It Won't Be Long Now
Note: The following is a fictional loose translation which may or may not be related to historical events. Hideous mistakes and incorrect happenings will probably be made and recorded in the sake of poetic and artistic licence. Certainly, this may not have happened. But it would be nice to think that it did. Few names have been used for the sake of suspension, and other writing techniques attempted here. Primarily, this is written in third person, but with alternating focus.
With change, be it good or for bad, there is pain. This is inevitable, and irreversible. Even if it does not affect you directly, it will be present.
Leaning over a desk, late at night, a lone figure befriended only by papers and ink stains acknowledged this, as he placed a thick stack of papers onto a notched and worn table, papers filled with heavy words in bold letters under a clean typed date, March 11 1990 . ‘Restorations of independence’, ‘Declaration of Rights’ and other such formalities screamed off the pages at him as he drew a hand back, sucking on the edge of his finger. Bloodshed can be as simple as a paper cut, after all.
Hand placed back onto the table, a single drop of red spilled still. Yet the figure smiled, fair hair lit in the moonlight as he stared unseeingly out a single window, remembering times long gone, buildings destroyed in a hundred struggles, heartened by the single hand-written sentence at the bottom of the page. It won’t be long now.
It won’t be long now. Written months ago, the words would seem far away to the author, as more blood fell, hundreds of miles from the letter and the figure in the window, this time not from a simple piece of paper, but dripping copiously from white lips as he clutched at his broken ribs
Staggering, but still standing, not just upright, but for a cause, something shone in his eyes now that hadn’t for hundreds of years, like a darkened forest finally seeing light. Maybe it could have been called determination, but it was something more now, as the screams increased with the gunshots, the tanks roaring as people fell underneath them, innocents lost.
Looking away would do nothing, and so now they did not, looking up instead as voices boomed from loudspeakers around them. “Broliai lietuviai, nacionalistų ir separatistų vyriausybė, kuri priešpastatė save liaudžiai, nuversta. Eikite pas savo tėvus, vaikus!"* On hearing this, the pale lips cracked into a smile, crimson dried onto them now. It wasn’t over yet, but the end was nearing, and for once, words would have more meaning than missiles.
Following the path since the beginning of time, the seasons changed, as they are bound to do. Does the storm care if it is the end of an era? Winter will come and go regardless of politics.
But now there was finally a silence, no smoke in the air, an absence of gunpowder which would seem almost unfamiliar after so long. Shrugging out of a torn jacket, it still seemed foreign as bandages holding together damaged ribs were unwound for the final time, damage impermanent now, unlike the thousands of thick knotted lines marring his back, covered quickly as uniform material was buttoned up with accustomed speed.
Digging into a pocket, shaking fingers pulled out a key, turning it over in sweaty palms. To own a home was such a simple thing, but a joy forbidden to the beaten and weak worldwide. Now though, it was his, happiness he could be entitled to. Unarmed, head up with pride, the long journey home was begun, by more than one person.
Back door and front clicked open at the same time, surroundings unknown to all eyes on it, blinking green in the darkness. It was a darkness born not of nighttime or habitual gloom, simply the dark of a building which does not yet recognize its function as meaningful.
A shadow slipped across the floor, barely visible as the owner of it held up a large heavy object, dangerous as a club. Instantly, hands went up in defense on the other side of the house, battle weary ears sensing danger in the simplest thing. But as an old scar stung, causing a sudden intake of breath, defeat seemed imminent.
There was only so far that could be walked, so many shots that could be fired, so many songs that could be sung before the end. At that point, you can go no further. You have to stop and face fate.
It won’t be long now. And it wouldn’t be. Here was the end. Trembling from head to toe, expecting another blow, the click of a gun or a cold laugh, Lithuania switched on the light.
The silence was long, as light and realization flooded the room at the same time, broken with a loud clunk, as a torch was dropped to the floor, the only weapon in the room. Hand sliding off the light, knees gave out, and the shock was enough to force weeping from both figures, quiet sobs long suppressed. Pale hair flew out as the distance was closed between them, and when a hand reached out, it wasn’t to strike, but by now both of them knew that. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember forever as the tears flooded now into a wide, long hidden smile.
“Like, welcome home.”
