Author Topic: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story  (Read 7042 times)

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Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« on: August 17, 2009, 11:20:37 PM »
I just read RosiePosie's fanfiction of the Romanov executions and I just can't resist the urge to post one I wrote last summer for Holly. This is from Anastasia Nicholaievna's view, I tried being witty like her and failed. Horribly. I took liberties also only with the matter of her jaw. From the source I was using she was shot in the head, but apparently did not die from it. I know some of the girls skulls had dislocated jaw bones so I went with it....

Please read and tell me what you think : D

Liubov Sviataya

There are footsteps coming from the drawing room. Someone is coming. They glide across the dining room, around the large table, six-seven-eight, why do I bother counting? It’s late. I’m far too tired for this. There isn’t any other choice but to answer when the footsteps knock on our bedroom door. I let Tatiana do this, she’s already thin as a stick, why waste my effort, I can’t imagine that walking to the door or any amount of exercise could help my appalling weight gain. Even Mama had mentioned it. Spasiba Mama, I love you too. That’s a quip, but what the footsteps say sounds like anything but a funny prank.

“Tatiana Nicholaievna? Could you inform the family we must get dressed? Commandant Yurovsky has told me we all must prepare for an hour or two in the lower area of the house. It seems our Czech friends have come for us! Pray let it be so, I’m sorry for this disruption your highness”


This last bit is whispered, the Lord forbid those pigs hear our own loyal servants use our old titles! I couldn’t be bothered to even care for that right now. I’m tired. Let me sleep for a thousand days and then a week! I know its Eugene Sergeievich, I can see his glasses reflecting what little light is filtering through the painted windows. Trust the red pigs to think we’d try to escape by staring out the windows. We’re clearly such devilishly crafty people. But now I don’t care about the Bolsheviks and their silly imaginations, I need sleep. Why can I not have it?! The door closes after Tanya thanks Botkin—trust her to use manners at the devil’s hour—and  she strides over to Papa and Mama’s room. Stride is a good word, she’s like some gazelle. A deeply emaciated and skinny one.

I can hear Tatiana say what Eugene Sergeievich just told her.

Papa utters a weary “Shto? What? Yes my malenkaya, lets us get up then.”

Tatiana comes back into our airy little room, and moves for the switch to the ormolu light fixture overhead. I have never hated her so viciously as now. It’s too late though, the burning light hits my eyes as they adjust to the sting.

“Urrrghhhhhh! What fool dare invade my slumber?!” I mutter aloud to my sisters in the room.

Tatiana gives me a frighteningly stern look and tells me to get up. I defy her. Already Mashka and Olga are rising like phantoms from their cots near mine. I should like to think they have the same thought on their minds as me: what nonsense can this be? They move to get up but the lateness of the hour still casts its spell over them and Maria falls back onto her pillow with an entertainingly loud plopping noise. I giggle like a rodent. Papa comes into the room and looks us over.

“My darlings, this could be serious, please, get up now and get your things ready,” he says while staring at me with his sweet crinkled eyes.

   If papa wants it, then so do I. I fight against gravity and all that other nonsense to get my bottom out of my blankets. The floor feels cool beneath my feet. Lovely. Olenka is already busy at the drawers getting out day clothes and undergarments, Tanya at her side. I sit at the edge of my bed staring at them. I look at Maria and smile at the stupid grin she has on her face, still lost between dream and reality. No doubt some mushy romantic fancy about that guard. He’s gone, a pity.  I’m sure they would have set records with the scores of children they would have had. That’s improper to even think, but again, I don’t care. Right now I focus on getting over to my stockings and chemise waiting in my drawers over by the Big Pair.
« Last Edit: August 17, 2009, 11:51:55 PM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #1 on: August 17, 2009, 11:25:31 PM »
I move my legs, but they don’t feel like doing what I want. Blast them! I somehow make it over to my clothes and begin to change, fumbling with the hideously small buttons on my nightgown and wishing I could just do away with every stitch of clothing I own. Olga and Tatiana finish with their stockings and set out for their dark skirts and white blouses set out on the chairs in front of their beds, casting looks of unknowing fear at each other. This makes me uncomfortable and for the first time I actually feel awake this morning. I look for the clock by the corner stove: 1:43 AM. I don’t like being up so early, it’s not quite right.

