50 scenes: No Return
It was a bloody cold day, cold as anything he had remembered in Cambridge, but Cambridge had forsaken him for a place that called him 'Comrade.' He thought of that godforsaken fucking isle and loved it, cried out in many a drunken stupor. His nighttime blanket more often than not was a Russian sky, thick with smog. When it wasn't, his lovely Demyan drew him back into the lavish place he had been given. One of his many gifts as a hero of a country he didn't give a damn about. He had done it for England, but she would never welcome him back into her bosom. He dreamed of her still.
After enough vodka to curb his morning pangs, he stumbled to a phone. He called men that had publicly abdicated him from their lives, men whom he found himself darkened without. Sickly ironic, he thought, to be morose and bleak without them when he had always played their comedic source of light. He was always drunk, and they told him so. Today, he called Anthony Blunt, met instead with the pitchy voice of an office secretary for the college. The poor woman meant nothing but was unjustly subject to a desperate tirade, a clawing for attention. As his voice rose and he bellowed into the reciever about D-Day and the march on the Arc de Triomphe and the starving English and dying Reds, he begged. Every wrathful piece of argument was a plea to be saved.
She didn't let him finish, stuttering she'd leave a message before Guy was talking to a click. He shouldn't have called, but he didn't care.
He truly was nothing anymore. Moscow favored him but he didn't care for their favors. He wanted England, the home that had struck him from her memory. He had known everyone, there. Here, thousands knew him but he had not a soul for a friend. He spoke with Churchill once. Now he was little more than something Churchill--and the rest of them--wished to forget.
He would never again see England. He would forever wear his tie from Eton, forget the hell it had been in the 1920's and and reminisce on days he couldn't have. He would always wish for the Cambridge he'd bid farewell to, for those were the days of beautiful boys, scotch and toothpaste, picnics on he grass and four, talented friends.
Now he was a wasted soul, the best and the brightest gone wrong. He was England's 1930's promised star of youth, now nothing. He was a red, a red in blood red Moscow and he'd never return.
Not until it consumed him.
After enough vodka to curb his morning pangs, he stumbled to a phone. He called men that had publicly abdicated him from their lives, men whom he found himself darkened without. Sickly ironic, he thought, to be morose and bleak without them when he had always played their comedic source of light. He was always drunk, and they told him so. Today, he called Anthony Blunt, met instead with the pitchy voice of an office secretary for the college. The poor woman meant nothing but was unjustly subject to a desperate tirade, a clawing for attention. As his voice rose and he bellowed into the reciever about D-Day and the march on the Arc de Triomphe and the starving English and dying Reds, he begged. Every wrathful piece of argument was a plea to be saved.
She didn't let him finish, stuttering she'd leave a message before Guy was talking to a click. He shouldn't have called, but he didn't care.
He truly was nothing anymore. Moscow favored him but he didn't care for their favors. He wanted England, the home that had struck him from her memory. He had known everyone, there. Here, thousands knew him but he had not a soul for a friend. He spoke with Churchill once. Now he was little more than something Churchill--and the rest of them--wished to forget.
He would never again see England. He would forever wear his tie from Eton, forget the hell it had been in the 1920's and and reminisce on days he couldn't have. He would always wish for the Cambridge he'd bid farewell to, for those were the days of beautiful boys, scotch and toothpaste, picnics on he grass and four, talented friends.
Now he was a wasted soul, the best and the brightest gone wrong. He was England's 1930's promised star of youth, now nothing. He was a red, a red in blood red Moscow and he'd never return.
Not until it consumed him.