me. I wasn't sure why I did it. As soon as I felt her body grow slack with surrender, I let go of her and she ran off with her sobs growing louder and louder. I watched her tumble and roll over rocks down the cliffs, down towards the glass, and I thought about helping her.
That's my confession, Lanka. I'm walking beside an abandoned swimming pool. The glass of the gigantic windows have all shattered. The old glass was swept away, to make room for the new glass; a few large spikes hung over the empty pool. I walked through the locker rooms. The glass crunched beneath me. A few rats had nested in a hole beside some shrapnel. After I'd left the cliffs, I followed a trail of cars. I recognize the buildings; I recognize the shape of the shadows they'd left, and the name of the roads. They've all died here, Lanka. There are shards of glass sticking out of the windows of the cars. I recognize this little 'magazin;' I used to buy comics and read in the shade of this beautiful old tree. They'd taken away the beautiful old tree eventually, which made me understand immediately that the relationship I thought we'd had with nature was my own stupid little fairytale. And I understood that when I let the little ladybug walk up and down my fingers, I was just killing time. And that when I let you take the little ladybug up on your face before it flew away, we were just kidding each other. The shade is still there, somehow; one of the buildings had collapsed into the other building, and they formed a strange, twisted braid with a few loops. I took two big handfuls of my own hair, fizzy, dusty, and I formed my own braid as a reminder. The streets glittered with dust. It was difficult to breathe, and I coughed a lot.
This is where I was born, Lanka. A graveyard for all possibilities is wet 'neath my feet. Across the parking lot, there's a small clinic; there used to be a small clinic but it is now just a display pedestal for a large, unexploded rocket. I admire the shape; tall, masculine. It pierces the virgin air, brave and unafraid. I extend my arms above my head and I form a little wedge with my hand-- I imagine myself as a rocket, crashing into a building. I imagine everything falling to my powerful flame. I birth the world into white hot heat. I am a life-giver. I was an angel, held up to the light; everyone wanted to touch my little feathers. I jumped out the window, and took flight. And behind me, a trail of figurines followed.
If you were here with me, Lanka, I'd watch you hop down the stairs, onto the playground. I'd point out the bars, I'd tell you about all the times I'd fallen flat on my ass; I'd demonstrate it for you by doing a few cartwheels, then jumping up on the bars and doing a few pull-ups. Could you take a picture of me, Lanka, while I'm hanging with a careless grin in my face? Or do you stand and watch me quietly, moved by my little childish displays? I hear you calling after me. The slides are encrusted with a strange green muck. An accordion comes screeching in my ears like a seagull, but I'm sure it's a memory. I am lost here in this space filled with everything except any real passage of time. Everything lies suspended, inert and permanent; it neither rots nor grows. I walk up a long flight of stairs, up into a courtyard. The horizon seems like one continuous roof, interrupted by pulses of sharp, jagged glass. Somewhere beneath that horizon, I would have been home. But the buildings no longer distinguish themselves; they now all form a clump of something.
This is my school, Lanka. Or what it used to be. Let me measure out the size of the front gates for you using my feet. I find about fifteen steps to be sufficient to reach the left column from the right column. The gate is covered in green muck. Beyond the gate, you'll find several little gardens about twenty steps wide. Above one of the gardens, there looms a chicken coop. Silvery dust covers the soil of the gardens. The wall behind the chicken coop is tattooed with a few shadows; one of them is covering their eyes. I follow a path made of little stones; a project I'd helped finish. I measure about fifty steps on this path. Besides me, I see small pools of glass. Alongside the path, you see the metal stairs up into the classrooms, where the windows have all shattered. The western side of the building is scarred by thousands of little holes. Painted beside one of the large metal doors is a mural of a folk hero-- she holds a small dagger, and her chin is turned up towards the sun, and her face is glowing. I copy her pose; I imagine myself riding on watercolor plains, tasting gouache dawns on my perfect tongue. I walk up the metal stairs, I try the first door on the left; it is perpendicular to the wall with the mural. The door does not move. I walk down the stairs, I walk about another forty steps to try the second door. I pull on the handle, and a few shards of glass tumble down and fall onto the ground. Sunlight fills up the hallway. I peek into the structure and find that every surface has become encrusted with glass, such that the school's interior now appears to me like some sort of massive crystalline burrow. I step into the glass, I feel it crack and crumble under my feet. I crawl through the burrow, room by room; I peek into the classrooms, in which desks & chairs & tables & books & pencils have all been suspended in unyielding amber brine. There's a howl through the burrow, I feel a chill and I shudder. I crawl.