Mama comes through the door in her nightclothes, a look on her face that I haven’t seen in months. Hope.

“Girlies we shall be leaving this place, I know it, our friends have not forgotten us! Now you know what we must do, our medicines must be attended for. Olya, Tanya come here so we can fix you up first,” she says in a hushed tone of anticipation.

    Anna Demidova opens the door and peeks in; Mama calls her into the room to help with the preparations. Olga and Tatiana stand as still as the statues in the parks at Tsarskoe Selo while Mama and Aniuta conceal our jewels wrapped in clothe under my sister’s traveling wear. With the added bulk, they look half-normal, nothing like the gaunt skeletons they’ve come to be in the past year. I’m still wondering why it is they grow thinner and thinner while I get fatter with each day when it’s my turn.

“Nastenka, come here and we’ll do you quickly, don’t fidget child and it will go smoothly God grant it,” Mama beckons in wearied tones.

“Careful you don’t make her look like a Matrushka!” Olga says smugly, referring to the rounded wooden nesting dolls I used to have decorating my desk in our old rooms.

Something clicks in her mind, and that same expression of uneasy fear is back on her face. I can’t help but loathe her entirely for just a moment. Mama fashions me in the bodice rigged with diamonds and rubies, stitched behind the seams. I feel like one of those dashing blockade-runners from Alexei’s books, smuggling goods across borders for the sake of my fellow patriots. The romance of it all is overwhelming. One look at Tatiana’s sour face and my lovely thoughts die shockingly fast. Mama doesn’t bother giving Maria any gilded armour and I can’t help but suppose it has to do with that silly guard on her birthday. I envy her for not having to be bulky like myself.

Mama goes back into her and Papa’s room. Alexei comes out for the first time, aided by Papa’s sturdy grasp. I haven’t seen him in actual clothes for months! He’s in the green uniform he always wore in Tobolsk, which he had traded for a nightshirt and endless hours sitting in his bed ever since we’d come to this dratted house. He looks like some shrunken creature from the witch’s tale of Baba Yaga. The lustre of his pale white skin and sunken eyes doesn’t help to counteract the appearance much. I cannot help but stifle a giggle and in the process make a stupid grin. He notices.

“Shvibz, can I ask what gives you reason to laugh?” he commands in a tone of mock imperiousness.

“Why nothing at all your Imperi-aaal Majesty,” I remark with a foreign droll similar to Gilliard’s.

He smiles at this. An actual smile, well his best attempt at one. It ends up looking pathetic and sad. My heart cries out for our poor Alyosha. Papa looks at me and I decide a continued production of my vocal talents isn’t exactly appropriate for this occasion. Spotting Jimmy wagging his tail beneath my cot on his bed of rags, I scoop him up and shove my face into his ebony fur. I whisper into his ear in as many foreign accents as I please. At least he seems to appreciate my efforts. Mama comes back from her room dressed in the same dress I’ve seen her wearing for what seems an eternity. Her look of exhilaration hasn’t left her, but the dark lines under her eyes gives away her fatigue, which reminds me why I'm not in bed. Still something I am trying to understand.

Aniuta follows Mama, carrying the pillows that hold the pieces of jewellery too big to hide inside a button or corset. Mama hands Alexei his cap, with a fat red ruby secretly sewn under the top. He grins as he placed it on his head. I couldn’t help but feel repelled by the ghostliness of the expression. Sitting on the bed and making Jimmy dance a lively waltz through the air, Mama looks at me and tells me I’ll have to leave him.

