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«безымянные могилы.»¹
He flicked the end of his cigarette, glancing to the empty spot beside him on the bench at one of the hundreds of state owned newspapers that displayed those same words in its headline this week.
Summer had slipped away, and the Antonovka was gone.
The words «Слава Україні!»² had appeared one June morning, carved into its ancient bark. Frantically covered with an ugly tarp by the monastery’s clergy, by the nineteenth day a team of fellers scrambled into the courtyard with all their equipment and methodically cut away all the branches and then the trunk. For the rest of the summer there was a gaping hole in the center of the garden where it had once been, the only proof of its existence was a stump that stood almost parallel to the ground.
Until the church unveiled their plans to revitalize it.
As they removed the tree’s rotten roots, the ground had revealed to them bones.
“I still think it was Takao,” a voice sounded from behind him. He placed his hands on the back of the bench and leaned forward, his mop of purple hair falling into his face as he stared down at Yuriy.
“And I keep saying you sound crazier than me.” He looked up at Ivan, who was using their current positions to tower over Yuriy.
“Impossible— Besides you never found that chotki you used to keep in your pocket did you?” Ivan asked, the question loaded. Grinning at Yuriy’s irate facial expression.
“I’m sure a priest found it and put it somewhere,” He replied monotonously, not wanting to recall how utterly manic he’d been that morning. Boris and Ivan had chased him out of the apartment. He’d sprinted towards the monastery, rushing to the center of the garden, only to find nothing.
“Yeah whatever you say, bro. It only took him three attempts but he finally made something stick.” Ivan jumped over the back of the bench and landed beside Yuriy before dropping into the seat with a loud thump.
He had cooked up this grand conspiracy that Takao Kinomiya had made it a personal mission to see Vladimir Volkov and his former associates punished. That he had strategically vandalized the monastery’s ancient apple tree with something that would immediately precipitate its removal; followed by the inevitable discovery of the final resting place of nearly a dozen orphaned, forgotten children.
The state media had gone completely feral over it, a wonderful distraction from the worsening political landscape and living conditions. They needed a sacrifice and Volkov must have finally run out of favours from The Duma.
The country had finally erected a cross to nail him to.
Yuriy couldn’t help but hope he got to spend a significant amount of time in Butyrka³.
“You need to get off the internet,” Yuriy said with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“Do you want me to kill mys—fuck wait is that insensitive?” He had a shit eating grin on his face as the two of them stared at each other in complete silence for a moment. Then they both laughed. Yuriy’s more a bewildered chuckle as he pinched the bridge of his nose and Ivan’s an ugly cackle.
“I think we’ve hit our quota on that for the year, actually,” Yuriy answered, a smile on his lips despite his annoyance.
It had only been a couple months, yet it felt like years separated the Yuriy of then and now. He had stepped off the ledge, turning his back to the darkness that swallowed so many of the people of this city. He bled and hurt openly with his family, and opened himself up to the people he’d once closed himself off to. Amongst it all, there had been opportunities, connections, and forgiveness.
His cellphone buzzed in his pocket as he slouched on the bench. Yuriy closed his eyes and enjoyed the weather, it was finally comfortable after months of nearly intolerable heat.
“Wonder who that is, Boris, the press, or maybe it’s…” Ivan trailed off before immediately snatching the phone out of Yuriy’s jacket.
“I don’t care who it is right now,” Yuriy answered as Ivan tapped the code to unlock his phone and read the messages.
“Let’s grab lunch then.” His eyes were scanning the text, his expression disinterested. If it was anything important Ivan’s demeanor wasn’t alluding to it.
“Yeah why not,” Yuriy agreed as he straightened himself, before getting to his feet. Ivan scrambled to stand and shoved the phone back into Yuriy’s coat pocket.
“Great there’s a new noodle place I want to try, you can pay.” Ivan winked and bolted, making sure to stay just in Yuriy’s line of sight as he jogged down the sidewalk.
Yuriy strolled down the street after the man at his leisure, taking in all the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoying all the life it had. When he finally caught up to Ivan, they entered into the tiny noodle shop he seemed so eager to try. He checked the message he’d received as Ivan ordered for the two of them. A happiness welled in his chest as he read the words that promised him a future.
The Antonovka was gone, and Yuriy had to admit he barely noticed its absence.
The past was unchangeable, there wasn’t any reason to live in it.
And there was no need for its monument anymore.