The archive of the forgotten

Vasili; Not to be Believed

Trigger warning: written with the intention to be bleak and sad. suicide ideations, grief, trauma, violence

When you wrong somebody it is often hard to set it right, you must admit your wrongdoings, your own faults but some of the time you wish you could admit those wrondoings to their face. However, sometimes the chance to do that has long passed. And you will live with regret for your whole life.

When he returned I did not know, I was unaware of all that he had done for us. I only knew the twisted truth of what he had done to us. I wish I had known, and I will always regret not knowing. I was too cruel and he was too kind, too naive, too foolish. Forgiveness isn't that easy

He must've been tired, no, he was tired. The old station wasn't far from the village of the former blood lilies. Vasili, (because that is the name of our titular hero) remembered everything as if it were yesterday. In reality he had endured three years of dehumanisation before returning as a free man, purely because he had the strength, hope and preservance to believe the Statute, our former government, would fall apart, sooner or later. And right he was, his freedom was proof.

His auburn, reddish hair was shining in the sun as he was carrying his overnight bag with depressingly little of his personal things, most of them had been destroyed. Burned, ripped apart in front of him, or simply stolen. Nothing was left from his real identity but himself. Dehuminsation, it works, he knows that too well. But as he remember the way freshly cut grass smells, how oaks look when the bright sun lights their leaves. He remembers the time we first arrived at this station, already afraid of the Statute, already running back than, we were about 20 years old when we first arrived there. He slightly smiles as he starts seeing the old village we built up again to live in it.

If I could talk to him now I would have asked him to turn around. But alas, the reality is did not know, and neither did he.

So Vasali excitedly walked into the unchanged village made for and by the resistance members. The moment he arrived, the only precious item he still carries is a guitar on his back, the people living in the village were curious. Nobody visits this village on a normal sunday, they did not visit at all. All that happens here is a market once in a while. Who was this redhead with scars across his face, wearing a weathered brown leather jacket three sizes too big. Some of the original resistance members gathered in small groups asking themselves if it could be possible. He wouldn't dare, would he? He had the courage to do crazy things, why wouldn't he return like this?

He arrived at the small, yellow, timber-framed where he had so many memories. Planning things with his best friend Kostya, the basis when they were rebuilding this village with their own weathered hands. More weathered than they thought they would be when they both started studying law. He knocked on the door, straightening his jacket and practicing his smile. He did not expect the reaction he got. As the old gray woman opened the door he exclaimed. "I am home Mama!" He opened his arms to hug her but the woman slowly looked him up and down and wanted to close the door. Vasili stopped her, "It's me mama, don't you remember me? Vasili?" He asked, hiding the tears in his eyes. "My son died the day he decided to turn himself in." she says with a cold and uncaring voice. "Mama, it is not what you think, I promise, I can explain everything." He begged and cried. "You don't even look like yourself anymore." The boy fluttered his eyes and stopped struggling, his mother did not love him anymore.....

"Here, if you are really Vasili, takes this, he forgot it, I do not want it anymore!" She said as she tossed a signet ring with a black stone towards the poor boy. His father's signet ring, the way he wanted his mother to remember him. His future siblings if she would've been more fortunate. The boys heart was ripped apart as he gingerly put the ring on his finger, reminding of who he cannot be anymore. His sense of self is torn, his hope is slowly diminishing.