“But Mama no!! Please Mama not my little performer, I’ll die without him. I just know it.”
I beg her with my most dramatic flair.

“Nastenka the little one will be fine in his bed while we wait downstairs, just think, Joy is outside and he does very well on his own there.” I know there isn’t any particular use arguing the fact. Jimmy would stay. And I would miss every second of our separation.

Botkin opens the door and asks if we are finally ready, mentioning that the Commandant is waiting for us. What a man this Commandant is, we had originally thought he was a doctor! But no fib could hide the fact that he’s really a horrid man. That is a fact I have no doubt of. Papa tells Botkin we have everything we need and the door closes. I rub Jimmy wildly, kiss him endlessly before putting him down onto his little bed, and insist he stay. He looks at me with his knowing brown eyes. I miss him already. I give the clock one last glance, 2:23 AM. An un-Godly hour.

We file out into the dining room around the table where the wretched man waits for us on the other side. He asks us to follow him and in single file, and we leave the first floor for whatever safety the lower level offers.

Safety? I defy that, who is really safe in times like these? We go through the rooms and pass the kitchen and onto the landing. As I’m about to go down the steps I hear Jimmy whining and take a look down the deserted series of doorways left behind us. I hug the pillow I hold tightly and try to ignore it. Twenty-twenty one-twenty two-twenty three. I am counting again. Why do I care how many steps I go down, they still don’t help my wretched curves. We make it out in a line. Papa with Alexei in his arms first, the metal brace on his misshapen leg making a clicking noise with each bounce of Papa’s step. Mama walks behind with Olga beside her, Tatiana next, Mashka walking along with me, Botkin, Aniuta, Trupp and Kharitonov forming the back of our grand procession.



   

« Last Edit: August 17, 2009, 11:46:55 PM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #2 on: August 17, 2009, 11:27:58 PM »
As I step from the house into the dry dismal yard, I look at the sky and see only the moon as it reigns over me and our little party on its way to a place of greater safety. I stare at it, wondering what this fat orb could know what I don’t. It frightens me, and Maria see’s it.

“Oh Anastasia, not afraid of the night are we?! Stop gawking or you’ll stall everyone with your senseless star gazing!”
she teases me in a scolding manner. Very out of character, I must say Mashka. I will get you back later for your cheek.

   The silence that held such power over the summer night is ruined by the hideous clunking and roaring of an ugly lorry that sits in the courtyard. The front lights blind us, illuminating our shadows against the side of the pale wall, turning them into a mass of black movement making quick progress towards a door. We enter through it. The corridor is unfamiliar and as we walk through endless doorways, I see horrid guards peeking from rooms and glaring at us, watching us, waiting for something. The heels of our shoes click on the wood floors. It reminds me of some strange waltz the band might have played on the Standart. Well if they had had enough imagination maybe. Again, I’m reminded of how tired I am. What dratted business this is.

   We walk straight from one side of the house to the other and at last make a turn through a pair of double doors into a lit cellar. We crowd in and I admire the lack of space. Leave it to these pigs to find us suitable accommodations.

Everyone stands awkwardly until Mama finally asks, “What? No chairs? May we not sit?” She says it imperiously, like a true empress of Russia.

Yurovsky looks at Mama with a blank look, hardly surprising for a man with no soul. He asks someone to bring in chairs. They set them in the middle of the small room, Mama sits down with Alyosha seated by Papa in the other. Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and I make to put our pillows and cushions behind them to add comfort. He tells us to wait, as we will have our photograph taken to stop rumours going through the cities that we have been killed. I thank our Lord silently that this isn’t true. I step back now and take better notice of the cellar. It has a curved ceiling which amuses me, and pale striped yellow wallpaper. Pretty if anyone asks my opinion. I turn around to see a locked door and frown; I don’t know what’s beyond it. That’s the problem with closed doors.

