Without Duty

Without Duty

Status: In Progress

Genre: Historical Fiction

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Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Historical Fiction

Houses:

Summary

November 4, 1944

Grisha Avilov was a civilian conscripted into the military more than two years ago, soon after the Second Great War began. He never wanted to be a part of it, he didn't want to be a soldier for a war he didn't believe in. All he wanted to do was to leave with his family and let the storm pass, like many others hoped for. But it was his 'duty as a citizen of this great nation to fight,' as told by his recruiter. If he did not comply, they would've taken him by force instead.

Despite the odds and using his motivation to see his family again, day by day Grisha fought and survived countless battles. At the end of each night, he wrote a letter in his journal addressed to his wife and child detailing the struggles he faced and the things he had done, all for the possibility of seeing them again.

But at the Battle of Vostok, Grisha made a grave mistake.

These are his letters.

- - - -

Set during World War II at a fictional place. Some real historical facts will be included, but most of the events and names used are not real.

Cover made by me, but I do not own the rights of the pictures used for it.
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Summary

November 4, 1944

Grisha Avilov was a civilian conscripted into the military more than two years ago, soon after the Second Great War began. He never wanted to be a part of it, he didn't want to be a soldier for a war he didn't believe in. All he wanted to do was to leave with his family and let the storm pass, like many others hoped for. But it was his 'duty as a citizen of this great nation to fight,' as told by his recruiter. If he did not comply, they would've taken him by force instead.

Despite the odds and using his motivation to see his family again, day by day Grisha fought and survived countless battles. At the end of each night, he wrote a letter in his journal addressed to his wife and child detailing the struggles he faced and the things he had done, all for the possibility of seeing them again.

But at the Battle of Vostok, Grisha made a grave mistake.

These are his letters.

- - - -

Set during World War II at a fictional place. Some real historical facts will be included, but most of the events and names used are not real.

Cover made by me, but I do not own the rights of the pictures used for it.

Chapter1 (v.1) - November 5, 1944

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 30, 2017

Reads: 45

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: May 30, 2017

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November 5, 1944

Oh, my sweet Alyana.

As I looked into the cloudless night sky and stared at the bright moon, I felt...nothing. Not that it was bad, but for a moment I had forgotten where I was, forgotten all that had happened and all that I had done. For the first time in years, I was at peace. Funny that for me to feel peace, I had to feel nothing. But when my gaze dropped down to the field illuminated below, I was pulled right back into reality as if everything I saw was white and with a flash burst into color. A field covered in motionless bodies covered in flies, liters upon liters of blood trickling down hills, shell casings and bayonets scattered around, arms and legs protruding from the ground that led not to the body they belonged to, but instead to their jagged ends.

Tonight is just another night that I yearned to see your face, to wrap my arms around you and to do nothing but fall asleep. I'm so tired, Alyana, and I feel so brittle and ready to snap at this war I had no choice in. Others, they're ready to die for their country. They have this sense of patriotism that I don't, and it's hard for me to understand. All they tell me is, "Because it's my country."

Perhaps this really isn't where I belong if I don't feel that way. When this war is finished, let's move somewhere else, maybe even wherever you are right now. You might even be in America, it's supposed to be a great place, right? Well, if you are there, I hope that you're doing fine and that our daughter has made friends with neighbors or maybe other children of war. At least then she'd be around others that understood. Oh, how I wish to hear her giggle. I consider myself blessed to hear such sweet sounds before I left.

She is four now, eh? Does she ask for her father? I must look different now, and she only has a picture or two to go off of, but I hope she has some image of how I look like. Unlike me. I don't have the faintest clue of her appearance. She was nothing but a babe and I have nothing but memories to try and remember, and she's only getting older. From all the bodies I've seen, the things I've done...it gets harder. The image of her bubbly, rosy cheeked face becomes hazy and slowly gets replaced with the most grotesque images.

Lord, help me.

All I wanted to be was a sculptor. I loved the human body, wanted to make works of art like that of Myron, Phidias, Scopas, but now I can't. My hands no longer recall how the vibrations of the chisel and hammer felt. They've grown far too familiar with the rattling of guns, the jolt of the kickback. And when I think of a model, the thoughts become distorted. They become the dead bodies I've seen, their guts hanging from a hole caused by a grenade, or half their head and brains gone from a cannon blast. Sometimes, it's the broken bodies of pilots who fell from the skies or paratroopers whose chutes were riddled with holes before they reached the ground. Other times, there's only a head staring at me with its dead, filmy eyes, eyes that spoke to me.

Why are you alive? You fight because you were forced too, and I fought because I wanted to. Shouldn't you be dead first?

That's what I hear, but the way I see it now it just means that I fight harder to see my two lovely angels than they do for their country. If I try to see it any other way, who knows. The guilt might just get to me, because part of what they say is true.

Speaking of angels, our daughter is turning five next month. I've already missed so much of her life. Her first steps, first words, I'm hoping that she hasn't had a first crush yet. I mean, she better not have. She shouldn't even know what that is at her age.

As much as I'd love to be there, I'm going to have to miss it again. Doesn't look like the war is ending anytime soon, and we were told that we'd be heading to Vostok first thing tomorrow morning. People used to ask what for, but it didn't really matter at this point.

We knew that wherever we went, there was a battle waiting for us. This was no different.

I will survive, my love, and I will write to you again tomorrow night.

Grisha

 

 


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