A Hole in the Wall
"My wife died long ago... My weary mind cannot remember the exact date, no, not even the year, but I remember it as well as I possibly can. The sky was black that day, and it was before the revolution, but not long before. I had gone to the market district that afternoon, whilst she remained at the cottage. There was rioting at the factories. I recall the paper, a wealthy landowner was stabbed and robbed, down to his last strip of clothing. The people expressed their scorn for the upper class, and with their violent expression many people died... In the streets revolunaries flocked together, vandalizing whatever property they could. I contemplated leaving the country, but it was little too late. The raving, ranting denizens of the market perpetuated my already growing paranoia, I suspected everyone to be a Bolshevik, and I was hasty to return home that day. Though not hasty enough it would seem; miles before my arrival at the cottage, I could see smoke hovering over the surrounding forest, anxiety quickly set in, and I hurried the driver. When he pulled up to the gate, I saw my home smouldering in ruin, and the surrounding barns and sheds being burned down by a handful of vandals. It was once such a magnificent manifestation of industry and nature, coalescing with one another. To one side an open range, where my horses resided, to the other a barn where farm equipment was stored. Between them both rested my home, an attractive white abode, complimented by a decorative gold facade. The handful of vandals that remained did disperse as they saw me exit my carriage, but not all fleeted from the scene. More clearly than anything else, I remember dismounting my rifle from a rack on the wall of the barn and taking great care in disposing of the revolutionaries, firing a single bullet at each of their legs, before finishing them with one to the head. Most of them tried scattering when they discovered I was armed, but to my surprise, not all of them shared a craven nature. After my rampage, only one of them remained, he did not flee like the others he tackled me as I was reloading, jarring the rifle from my hands, and forcing us both to the ground. We wrestled for a time, until I finally gained leverage and had him pinned; I tried choking him momentarily, but he overpowered me, so I used my teeth to bite into his cheek. Screaming out in agony, he managed to push me back, forcing loose my grip on him. He rolled onto his belly, and crawled his way toward my rifle through blood and mud. I grabbed his foot, dragging him toward me, until I could climb onto his back. He could not reach my rifle, and I had firmly planted myself atop him, nearly helpless was he, but I still could not choke him without losing my leverage. It is clear what happened next, I had forced his face into a muddied puddle of water, as hard as I could I held him there until he stopped squirming. I could feel the skin from his shaven head peeling under my dull nails. After I felt life fleet from his now colding corpse, I stood to my feet. I was lost in my anguish, a future without my beloved did not exist to me at the time. I wandered into the woods. fearless of the blackened, roaring skies. It began to rain heavily as I trekked the dense forest. I could not beg for death more enthusiastically, but sense took hold of me when I found an old country road with a decrepit house resting to its side. I ran through a muddy clearing to the door of the house and carefully wedged it open, leaving a high-pitch creak as it revolved by its hinges. Inside it was dark, tepid, and dank. I had found a torn trench on the floor and thrown it over myself as I crept through the bowels of the house. From the den, a feint glimmer of light could be seen stretching down a connected hallway. With all the rage burning inside me, no vagabond could strike fear in me, I queried further down the hallway. As I entered the kitchen, I saw a candle sitting idly on a wooden table. It had a broken leg, under which a cement block was placed ever so neatly. Steadfast, I surveyed the room for life, aside from the toiling flame, it was as barren as the forest from which I arrived. In that moment, as I gazed upon the kitchen, a warm breeze swept across my neck, and a hand reached over me. From there, I cannot recollect further.” The writer, perched in the kitchen, sipped tea as he rolled his inkpen across a discolored parchment. “But the eerie feeling did not end there, when I awoke, I was greated by a wandering soul, but one more deranged than myself. He called himself Sergei, and became infatuated with me during my time here.”
He paused for a moment, pondering his thoughts. “As I did with him, something about his insanity intrigued me, and drew me down to his level.”
Sergei hunched over, and covered by that torn trench crept out from the shadows, and asked, “What do you write of Nikolas?”
He did not answer, nor did he console Sergei, but Sergei persisted, and took a seat; though Nikolas continued writing. “He queries me relentlessly. I cannot make him escape my thought, nor can I silence his question. His words pour into me with the unnatural essence of a demon. But no blaspheme is like that he has already committed. It was two nights ago, early in the evening, I was still weeping over the death of my wife, lying in a pool of my own sorrow. Curled in damp blankets I stared into a candle-flame for hours until Sergei and I heard voices coming from outside... Newlyweds, frolocking in the woods, where they thought themselves alone. We looked out of the window to see them coming toward the house, Sergei began running back and forth panting, and grunting,
‘They musn’t enter, no they musn’t!’
I grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “Calm yourself.”
But he refused to yield. He clutched my face tightly, holding my mouth, he closed the gap between our faces, and stared with a disturbing depth into my eyes "We cannot let them enter the home."
I laughed as I said 'This is hole in the wall... Is not a home'
At that moment, Sergei's eyes filled red, he strengthened ten fold, and threw me to the ground, a clutched my ankles, dragging me across the floor through the hall, past the kitchen, and into the bedroom. He bashed me unconscious on the floor of the room, when I awoke, I was dazed, as I observed raindrops crawling down the walls, from the pierced the ceiling, to the moldy wooden floors. I pulled myself to stand, using the rotting bedframe as leverage. Still in awe at the violent passion possessed by Sergei. As I trembled through the kitchen, weak from malnutrition, I noticed blood, stretched across the floorboards, fresh blood. Footprints of my size left, scattered about the room. When I entered the den, Sergei greated me,
'So sleepy, Mr. Nikolas.' he said.
In the den I noticed two slumps, under those old blankets I once curled inside, daft in blood. I resigned my intuition to ask,
'What have you done?'
He snickered and turned away to look upon those two lumpy blankets,
'They musn't enter I said... but you didn't listen to Sergei.'
I walked over to the blankets, pushing Sergei aside, and peeled back the veil, revealing two dead newlyweds, hand-in-hand, basked in their own blood, their necks slit from ear to ear. I filled with anger, fear, and dismay, the culmination of mixed feelings was too much for me, and I broke down. I grabbed Sergei and began strangling him, but he was not there, he disappeared from my clutches, and I fell to the ground, staring upon my brazen hands, soaked in red. Sergei never existed, my insanity is perpetually worse than anything I ever expected. A crime against the innocence of humanity, one I never intended, and one I will never commit again. Perhaps the afterlife does exist, maybe I will see her there, with her arms, extended to me, above me, purest of existences. This will be the last entry of Nikolas Corsev, Nov 19. 1916."