   There’s only one window and I notice guards outside it. They clearly must think windows are our favourite method of escape. Silly pigs. The bare electric fixture overhead gives everything a harsh look and it’s hurting my eyes. Why am I not in bed? The question still dances inside my head. All of us in our group stand, except for Mama and Alexei, in the room forever. I can pick out the engine from the yard making terribly loud noises. It’s enough to wake the dead. My mind wanders to Joy and Jimmy. My eyes wander too; from Botkin’s furrowed brow to the still rigid look on Olenka’s face. I haven’t seen her smile in a million years. I lean against the door beside Aniuta and Maria behind everyone else. Papa is in the middle with Botkin, Trupp, and the cook. Little Leonka isn’t here; I hope I get to see him soon. He was terribly helpful and so dear to us. Olga and Tanya are behind Mama by the window. I wish there was sun so I could see the sky.

It’s startling when Yurovsky suddenly opens the doors and walks in with others crowding in behind him. They shouldn’t all be here. The room is far too small for us all! Do they think we’ll spread wings and fly off if they don’t stand within reach to catch us? I’m sure Tatiana is thinking the same from the look she is giving them. I should think she might like to slap these men. I’m certainly for it right about now. Yurovsky and his hoard don’t leave but only stand there. I should like to know what he wants. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it with what seems like pleasure and reads out the contents.

“In view of the fact that your relatives, here and abroad, continue their attacks against Soviet Russia, the Ural Executive Committee has decided to execute you.”

We are silent. What is this?! I do not understand him. No one does. Slowly Papa turns to look at us behind him and says, “Shto? Shto? What? What?”

“So, we aren’t leaving?” asks Eugene Sergeievich.

Yurovsky reads the words again impatiently. I want him to stop. How can this be happening, who would let this happen to us? The pillow I have is like a weight pulling on me. Papa begins to say a prayer to God,“Forgive them father for they know not what they do.”I see Mama make the sign of the cross. Olga tries too. Forehead. Chest. Right. Left.
   
In almost the same moment, it happens. The guns in their hands quiver. All of us lined up for a photograph that will never be taken. The moment passes. The explosion of the first bullet rips not only into Papa but my world. It crumbles around me as a louder explosion of more shots fires at Papa. I scream out for him. No one hears me. No one cares now.
« Last Edit: August 17, 2009, 11:50:52 PM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #3 on: August 17, 2009, 11:30:32 PM »
The flashes of light and smoke from the guns are too much. I can see Papa reeling as crimson stains flood from his back. I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to cry out for the Saints to save us. But no one is coming, I know this. Suddenly a bullet hits Papa in the head and it explodes, his blood is sent spraying across us behind him. My white blouse is covered with beads of red. Papa sinks to the floor. The need to throw up is greater. A man takes aim and Mama’s head jerks violently as she tries to stand. Blood and red tissue sprays from her ear on to us crowded at the back. She all but falls on top of herself onto the floor. I stare at her, she isn’t moving. I cover my face with the pillow and try to hide myself from the horror of my surroundings but I can’t block it out.  I pull it away from me and see the red that has been wiped from my face. The sound is so loud, the smoke is worse every second. The flashes are so bright. I cry, screaming for Papa and Mama. The horrid demons keep shooting at us. I see Botkin on the wooden floor, lying still save his hand groping the floor for what I can only think might be his glasses. Shots fire and Trupp falls hard, his face locked in outrageous pain as the blood flows from his legs. Another shot passes through his head, the blood soaring out onto the wall as he slumps down silently. Rapid fires hit Kharitonov, and I see him simply sit down and die.

   Death is everywhere. Death or blood? It has already begun seeping so fast through Mama and Papa’s clothes. It spreads across the floorboards. It hangs in the air with my sisters constant screams of confused horror. An explosion of dust falls from behind as a bullets rip into the walls. It falls on me and blocks out my view of the guards. It swirls and mixes with the smoke from their deadly weapons. A screen of grey and white settles between us and them. I want only to hide in it forever, escape their horrid need to kill us, anything but be here.