The second story. I leave the burrow behind me. The glass here is much more brittle. I push it away; it lies defeated like stale cake. This floor is full of silhouettes. I study them and I give them names. This one is an archer. This one is a horse-rider. This one sells vegetables on Sundays. And this one smiles when she gets herself a caramel candy after school with the pocket change she gets from her auntie. And this little boy is too shy to speak to her so he peeks at her from the window when she's playing hopscotch. I think of fantasies as flying machines, soaring over the landscapes of our memories; and I think of crashing into that landscape, I think of it all too often. A silhouette. It comes to me. I walk down the hallway: eighty steps. The windows have all shattered, and shards of glass are embedded into the floor and ceiling. I find a few pianos covered in dust, loitering in the corridors. I press into a key. This is "A." This is "C." The walls shake along. The sound made by the strings remind me of a wolf's howl; it stutters, it warbles. A, C, Eb, Ab. I mash on the keys to make the wolf howl even louder. The crystal whines along. I release the keys and it all ends. I try to imagine your laughter; I choke a bit and it resonates with the strings.
It's still here, all of it. I see drawings stuck to the walls, and the notes hastily scribbled, and the books and the shoes. I find a clock on the ground, fallen from where it used to perch. I try to think of the time I'd like it to be. I set the clock, but the clock does not move forward. I play with the frayed wires hanging from the back; I give up on the clock after about some time has passed and I set it back down on the ground. Let me draw you a schematic of the second story. There are about sixteen rooms, each about fifty steps across. Each of the rooms are identical in their furnishings except for two which are devoted to music and performance. The rooms are all arranged around a large atrium. Atrium; a large open air space within a building. The name stems from Roman times, Lanka. The Iranians and the Romans killed each other here. I wonder how the land must have looked to them; surely, a mountain is a mountain and a stream is a stream regardless of its name. Who is to say that when I call a 'rabbit' a "rabbit," I give it its true name and hang around its neck its destined meaning? Or is each name just a shadow of something else? I see the mountain; but when I point to the mountain and shout "gora," I'm merely giving a name to my impression of the mountain. Do these thoughts come to you as well, Lanka? I walk into one of the rooms and find something curious. On the western side of the wall, and I know this because I've been tracking the sun; on the western side of the wall, I see a plastic wallpaper illustrating 'Paris.' I know it's 'Paris' because the word "Paris" is in large print in the bottom corner. And what do I see, Lanka? I open the teacher's desk. Some of the paper has been burnt up. I take a few pieces and I take a pencil. And I write to you:
"[a]nd I sit at this little caf-- cafe, sipping my espres-- coffee, the Eiffel Tower rises before me like an iron giantess, reaching up to kiss the Parisian sky with bronze lips. She stands there, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the afternoon sun-- she is elegant, timeless; she is impossibly romantic; as if it were crafted not of steel but of pure dreams. Her latticework sparkles, like lace woven by the hands of the city itself, and she's delicate yet indomitable, unknowable. Every curve and beam might whisper gossip in your ear: of lovers, artists, and wanderers 'neath its supple legs... [a]nd I sit, entranced; I am merely in its shadow, and I feel every heart beating as one."
