The Dacha

by Jesse Mitchell

Mischa had always been such a good communist, though never a member of the party. He always did everything asked of him and believed every word told him. Mischa eyes are red, he looks raw. He knows how to follow orders and how not to ask unpleasant questions but now the thoughts come slow and the words slower, too many years coloring his night with the darkness of other men’s minds, too long letting the aspirations of others drive his actions. He crunches though the snow covered ground in almost complete silence. The thicket of huge pine trees surrounding the Dacha, scent the air and give it a nighmarish abstract air. Mischa had always been such a good Soviet, and even when so obviously nervous and with stone tired eyes, he made it quickly past all the guards out on the road and up the path closer to the dark green dacha…his only reward for so many years of loyal service. He of course had all the code and papers and letters, he is trusted.

He could not stop his mind from simmering and twisting. He had seen in his life each and every terrible movement of the human heart. He had seen with his own eyes the blank little places where humanity lives, the empty pages and bottomless pits. His legs felt tired and rubbery beneath him. His hands were numb. He knocked into the sharp stiff needles of a tree, knocking a cluster of snow down on his arm and neck, some of it going inside his collar…but the cold did not affect him. He is used to the cold. Was it the no make up for his wife or the no shoes or toys for his children or the lack of food for his own stomach. Mischa had no idea what motivated him anymore. He had not come to murder, because murder is bourgeois.

He laid myself down on his stomach in the snow, falling gracefully though the crisp frozen upper layer and rested silently in the fluffy rolls behind it. He steadied himself and watched though the big, crisscrossed picture window. He watched as a fat, middle aged man in a very fine suit entered the room and sipped a crystal tumbler filled with rich brown liquor. He watched as the man threw his head back in laughter and as he reached out to touch and caress something beyond Mischa view. The kalashnikova at his side was digging into him and he pulled it up. He held the gun tightly and pointed it toward the window, he lined up his sights…he has done this sort of thing before. And even though it was extremely cold, sweat start to bead up on his brow and fall with a sting into his eyes. He could barely keep his eyes open. He flinched and his face seized up and his stomach cramped. He had to look away, he had to clinch his eyes shut. He bit down on his bottom lip and returned his gaze to the window. Click went the trigger, pop…click, pop, just like that and blood, so much blood splattered all over the wall and mantle over the fireplace, the balding fat man in the suit fell, his drink spilled and the brown liquid flew up into the air and then came crashing down along with the tumbler hard on the beautiful cedar floor. Not a sound came from the man’s lips…nothing. A scream wafted into the room from some other place in the dacha and a yellow haired young woman came skidding and falling into the room and her eyes swollen with tears looked down at the man’s body and then ran to the window and looked out…looked though the bullet hole like it was a peep hole, but Mischa was gone. He had slid back into the trees and down the path as easily and quietly as he had came.