Don't Call Me Sitting Bull

11. března 2009 v 17:15 | Cirrat |  Skřeky cizojazyčné
Postava, kterou jsem si vytvořila jako menší cvičení pro jeden klub na literárních stránkách, kam občas přispívám. Cílem bylo představit postavu.


So you want to know more about me?

My name is Nikita. You Americans pronounce this as Nee-kee-tah. Anyone mispronouncing my name has no chance of being my friend, and I mean it. My full real name is Nikita Yurievich Alexeyev, if you must know. My father was a colonel, Yuri Arseniyevich Alexeyev to be exact. My mother was Nataliya Vasilievna. They are no longer alive. I have no brothers and no sisters. No aunts, no uncles, or cousins. I am a loner. And before you comment on that, I like it.

I am turning thirty this year. I was born on the day when Icelandic Airlines DC-8 crashed into Sri Lanka. 183 people died. It was November 15th 1978. I had pretty normal childhood, you know, schools and everything. I loved playing football outside, skating on the ice, loved waiting for Ded Moroz (like your Santa Claus - it literally means Old Frost or something like that), swimming in the river in summer and burning fallen leaves in autumn.

My father was usually gone with the army, so my mother and I spent a lot of time together. We lived in Sankt-Peterburg, the Venice of the North. I had to learn a lot of things at a pretty young age, like changing fuses and light bulbs, fixing dripping water taps and even decorating because my mother was really very lady-like and was often lost without my father being at home.

I asked her once why she married him if she knew he wasn't going to be at home that often. She smiled at me, stroked my cheek and said "I love your father, Niki. He's the best man for me and that's why I married him. I know it's also hard for you when he's away all the time but I would never ask him to change his job or to change anything about him, because that's how I fell in love with him." And so I've learned that love is unconditional.

When my father was at home, it was like holidays for me. I understood pretty soon that his job was dangerous, but tell me, what boy does not admire uniforms, weapons, soldiers, the army and all of that... I was proud of my Papa and I was just doing anything to be like him, for him to be proud of me.

I asked my parents to enroll me to the Cadet school when I was twelve. They did not force me like some of the people in the past insisted. It was my choice. With Papa being away so often and my Mama being one of the intellectuals I was used to making my own choices since a very young age.

When I was fifteen my father invited Mama and I to spend some time with him in Kabul, the capital city of Afghanistan. It was a nice and peaceful time, however weird that might sound to you. My Mama was so happy! Two whole months we were together and we really had some family life. Of course, we had to live in a specific place and we couldn't go out after dark, but we were together! I could even visit my Papa's 'work' and made some friends among the soldiers.

They taught me to shoot with live rounds and showed me some basic combat skills that weren't due for some years yet at school. The Sambo. 'Samooborona bez oruzhia' - self defense without weapon. They also showed me how to repair car engines and how to drive a motorcycle. Unfortunately, that was the last time I had family and friends. It's funny that the best time of my life was in an international hot-spot...

Two days before Mama and I had to leave back home so that I would still have a week before school to get used to different weather and conditions, I stayed overnight with some friends I made there in the army. They let me watch them playing cards and were telling me bits from their experiences. It was a good time.

Until suddenly we heard the explosion. From the camp I could see the column of smoke rising from the residential district. We could not tell if it was close to our house or not because of the darkness. The smoke was everywhere and the soldiers did not allow me to run home after dark. Vanya gave me a shot of vodka because I was so afraid my parents were dead. The guys tried to make jokes to cheer me up but I just sat quiet and waited for dawn.

Vanya and Sasha went with me, two soldiers about twenty years old. It was a hot day from the beginning and sometimes when I am falling asleep I can still smell the dust on the road, hear the camels on the other street, see Vanya lighting his cigarette; the golden haired young man with his face full of freckles. We often made jokes that he'd been tanning through a sieve the whole summer. Sasha was dark, more of an Asian type with curly black hair. It's funny to recall these details - but sooner or later I always start to smell the acrid smoke and see the debris.