   A sudden motion occurs beside me and Maria is over to the door at the back. She rattles the handle; I know it won’t open for her. Desperate, she slams the palms of her hand again and again on the white wood. The fear is too much; she begins throwing herself at the immobile doors. She does not stop. Her entire weight and force is hitting those doors. Nothing comes of this. I stare at her in silent awe from my seat on the floor for only a few seconds before the bullets find a home in Mashka’s legs. Her knees buckle and she slumps to the floor. I scream so loudly for her. Bullets hit the wall by my head and I crawl quickly to Maria’s body. She is not dead, she looks at me with tears of despair and hatred.

“Bozhe moi! My God! Nastenka what is happening?” she moans in laboured breaths.

I cling to her on the floor and we hold eachother, propped against the wall as the men shoot at us still. Anna Demidova is behind her pillow beside us, and one of our murderers spots her beneath the blanket of smoke. He shoots. Her thigh explodes red, and she topples to the floor screaming like a wild animal. She lands in from of us. I curse them for what they are doing to us. Our Lord cannot let this truly be happening.

The firing stops, Mashka and I hold our breath, grasping each other’s arms tightly. Feet step through the clouds over to Botkin ahead of us. A spark illuminates for a single second and Eugene Sergeievich’s body slams against the floor from the impact. His head is covered in deep crimson. The tears flood my eyes as I look around at my dying family and friends. It is only then I see the legs of Alexei’s chair still sitting upright only a meter away from me. I can’t believe he still occupies it, the fists of his hand clutching the seat of the chair, his knuckles an incredible shade of pure white. Feet move for him, I know what they want. I cry out his name, choking on the pronunciation of it. It is too late now, the shots fire into him. Three-four-five times. Again I count. Alyosha sinks awkwardly to the floor where he lies. New feet walk over to his moaning body and bend down. What happens horrifies me more than what I have already seen. The glint of the bayonet as it comes down into my brother’s body is all I see before it enters his stomach and red flees with each thrust. Maria shuts her eyes and howls in anguish at this. I sit in silence as my eyes grow wide as Alyosha tries weakly to fight back. These men don’t know he has our jewels guarding his flesh. It angers them we do not die fast enough. I can see this rage in the thrusts of the steel. It is too much, they want us dead sooner. Two flashes of light blind me as the tip of a gun fires into Alexei’s head.

I cannot breath. The acrid smell of the smoke burns my nostrils and the carnage burns its image into my eyes. I gasp for breath as the tears run down my bloodied face. Maria’s leave tracks as they wash away the plaster and blood on her soft cheeks. We all lie crumpled: legs, arms, feet, chairs, pillows sprawled against the now red floor.  The men inch closer from across the room, searching for us who live through the fog. I hate them so much. I wish I could take their stupid weapons and make them feel my pain.

Olga and Tatiana, forgotten and unharmed against the wall near us, kneel and clutch their hands tightly. We scream out and moan through the growing silence. We call out for God and salvation. It does not come. Hearing us live, the men now begin shooting again at the back walls. Puffs of fresh dust and plaster fly out from the striped, yellow paper and reign down on our heads. The sparks of guns light up through the smoke. We will not die. The guards sense this and begin to move closer. One slips in Papa’s blood and he hits the floor, his knees now drenched in the gore. He looks at his hands dripping with blood and from where he sits looks forward to see my eyes glaring at him. He is young, shocked, scared. I feel as if our emotions might mirror each other. I hate him even more now that he understands our suffering and does nothing.
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #4 on: August 17, 2009, 11:31:52 PM »
The men see Olya and Tanya crouching with their arm-covered heads. They have spotted their prize. Now they move in for the taking. I stare in silent horror, holding Maria and we both watch as they attempt to rise from the floor. Tatiana makes to say something as she helps Olga up, possibly a plea for help, as I see the pig’s leader move forward quickly. It happens in a second. He aims and with a bright spark and shattering bang, the bullet rips from the gun into the back of Tatiana’s head. It tears through her and blows out the right side of her face onto Olga’s. Tanya shudders and her hold on Olga loosens. She drops like an insect. My body is wrenched by spasms as I see it happen. I choke on my tears and my breath as she lands by our feet. I do not recognize this bloody corpse. Take it away; I do not want to see this. You are not my sister. I defy this.