I approach the window. The glass crackles beneath my feet; it's familiar and something like home. I fold up my letter to you, I pattern it as a paper airplane; I cut a few flaps and I send it flying out the window and I'm satisfied knowing it'll come to you because you are carried by the wind somehow. And there in that empty space between the ground and the sky is my homeland. I await my spaceship with eager eyes. The landscape is like a massive carpet rolling 'neath me. It all bursts so easy. I blow and a massive wave of dust wipes away everything clean. And are you there? Really?
Call me what you wish, Lenka. I'll be anything you want me to be. I read the names on the lockers. Aza. Ayna. Karina. Katya. Lalita. Liza. Zara. Zulay. I use the handle of my TT-33 to break open one of the lockers. I am looking for something to be. I find clothes, shoes; I take off my worn sandals and exchange them for soft, beautiful little white flats. I shed this tattered skin, made of fraying cotton, and I wear a thick black frock embroidered with hearts. There are no mirrors here, only glass which distorts my broken face, so I myself am still an abstraction, a concept; I've not yet been given flesh by the eye. I am a fact; I am a construct, a deduction from a series of premises. I touch my face, I stroke my flesh and feel my scars; all the signs which demonstrate that I'm here. I feel every ridge, every disfigurement. Nay-toe lives here; my skin is the Zone she haunts.
And so I write you another letter, Lanka. What do I feel under my fingers? I feel supple and fresh skin growing over ruins. From the foot of the mountains in the north, you may take my hand and travel down the long boulevards, down the heart-ways cool and blue, bumping & beating, concrete and asphalt forming hard scabs over bloody soil. Every solid erection on the land is a monument to a stubborn refusal to die; 'ha ha.' Watch as I trace my fingers over the squares, full of statues dedicated to the millions of dead skin cells who gave their all to hold the perimeter. Lanka, touch it with your own fingers too; a showcase of His divine architecture, my nose and my eyes and my ears and my lips are formidable, austere, functional. They are the sites of parade, of feasts. They are symbols of this solitary State of myself. Above my eyebrows lies the palace, smooth and dotted, with ridges of wisdom. Move your fingers down and you'll find the heart-ways expand into thousands of residence rows in perfect order, ringing together in unison. Now move your fingers closer and you'll find parks, avenues and courtyards, there where the flesh is soft and yielding and red with anticipation. Press deeper. Beneath the skin, you'll find machinery belching, thick black smoke, hot heat with each twitch of the muscle; an industrial line connects the north and the south, taut with electricity. Watch as I move my limbs, and the factory comes alive-- my breathing accelerates, sweat pours from me, and every muscle stands at attention. Deeper still are millions of tracks, tunnels, rails; no part of me lies neglected, remote, and I'm heavy with burdensome blood. Press deeper still; my skeleton is propaganda of the deed, my rigid bones are inflexible and they must never surrender. Release-- a lake of blood where your fingers were, next to gardens and trees, and it is fat and boiling with life. And it should be paradise, but it is not. This letter I will keep to myself.
Here is the room where it started. The day had been uneventful, Lanka. I'd woken up early because one of my sisters had a nightmare. My mother had taken it as a poor omen. I'd always resented their petty little superstitions, but now I've come even to miss the things that bothered me about my old life. Sasha woke up crying, shouting at how she'd seen birds fall from the sky. Rina woke up, resentful, and pulled on Sasha's hair. Mama pulled them apart and told me to fix breakfast. I screamed at them; something about how I wished I didn't have to share a room with the two brats. I brushed my hair, I splashed cold water into my face. I went to the kitchen and poured milk and grains together into a pot. Since we'd moved into the city, butter became plentiful as to be dull. I refused the butter, to 'watch my figure;' I recognize now that such concerns weren't really my own. Papa told me that back in less enlightened times, I'd already be prepared for marriage. I found the epithet a bit annoying; 'less enlightened times,' I've yet to find any enlightenment at all. I asked Mama about the term 'enlightenment;' she told me something about how people used to live like animals before they lived like us. I thought the explanation strange, as I'd only known the animals to be peaceful even as we rage war on their homelands. I finished my grains, and I put three bows in my hair and I wore a dark green dress. I'd often protested the dresses, as I preferred the costume of the heroes I'd seen on the television: their green khaki pants, their long beards, and their modernized Avtomaty Kalashnikova. I found their power intoxicating; I was terrified of their still and merciless eyes. I did not know what they fought for, or who they'd fought against. I didn't care; what mattered to me is the stench of that fight that churned my stomach.