My parents were dead. A suicidal bomber came to the gates and killed them both, as well as the two Afgani guards at the door. Suddenly I was all alone with nobody to turn to. I was the last of the family.

I remember crying so much that Vanya and Sasha had to drag me back to the camp and call the medic. They sacrificed one of their valuable Morphine shots on me. This was the last time I cried.

The next day my father's general came to see me. He offered me to go back to Sankt-Peterburg and continue my school or to stay with him and his unit. Perhaps I should have stayed. I would know nothing and my life would be tough for some years but I would have my friends still. I chose to continue at school and be an officer like my father.

I lived in the Internate for the next three years, learning and practicing. I made the top grades. I was also a pretty good sniper and an excellent driver. Soon I was offered a job by the ministry of war and I was one of the lower clerks in the archive. How ironic!

Once while filing some papers I noticed a file with my father's name. When nobody was looking I confiscated it and I read it at the night on the internate toilet. Lots of guys were reading there quite often - it was the place to study or to read your dirty magazines without disturbing the whole dorm. I remember reading the details about the death of my family while two cubicles to the left some guy jerked and flipped through some mag. It was annoying to no end but I didn't want anybody to know I was there.

The suicide bomber was hired. Or blackmailed. Whatever. All that meant to me was that the death of my family had been no accident. My father became too dangerous because he nearly discovered a nasty plot within the army. My honored father and my beloved mother had to die because some people wanted to line their pockets. I've memorized their names and sworn my revenge.

The next day I returned the file and pretended to go about my business as if nothing happened. I had to get those guys and I recalled Ibrahim's words from Kabul:
"Sometimes the enemy is too strong and you have to set an ambush. To do that you have to follow his routine and find the weak spots." And that's what I did.

There are five crosses tattooed on my left arm, from my shoulder down to my wrist. Each one of them bears the initials of one of those responsible for my tragedy. And the date when I killed them. I will not go into details on how I did that. At least not now.

I was caught soon after that and sent to jail. I had to fight for myself so that nobody would use me and that's when my military training came in handy. I even got a reward tattoo for that. If I would take my shirt off you'd see two bulls standing against each other on my shoulder blades. In jail slang that means I stand for myself and nobody else. Not the government nor other prisoners may use me.

I had to kill a few too. That's when I got the tattoo of the ring with Aeskulap's staff inked in the gem on my left index finger. Because I did it with a knife I stole, I got the ink of a writer on my right forearm. That tells all the other prisoners I'm good with knife. I could live in peace afterwards. But being sentenced for twenty years, that was too much for me. So I tried to run. I escaped three times, that's why there are three dots on the back of my left hand. The last one was successful.

After I was returned to prison after my first run I was marked with a flying eagle carrying a suitcase on my chest, a sign for "prone to runs."
I have one more tattoo: "ЯПОНИЯ" a sign on my right shoulder. It's a Russian acronym for "I will forgive an insult but not a treason."

After the third run I got to Ireland and changed my identity. There was an Irish guy in our prison who taught me his dialect and the trivia necessary so that I would fit into the Irish environment. But I didn't stay there for long.

So here I am, basically applying for a job. Why? Well, I'm wanted, but I still need to eat. I am still a very good sniper and I got more training on destroying any evidence since I got to the prison. And I can also take apart any engine and build it together as good as new. Even better. I can rig explosives and drive anything you want - from a dirt bike to a tank, and I don't trust any government anymore.

They say nobody is an island. Well. I am at least a peninsula it seems but these days nobody can survive alone.

I want to offer you a deal: you get a full use of my abilities and I get a place to live, food to eat and someone I can trust. On whether or not you can trust me? You didn't kill my parents. So yes, you can.

Oh, and one more thing - nobody can blackmail me with the life of someone else: there's nobody. Not a wife, not a child, not a lover.
 

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