Olga stares forward, Tatiana’s blood painting her face and drenching her blouse in crimson. As she continues to stand up, a man with wild eyes viciously kicks her in the stomach and she falls back down. Before I can realize it, he has pulled the trigger on his gun and the shot catches her in the chin and flies from the top of her head into the wall. Before she has even landed, she is dead. Her eyes stare upwards, directly at me. Maria kicks at our dead sister, trying to get as far away from it as possible. She moans from the pain as blood flows fresh from her knee. I grab out and try to stop her. My dark skirt is like a sponge and the blood it has drank squeezes out as I move, the material spread tight against my bent legs stretching.

The guards see our movements. It is our turn now.

The man with his sinister look stumbles over to us and drops to his knees. He stares at us. We stare at him. In an instant he has Maria in his satanic hold and takes out the bayonet he has used to slaughter Alexei. The first stab of the dagger shocks Mashka, her eyes grow wide in confused horror, and a loud gasp escapes her lips. The assassin raises his fist endlessly and brings it down repeatedly into her chest. Maria struggles and I let go of my hold on her. I do not want to be apart of this terrible scuffle. I slide away from it. I am ashamed of this but unwilling to die now. Neither is Maria as each plunge is met with eerie resistance. It is now I realize she must have jewels under her clothes, guarding her with futile effort. In a final attempt, he draws his gun from his side and shoots at Maria while she tries swinging at him. It is enough though and Maria lies still, accumulating in her own excess of deep red. All of this is too much and I cling to the pillow I still refuse to give up.

This man will not stop. Before any of the others can, he crawls over to me and catches my hair with his fist. How dare he hold me like this? I hit his arms and try jerking my head from his hands but it holds fast in his grip.  The inevitable is coming. I have seen it happen to everyone else in the room. It is my opportunity to feel the wrath of these men now. I refuse to give in.

He stares into my eyes, into my soul, and I watch in stupor as the blade falls down through the air, reflecting the dim light as I had seen it before, and hits my chest. The pain is excruciating. It does not enter completely though, my bodice makes sure of this. Still the drive of his strength is enough to crack my ribs, which I’m sure he has. He draws in closer, making sure I am not a slow failure like my sister. The plunges come swiftly, endlessly. Some enter my chest fully and some are rejected by the diamonds, topazes and pearls. I can only sit in motionless terror as he shakes my body with his force. I have lost hold of the pillow. It can do nothing for me now.

It gets harder to breath, and I know this is not because of the wretched smoke that still hangs heavily around the room. My lungs feel clogged and I know the maniac’s weapon has pierced them. My laboured breaths become louder and the man’s patience is lost. I see him reach for the pistol, revolver, or whatever kind it is. This reflects the light in a far colder and sinister way than the bayonet. He aims. It is too much for me. The room goes black and I hear the shot crack. The pain as the bullet hits my jaw is incredible. I slip into unconsciousness right then.

I drift between reality and my imagination. What is the difference? What is happening in this room is like some horrible nightmare, one I want so terribly to wake up from. I see Tatiana sitting by the lake in Tsarskoe Selo. I look again and I see the bloodied face of her corpse. Other horrid things come to my mind. Olga and I swim in the cold waters of the Black sea at Livadia. Now she floats on her back with the same lifeless expression in her eyes, staring at me. I scream and only breathe in deep intakes of water. I’m drowning. It is so hard to breath. I am sinking so far beneath the sunlit waves above. Suddenly I hear movements in the room, my eyes flutter. Aniuta is getting up by my feet, smothered in everyone else’s blood. She’s a hideous creature rising from a swamp of nasty gore. She frightens me horribly.

