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Ramblings in Dementia

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 An old man walks along the road, wiry, and still spry, bedraggled and smiling, he stoops to inspect rocks, broken glass, fallen leaves. He pauses and faces the sun basking in it. 

"Jaký je den? Včera v noci pršelo a teď je to hezké." he mutters. "Měl bych se vrátit do nemocnice, jak dlouho to trvalo? Nikdo tam není, nikdo tam nebyl tak dlouho. Musím najít Petru, je pozdě, neviděla jsem ji celé týdny."

 He pauses, the town looks familiar, sometimes they all do, but here he was a boy maybe, before. So many changes. The sick ones, drug addicts maybe, fallen to the sickness of western decadence? He avoids them lest their corruption taint him. The tents, the towers, he remembers. The smell of the canvas, diesel fuel, gun oil they bring back a time long past, a time most happily forgotten. He stoops and picks up a handful of dirt, grinding it between his fingers, it is moist, he does not remember it so...

His radio crackles to life: Kapitan pushkin! My pod atakoy! Modzhakhedy, okruzhayushchiye nas! Dva vertoleta uzhe sbity i sozhzheny, spaseniya net!

He almost answers and realizes it is not real...still he rummages around the debris and finds a combat knife in decent shape. He ponders it like he pondered the rocks and glass. He does not avoid the next corrupted addict..."Není to 1988, že? Ne, to nemůže být, ale je tu tolik nepřátel? Jsou tito Mujahideen po mně, kteří hledají pomstu z hrobu?"

 He hears shooting and moves from it...a voice calls out to him in his native tongue, he is comforted by human conversation even if the tale told is of foreign rapers and a countryside filled with bandits, he only half hears it..the rhythm and meter are enough..

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Posted (edited)

 A poor demented mind, lost in fever dreams and led on into circumstances for which he was no longer fit...tattered clothing and scraps of flesh are all that remains..a bloody trail drags itself into the forest...


Edited by Dedushka

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