daily15 - The End
*blows off dust* Hopefully, there will be time and interest enough to keep up with this stuff, now that I actually can call my soul my own again. So: word of the day is "anemic". Anna. Not too much to object to, other than death and mild cursing.
Anna has never quite mastered the rigors of writing in a language not her own; she was always decent at composition when she was a girl, and even now she can still manage something in French or occasionally English, here and there. Just her luck that a sizable number of the German-speaking comrades will be at Inna Koltova's funeral, and all she can get out are some ridiculous fragments.
Inna Koltova. Loved this woman. We were very, very close, professionally and personally.
If she's not careful, people will think they were lesbians. Not that any reasonable person would believe that; Inna was old enough to be her mother. No. This will not do.
Her left hand wobbles shakily across the page, as though it has a will and a mind of its own. Not politically close, of course, Anna blathers, disgusted with this ridiculous excuse for a speech. Inna believed there to be a real need for feminist activism, whereas I have always taken the orthodox Marxist line that when the capitalist system is defeated, the oppression of women--
As though the fact that Comrade Lenin might--might, as opposed to absolutely will--be there gives her the right to pen such self-serving drivel. Anna can't even read it, and sets aside the pen. If Lev were here, he'd know how to put it right. She is tempted to walk across town and find him, as though this will fix everything.
Varya pokes her head in; Anna starts, and realizes that it is dark outside. She has been sitting in her office all day, and doesn't even remember her last meal, or leaving the house this morning. "Andrei's here for you."
Speak of the oppression of women, Anna thinks sourly. Lately, dealing with Andrei has been more and more of a chore for her. All couples, she tells herself, have ups and downs; it doesn't mean anything. He loves her, and she loves him. She repeats this several times in her own mind, but each time, it sounds less and less convincing. "Sure, send him on in."
Inna loved passionately, with her whole heart, anything she was devoted to: her children, her husband--
"Anyushka."
"Andryusha." She wills herself to remain still when he kisses her cheek.
"I haven't seen you all day."
"I've had a few things to do, between the Zhenotdel memorial and the funeral. It's taken longer than I'd like."
Inna is the only reason I even joined bloody Zhenotdel. She sweet-talked me into it. I don't agree with what they're trying to do, and I don't approve of the entire exercise. Unbidden, the thought follows: Lev would understand.
"You haven't been around lately." Andrei's blue eyes size her up; his tone is almost accusing. "Of course I know how important your Party is to you, but--"
"Don't ask me how I am or anything, Andrei. Really. It's not as though someone who was one of the closest people to me on this earth just died. And I certainly don't have to cobble together some sort of eulogy by tomorrow or anything like that. I don't mind." The words ring in the air, and for the first time ever in all their quarrels, Anna does not long to take them back.
"Good Lord. I merely observe that I haven't seen much of you lately and that I do, at times, resent your insistence on political involvement, and this is the--"
"Resent this!" Anna's engagement ring hangs, sparkling in the air, for a few seconds before it sails past his lapel and falls to the floor, tinkling and ringing as it does so. "Take your damn ring, for what I care."
When he is gone, and their engagement with him, Anna weeps amidst notes for an anemic eulogy. The substance is always taken from her; she has only shadows to sustain her.
Anna has never quite mastered the rigors of writing in a language not her own; she was always decent at composition when she was a girl, and even now she can still manage something in French or occasionally English, here and there. Just her luck that a sizable number of the German-speaking comrades will be at Inna Koltova's funeral, and all she can get out are some ridiculous fragments.
Inna Koltova. Loved this woman. We were very, very close, professionally and personally.
If she's not careful, people will think they were lesbians. Not that any reasonable person would believe that; Inna was old enough to be her mother. No. This will not do.
Her left hand wobbles shakily across the page, as though it has a will and a mind of its own. Not politically close, of course, Anna blathers, disgusted with this ridiculous excuse for a speech. Inna believed there to be a real need for feminist activism, whereas I have always taken the orthodox Marxist line that when the capitalist system is defeated, the oppression of women--
As though the fact that Comrade Lenin might--might, as opposed to absolutely will--be there gives her the right to pen such self-serving drivel. Anna can't even read it, and sets aside the pen. If Lev were here, he'd know how to put it right. She is tempted to walk across town and find him, as though this will fix everything.
Varya pokes her head in; Anna starts, and realizes that it is dark outside. She has been sitting in her office all day, and doesn't even remember her last meal, or leaving the house this morning. "Andrei's here for you."
Speak of the oppression of women, Anna thinks sourly. Lately, dealing with Andrei has been more and more of a chore for her. All couples, she tells herself, have ups and downs; it doesn't mean anything. He loves her, and she loves him. She repeats this several times in her own mind, but each time, it sounds less and less convincing. "Sure, send him on in."
Inna loved passionately, with her whole heart, anything she was devoted to: her children, her husband--
"Anyushka."
"Andryusha." She wills herself to remain still when he kisses her cheek.
"I haven't seen you all day."
"I've had a few things to do, between the Zhenotdel memorial and the funeral. It's taken longer than I'd like."
Inna is the only reason I even joined bloody Zhenotdel. She sweet-talked me into it. I don't agree with what they're trying to do, and I don't approve of the entire exercise. Unbidden, the thought follows: Lev would understand.
"You haven't been around lately." Andrei's blue eyes size her up; his tone is almost accusing. "Of course I know how important your Party is to you, but--"
"Don't ask me how I am or anything, Andrei. Really. It's not as though someone who was one of the closest people to me on this earth just died. And I certainly don't have to cobble together some sort of eulogy by tomorrow or anything like that. I don't mind." The words ring in the air, and for the first time ever in all their quarrels, Anna does not long to take them back.
"Good Lord. I merely observe that I haven't seen much of you lately and that I do, at times, resent your insistence on political involvement, and this is the--"
"Resent this!" Anna's engagement ring hangs, sparkling in the air, for a few seconds before it sails past his lapel and falls to the floor, tinkling and ringing as it does so. "Take your damn ring, for what I care."
When he is gone, and their engagement with him, Anna weeps amidst notes for an anemic eulogy. The substance is always taken from her; she has only shadows to sustain her.