* Translates to ‘Brother Lithuanians! The nationalist and separatist government which confronted the people has been overthrown! Go [home] to your parents and children!’, broadcast from the TV tower in Vilnius, in the events of the Vilnius Massacre, January 13th 1991 etc etc...
With change, be it good or for bad, there is pain. This is inevitable, and irreversible. Even if it does not affect you directly, it will be present.
Leaning over a desk, late at night, a lone figure befriended only by papers and ink stains acknowledged this, as he placed a thick stack of papers onto a notched and worn table, papers filled with heavy words in bold letters under a clean typed date, March 11 1990 . ‘Restorations of independence’, ‘Declaration of Rights’ and other such formalities screamed off the pages at him as he drew a hand back, sucking on the edge of his finger. Bloodshed can be as simple as a paper cut, after all.
Hand placed back onto the table, a single drop of red spilled still. Yet the figure smiled, fair hair lit in the moonlight as he stared unseeingly out a single window, remembering times long gone, buildings destroyed in a hundred struggles, heartened by the single hand-written sentence at the bottom of the page. It won’t be long now.
It won’t be long now. Written months ago, the words would seem far away to the author, as more blood fell, hundreds of miles from the letter and the figure in the window, this time not from a simple piece of paper, but dripping copiously from white lips as he clutched at his broken ribs
Staggering, but still standing, not just upright, but for a cause, something shone in his eyes now that hadn’t for hundreds of years, like a darkened forest finally seeing light. Maybe it could have been called determination, but it was something more now, as the screams increased with the gunshots, the tanks roaring as people fell underneath them, innocents lost.
Looking away would do nothing, and so now they did not, looking up instead as voices boomed from loudspeakers around them. “Broliai lietuviai, nacionalistų ir separatistų vyriausybė, kuri priešpastatė save liaudžiai, nuversta. Eikite pas savo tėvus, vaikus!"* On hearing this, the pale lips cracked into a smile, crimson dried onto them now. It wasn’t over yet, but the end was nearing, and for once, words would have more meaning than missiles.
Following the path since the beginning of time, the seasons changed, as they are bound to do. Does the storm care if it is the end of an era? Winter will come and go regardless of politics.
But now there was finally a silence, no smoke in the air, an absence of gunpowder which would seem almost unfamiliar after so long. Shrugging out of a torn jacket, it still seemed foreign as bandages holding together damaged ribs were unwound for the final time, damage impermanent now, unlike the thousands of thick knotted lines marring his back, covered quickly as uniform material was buttoned up with accustomed speed.
Digging into a pocket, shaking fingers pulled out a key, turning it over in sweaty palms. To own a home was such a simple thing, but a joy forbidden to the beaten and weak worldwide. Now though, it was his, happiness he could be entitled to. Unarmed, head up with pride, the long journey home was begun, by more than one person.
Back door and front clicked open at the same time, surroundings unknown to all eyes on it, blinking green in the darkness. It was a darkness born not of nighttime or habitual gloom, simply the dark of a building which does not yet recognize its function as meaningful.
A shadow slipped across the floor, barely visible as the owner of it held up a large heavy object, dangerous as a club. Instantly, hands went up in defense on the other side of the house, battle weary ears sensing danger in the simplest thing. But as an old scar stung, causing a sudden intake of breath, defeat seemed imminent.
There was only so far that could be walked, so many shots that could be fired, so many songs that could be sung before the end. At that point, you can go no further. You have to stop and face fate.
It won’t be long now. And it wouldn’t be. Here was the end. Trembling from head to toe, expecting another blow, the click of a gun or a cold laugh, Lithuania switched on the light.
The silence was long, as light and realization flooded the room at the same time, broken with a loud clunk, as a torch was dropped to the floor, the only weapon in the room. Hand sliding off the light, knees gave out, and the shock was enough to force weeping from both figures, quiet sobs long suppressed. Pale hair flew out as the distance was closed between them, and when a hand reached out, it wasn’t to strike, but by now both of them knew that. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember forever as the tears flooded now into a wide, long hidden smile.
“Like, welcome home.”
* Translates to ‘Brother Lithuanians! The nationalist and separatist government which confronted the people has been overthrown! Go [home] to your parents and children!’, broadcast from the TV tower in Vilnius, in the events of the Vilnius Massacre, January 13th 1991 etc etc...