“Thank God! God has saved me!”
She cries out loudly like a crazed gypsy reading a fortune. I can see the delirious look on her face as she stares at us all.

   An army of feet come over to her and I can hear her pathetic cries as they stab her with sharp metal. She tries to grab their weapons but they only cut thick gashes into her soft hands. Revulsion fills me and I shut my eyes. The pain of my jaw is all I think of. The blood flows through my cheek and from my lungs and mixes with my saliva. I spit it out slowly and it bubbles on my lips. It tastes wretched and I vomit in my mouth and try swallowing it. More blood flows from my broken jaw. My head throbs. I can’t take this anymore. Why do I have to suffer? I think I see Maria’s hand move as everything slips into darkness.

   Minutes have passed, but they seem hours, years, decades. I should stop trying to count things. The guards shift around our mangled corpses. I wonder if any of us still live. I want to reach for Papa, I want him to hold me in his arms, I want to look into those crinkled eyes. But I remember only his body as it shuddered with each bullet. The blood is everywhere; we are drenched in it. It makes my clothes stick uncomfortably to my skin. I am cold and hot at the same time. My head throbs as it lies against the wooden floor. I can hear them calling for sheets. They want to move us, but where. What will happen to us now, after all that they have done to my family? Thuds and bangs tell me they have begun collecting us. I see them dragging Alexei onto a sheet from my sister’s beds. He is as limp as one of my old dolls. This is too much. I still wish I could be in bed, asleep. They have taken most of us and head for those crumpled at the back of the room. The open doors have let most of the blasted smoke out. Their hands reach for me and they grope me as I am lifted. I can hear someone throwing up. The pain throbs and I see a suffocation of black.
« Last Edit: August 18, 2009, 12:03:04 AM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #5 on: August 17, 2009, 11:34:44 PM »
The darkness of my mind breaks and I come to my senses. I breathe rapidly, what has happened to us fills me with new energy. My eyes are open, searching madly across the ceiling above me from where I lie in the corridor just outside the cellar and I try moving my head. I raise my hands up, cover my face, and whimper. My temples throb and I choke from the blood filling my lungs with each breath. I want to stand and run from the house, find Jimmy and vanish into the night. All I manage is to sit up in one sudden move and scream as loud as possible. I scream to let others hear. We need help, they are killing us in here! Surely God can send someone. What I have done terrifies the men standing nearby and leering over our bodies. The shock that I still breathe is all they can handle. Some cry out I am a demon and a witch and run down the hall.  Others stare at me in horror. I look around quickly and see clearly my soaked clothing, my cut and bleeding chest. Beside me is that hideous version of Tatiana and I let out more pitched screams. I cannot stop. It is all I can do. I can’t even cry out properly because of my jaw. The pain is intense, but so is my fear and anger. My hand gropes wildly around and it finds Mashka’s warm fingers. She is alive. The blood gurgles in her mouth and bubbles as she stares at me with terrified eyes. She cannot speak. All I can do is moan and cry. Before I have realized it, Yurovsky comes out of the cellar to look at us. He is disgusted by my continued existence, I see it in his eyes.

“We can’t shoot these damn bitches anymore! The entire neighbourhood can hear us!
” one guard says. Good, let the entire world hear your sins.

