A short excerpt from the life of Lyubov
This is a short excerpt from the life of Lyubov, a Russian youth who found solitary respite from one especially cruel winter in the barren wilderness that lines the northern territorial barrier of the Buryat province, found on a map on the southern fringe of the mammoth body of land that is Russia. Like so many lives, Lyubov’s contained numerous excerpts worth noting, and the one shared here is not especially exceptional in comparison. Nonetheless, a writer must find some way to select one story from many that will entertain their reader, even if such a selection is utterly arbitrary. Enough from me.
In a mass of land that was left vacant by an agrarian reform of the 19th century, Lyubov acquired a modest cabin to lease for the relentless Russian winter which habitually invaded the idealist’s psyche. Perhaps, Lyubov hypothesised, a southern refuge would eschew the migrant Siberian winds that so scathed her social encounters every other year, unforgiving and bare. It was only with aggressively pinched eyelids that Lyubov reminisced on that violent wind, consoling herself through the repetition of generic mantras that reaped no real cognitive reward but at least distracted her from the opposing and intolerable repetition that one finds themselves succumbing to when they are idle and cannot, no matter how vehemently they protest, elude a memory they wish to forget. Only here, in the company of the infertile earth, could she detach herself from the natural insecurity that plagues social encounters, ominous and persistent, unchecked by hollow conversation and hollower clouds, encircling the Petersburg metropolis like vultures around rotting carrion. Only here could she defy these vain competitions that emerge from sterile conversation, inducing ugly discord, bloody and merciless. Only here could she flee the counterfeit laughter, the upturned noses figurative and literal, the deafening echo of words unspoken yet understood all too well. Alone and adrift, Lyubov sought to conquer the insomniac self-doubt that preys on the susceptibility of youth, mutating innocence into cynicism and vanity unrecognisable.Â
Of course, years of experience or glaring grief would have taught Lyubov that this process is self-refuting, for isolation tends only to cement isolating understandings of social contempt, especially in those who have not experienced real loneliness and so must cease relations abrupt and unprepared. Lyubov could not hear this reality over the obscure utterances that sifted through hoarse Petersburg winds, morphing into familiar depressive mantras, as are so painfully common amongst youths who are yet to truly suffer. I am sure the reader does not require an example of such a mantra, for I have known them to be quite ubiquitous. I only interject to imply that I do not intend, through my recounting of this excerpt, to mock the naïve idealism that drove my protagonist to escape the warmth of her family home on that harsh winter. And it is true that these mantras I mention can travel through wind, for a depression that knows no cause will find a way to the vulnerable mind through any means imaginable.
I digress. Lyubov deemed it necessary to escape the repressive smog that infested her home in the hopes of regaining the purity that so commonly betrays the scornful expression of children who, given a change of scenery, marvel unashamed over unfamiliar surroundings. So, like a child who comes to resent familiarity, Lyubov wrote a brief note to her parents which summarised her task, assembled her belongings and silently climbed over the front gate that separated torment from freedom. And in that lifeless night she stood motionless, facing away from her home toward the long journey ahead, listening to the pace of her heart rate, gauging the mass of fog that emanated from her breath. To her total dismay, no genuine difference could be detected. Never mind, she thought, change will come. The reader need not be reminded that Lyubov was ignorant to the impossibility of engineering the type of change she sought. Psychological change, as the reader and I know, does not require geographical change. In fact, it is common that geographical change will mute psychological change as a consequence of the illusory impression these foreign settings have on those that determine to force difference.
Lyubov’s journey from her home to her cabin was not exceptional in any way and so will be omitted here. The writer will omit space and time in a similar fashion; entirely derivatively. As was likely anticipated, the reader will notice the tense pervert to the present as sardonic snows imprison the homes of those who do not expect visitors, deriding their frivolity through the simple logic of their presence. The task of ignoring this irony proves laborious as Lyubov climbs through a crusted window that impounds the alien cabin, desolate and ugly even after a month’s company. Lumbering through congested water vapour, Lyubov’s melodramatic groans could be heard by anyone within a 100 metre radius, though no one is listening. She shields her eyes from the glaring truth that ricochets from the snow to the sun; here, she is more alone than she could ever have conceived and here, she cannot escape her cynicism through the melodious soundscape of small talk. She is staggering confused through an empty wasteland, trying to remember why she so detested the cradling heat that radiated warm and true from that distant home she so desperately struggled to forget. The predator that is isolation had begun to feast on the flesh of Lyubov’s psyche, engendering a race between her thoughts, disconcerting them, watching them indifferently as they twitch in despair and groan restlessly, a futile plea, like that of a wounded deer in the desert snow, or like men who succumb to alcoholism and during every hangover, apologise to those they have humiliated and repeat their fictitious aims to quit.Â
To Lyubov’s credit, she did disqualify some contestants, ridding them of their psychological potency through an often repeated, altogether simple desire to get home to her motherland. But the reader mustn’t forget that Lyubov’s youthful naivety rendered her dangerously susceptible to insecurity and dangerously immune to patriotism, and so she was divorced from her mother as swiftly as her body swung from her front gate to that decisive night, dissolved by the ominous glow of street bulbs that even I confess once lured me from my humble beginnings. And here, in the indifference of the Russian winter, Lyubov met another onslaught of psychological carnage, glaring and brutal, transforming her knowledge into suspicion as she trudged back to the lonely cabin. True, my protagonist did well to fend off the prying claws of uncertainty for a time, though I would be unworthy as writer if I exaggerated the extent of this feat. A month into her stay, Lyubov undertook the painstaking task of retrieving those portions of her memory she had so cruelly banished, grasping desperately at dimming conversations with those she once derided in repulsion, mocking their vanity, ignoring the parts of herself that she saw within them. For this is the irony of cynicism in that cynics deplore only those traits they wish to bury within themselves; conceit, naivety, self-doubt, susceptibility.Â
I wish I could give the reader an ending to this all too common story of a directionless youth who tries in vain to defeat the type of self-doubt that is so troubling and yet so integral to social encounters jarring and inevitable. No, I will leave this subsequent excerpt from the life of Lyubov to another writer who, in some maddening chaos, tries to make sense of the chronology of a person, clinging to a singular event and attempting to justify it as significant.Â
The writer, on erecting space between one event and the next, need not justify their absence. No, the writer is only responsible for the stories they tell, never for those they imply. These vacant planes will roll on indeterminably into distance that cannot necessarily be defined as distance until the writer decides to pen another chronicle. And it is for this reason that I kept writing, for I am not obliged to write my own. No, I will not patronise my reader by explicitly acknowledging the relationship between this excerpt and the last. I must have faith in my reader’s intellect to write to them, lest I become seduced by the characteristic coping mechanism of writers who authorise the self-effacing simplification of their process, making concessions for readers that do not exist. I believe it is only writers who have been tantalised by this strategy that can traverse the space between the pen and the reader, for it is only these writers that have learnt to write to themselves; unashamed, naked. I, myself, am still working at it. Enough from me.