Once I'd gotten to school, and I took the blue line of course, I felt the tension in the air as a loud silence. The fields did not buzz with the sound of insects crying, and there were no butterflies spied by the birds perched on the trees. When I was a child, I imagined the animals were so loud because they imparted knowledge on each other. When I discovered that they were incapable of any knowledge whatsoever, my disappoint soon gave way to wonder: and how does the dog know it must dance and whine so sweetly for its meal? I exchanged a few words with Tima, with Lena; they chided me for hiding my secret enthusiasm for boys. My response bored them; I told them that I had no interest in boys whatsoever. How could I tell them that I was obsessed with the men I saw on my television, and no schoolboy could possibly compare? Their concerns were with family, with romance, with kisses traded in dark places secret-secret; I wanted to be a tank shell, I wanted to explode, I wanted to burst through walls. How could I tell them? I told them that they should forget about boys, and study harder instead. Lena stuck out her tongue at me, and called me a bitch. Tima told me that Lena was just jealous of my beauty. We went up to the second floor, and started our first class of the day. I removed my Russian journal from my bag, and I drew a disgusting cartoon on the empty page next to my diary. The teacher had placed me in the furthest corner, away from the windows, as I'd been prone to day-dreaming when the lessons bored me. I bit on my pen. Suddenly, the sun broke through the clouds.
To call it a 'surprise' would mischaracterize the experience, Lanka. The great surprise was in fact that it was no experience at all. It was a vacuum of experience, a black hole which sucked into its bowels any comprehension or sense I might have had. I woke up, stiff, the ceiling was full of black holes; I felt cold and my heart thumped. I felt as I'd woken up from a long night. Everything was bright and melting onto a flat image, as if it were a dream. I went to rub my eyes but a horrible stinging sensation made me yelp in pain. The strange dream would not go away, and I found it hard to open my eyes without falling stuck in a twitch. The flatness of everything bothered me; I rubbed my eyes again, and I felt a wetness on the hand I could not see. I looked down and saw the pooling of blood-- I realized that I'd lost an eye. The floor was covered in glass, blood, other things. I rose up from my seat; I held my head in my hands, trying to stop the blood by holding it captive somehow. I looked back at the classroom, I looked at the window; the brightness was unbearable. Everyone in the classroom had disappeared. Things went blacker and blacker; I crawled on the ground, and I felt a weight drag me back into the deep waters of sleep.
When I woke up, I was in some kind of strange vehicle, surrounded by strange letters and numbers and machines. A myriad of tubes came down onto my face. Everything was still flat, robbed of definition, as if I were staring deep into a painting. They spoke in a strange language I'd heard on the television. One of them turned to me and said 'prosnulasj' in a strange accent. I turned my head and a woman looked at me with concern. 'Kharasho,' she said. Her white clothes were splattered in blood. A man with a strange looking rifle sat beside her. The vehicle bucked and kicked like a wild horse. I looked at the patches on his shoulder, and admired the blue, the red, the white. The woman took a syringe and injected something into one of the tubes. "Shto tij vidjela?" She asked. I didn't know how to answer. She repeated it again in her strange, choppy accent; "shto tij vidjela, devotchka?" I couldn't think of any words that might answer the question. Any word that came to my mind felt inarticulate, savage, stupid... stupid, stupid, stupid. I felt irritated; I felt like I'd missed my train. I turned my head away, towards the cold steel of the vehicle's interior. I promised myself that I would not speak; not until the next words from my mouth answered her question. And that's how it happened, Lanka.