Shattered Realities - PicFic 1/14/14

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

In his dreams the thunderous sound of the collapsing stairway tore at the Russian’s memories of a homeland stricken by totalitarianism and greed.  The idealism of the Revolution was not lost on the sleeping man, although the sorrow of a dream, once so vast and promising to the masses, reflected the failure to override the inevitable evil of the men who would deign to rule.

A tower, set high above a frozen landscape, seemed impenetrable to Illya Kuryakin, right up until the glass stairs began to collapse in upon themselves, raining down showers of ice and the frozen tears of too many martyrs sent to Siberian work camps or the feared gulags that were always waiting for the dissident, the curiously intolerant or merely some unfortunate victim who might never know his or her crime.

As the final crash sent out shockwaves, Kuryakin bolted upright in his bed, a sheen of sweat covering his bare chest.  Once again the nightmare of Soviet life had invaded his sleep, making him wonder whether or not he would ever see his homeland again.  Mother Russia.  His blood flowed with the same blood that had fought for freedom from tyranny, perhaps even the blood of those who had imposed it.  Better to not dwell on what might be, it would do no good.

Without turning on the light, Illya crawled from his tormenting bed and made his way into the kitchen.  A light from the street below invaded the small space, shedding a dim glow through the slender gap between a window shade and the casement.  The room was cool, but not unwelcome; he had been too warm beneath the covers.  The dream always did this to him, no matter what season; the symbolism of failure set against an ideal he still held as viable was as cold as the stairway made of ice that always shattered beneath the weight of betrayal from those in authority.

When had he started sleeping in the nude?  Certainly it would not have been an option back home, not when communal was the standard.  Paris?  Perhaps, when falling asleep in the arms of a beautiful girl had become a sudden and welcome development to the young student.  Sometime in his twenties Illya had become very interesting to the opposite sex, a surprising and most pleasing aspect of his time in the City of Lights.  He had not asked why, merely enjoyed his new status among so many eager lovers.

New York was often hot, the air conditioning unit barely able to cool the rooms of his apartment.  It seemed silly to wear clothing to sleep, illogical.  And so he slept in the nude when he was home.  Alone.  The girls of Paris were not here, and somehow the women he met in America had not ... how to say it?  He must be careful here, among these people.  He was no longer in his youth, and people were watching.

The slender blond figure created a silhouette against the barely illuminated window shade. He had come in here for a drink of water, but a quick glance at the clock on the wall told him it was almost time to get up and start preparations for his day.  Back into the bedroom for his robe, he laughed at himself for being upset by the dream.  It was simply a dream, and if the symbolism was grim and foreboding, so be it. He was Russian, after all, and entitled to as much brooding and misery as he could produce.  None of that touched him now, not here in this new place.  He would be careful, circumspect... chaste, if need be.  He would not give them a reason to send him back.

He was Russian.  He might even be a Communist.

He wasn’t stupid, though.  He wasn’t going back.

Comments

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thanks, and it's so nice to see you back here. We've missed you :)

Re:

[avrovulcan.livejournal.com]

I've missed being around, hopefully I'll be able to find more time soon!