The excerpt that is to unfold upon these pages is grounded in the inner northern Kalininsky district of Petersberg. The night is empty and it sits patiently with the street debris, awaiting the apathetic footfall of morning commuters. It is October and so howling winds swallow the audibility of human voices, human footsteps, behaving similarly to those who make an uncomfortable amount of sound when they eat, though less rhythmic. Our old friend Lyubov has taken advantage of the overfed city, capitalising on its bloated belly, edging her way through a front gate that she cannot call her own. Her figure effortlessly negotiates with this barrier that separates permissible from impermissible, right from wrong.
Lyubov, the invader. By now, the reader may have succumbed to the objectless curiosity of this metamorphosis from escapee to intruder. Those readers should remember that some questions remain answerless for good reason, or perhaps for no reason at all. It is only with maturity that we begin to tolerate the unresolved. I, personally, cannot attest to such wisdom. Long ago, when I was informed of this event, I interrupted, demanding an explanation of what had happened in-between; what had caused such vast transformation. I was met with a taciturn glare that regarded wall only, seemingly mocking my romanticisation of the in-between by exposing it for the discomfort it is empowered to evoke. Time prolonged but was likely brief until our excerpt was mercifully resumed.
Inordinate adrenaline, speechless footsteps, folded shoulders, darting eyes, an unlocked window; the archetypical burglary. In and out, rewarded for risk, pray your crime was not evident. Still, it is generally acknowledged that archetypes exist only as vague guides to narration, and they will be, in all probability, challenged. Alas, Lyubov realised the anomalous nature of her felony too late, for her shimmied motion through the alien window was interrupted by two hands bigger than her own, inviting her into the supposed crime-scene. And suddenly one crime became another as Lyubov’s limbs were taped together and thrown into a vacant corner, struggling through muffled screams. This metamorphosis need not be elaborated either, for it happened in one swift motion, as though it didn’t require explanation, like all those unexplained phenomenon that simply exist because they exist.Â
Lyubov, the kid. Napped from a house she could not call her own, pleading almost in soliloquy into two menacing eyes that were entirely unforgiving of the void between where she was from and where she was.
-Please, I beg of you, let me go, I am the daughter of an aristocrat and he will pay generously for my release…Please, I’m begging you, I cannot take it, forgive me, forgive me…Forgive me, I have sinned and I am sorry, I will do anything…Kill me, please just kill me.Â
Such pleas fell into the chasm of darkness our abductor had constructed, assuring no glimmer of light could find its way through the fateful window. Cigarettes burns began to populate the arms of our ostensible burglar, deep lacerations sought to deface her otherwise smooth complexion, portions of her otherwise long hair were devoured by the terrorist razor. Of course, physical deformities always seem to pale in comparison to those psychological. Hours stretched indeterminably into days that were marked by a torment Lyubov herself told me she believed was entirely unexplored, even by those who have truly suffered. On one of these days, Lyubov awoke from a nightmare-laden slumber to dead silence, though she could not tell if it was night. Nor could she tell if it was silent or if she was dead, for her malnourished body had begun to prey on her sensory perceptions, deluding her into uncertainty. During such bouts of insanity, Lyubov almost glimpsed freedom, pretending through closed eyelids that she could see streams of daylight flood the crime-scene, a sure sign that her captor would himself be captured. But he would not allow this, and he beat the beast of uncertainty out of her until she was assured of where she was.
A loud thud followed by ugly laughter and uneven footsteps interrupted this almost tranquil silence. Our tormentor strolled into the room wearing an unnervingly sincere smile and held before him a treasured belonging of Lyubov’s; a framed photograph of herself and her late Koshechka. Uncannily, this was one of the only possessions that accompanied her on the voyage the reader is aware of to the Buryat province of southern Russia. The sight of her Koshechka sent Lyubov into another fit of uncertainty which was hastily clarified through a twisted smirk.
-I am merely an imitator.
And, indeed, when Lyubov glanced from her trusted possession to the voice speaking to her, she saw her reflection in the cursed eyes of her victim, her tormentor.Â
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