   Again the wild man appears, screaming at me, cursing me, telling me to die. He grabs a long rifle from the wall and immediately begins stabbing me again in the chest. It hurts but the blows do not pierce me. Out of fear or guilt, the other men take rifles and start stabbing my sisters who lie around me in their dirtied sheets. They cannot stand the sight of our writhing bodies; they simply want us to be dead. Maria makes ghastly noises as she twists and contorts her body in agony. It just goes on and on. I am on the floor when the man attacking Mashka turns his rifle around. He stands above her head with the butt aimed at her face and before I can imagine what will happen he brings it down like thunder onto my sister’s skull. The crack that resonates is sickly and a gasp escapes me. I still hear her whimper as he brings it down violently again. The blood flies fresh and vibrant from her with each drop of the rifle. The blood hits my cheek. Her hand twitches and she is still.

   Inspired, my killer turns his weapon around. I am afraid for what will come. My hand searches for the cross and icon of our Friend that still hangs from my neck. I think only of my family, my darling Papa and Mama, the sisters I love so dearly, and our Alyosha. I can see the pleasure in his eyes. The butt rises so high above me. It will drop any moment, my face will be a bloodied mess like Tatiana and Maria’s. I pray I can rest with God and my family in peace when this is over. He brings down the rifle. I stare with open eyes as a gunshot fires, and it comes closer. It impacts my face with blinding pain. I hear my nose break and I am astonished I could live through it. The blood gushes from the crushed cartilage and amongst my broken teeth. The rifle is raised, and my eyes close. The blood is everywhere: in my mouth, in my lungs, suffocating me. The time for sleep is now. I open my eyes one last time. Something passes momentarily between the guard and myself. I accept my fate. The rifle comes down.
« Last Edit: August 18, 2009, 12:06:27 AM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913

aleksandr pavlovich

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #6 on: August 18, 2009, 12:16:40 AM »
I will have to assume that you are sincere, young sir or young miss (as the case may be) in asking for feed-back.  IMO, it needs a good, objective editing: it is rather obviously word-heavy, with reminiscences of  "Little Professor" traits shown especially in the extreme/almost compulsive overwrought detail and also the fascination to achieve shock effect.  Still, it is correctly logged in the most appropriate section: "Having Fun."  Save it for Halloween and the darkest night!   AP
« Last Edit: August 18, 2009, 12:48:20 AM by aleksandr pavlovich »

Offline Ally Kumari

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #7 on: August 18, 2009, 01:40:00 PM »
I have to say, that this is probably the best thing I´ve read here yet. Honestly. It´s terrible - and perfect. Made me cry, and I don´t usually cry reading.... All the more it is very much what I always imagined.... Thank you so much for posting.

Offline rosieposie

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #8 on: August 18, 2009, 08:37:38 PM »
I want to say this is great.  Very well written and quite alot of thought went into this.  :) 

I feel like giving constructive criticisim lol but I'm holding back.  Maybe just one little one.   As most know the grand duchesses didn't really like their royal title (their given title, they didn't mind that they were of royalty but didn't like be addressed as Grand Duchess  _ _ _ _ by their peers or servants.)   so Anastasia wouldn't have minded that the servants would address them as Miss or Madam etc.  After all they (NAOTMAA) became private citizens so there was no point in having a royal title and they would have just gotten used to being the idea as citizens.

Other then that very moving.  I too cried and had to quickly wipe my tears because my boyfriend came over. LOL.

Well done.
Beautiful faithful Nargony.
Thanks Emily!

Miranda:" Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place."
"Picnic at Hanging Rock" (1975) Movie.

Offline Grand Duchess Jennifer

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #9 on: August 19, 2009, 01:38:28 PM »
I love it!

Just one thing: What does Liubov Sviataya mean? Is it Last Night? (That's a guess)

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RomanovsFan4Ever

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #10 on: August 19, 2009, 02:06:53 PM »
Oh my God!, it's wonderful!!!...I'm going to print it, it's too beautiful!


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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #11 on: August 21, 2009, 03:14:36 AM »
I love it!

Just one thing: What does Liubov Sviataya mean? Is it Last Night? (That's a guess)

Liubov means "LOVE" and Sviatya means "Sacred" / "Holy"

so it means Sacred (Holy) Love
Beautiful faithful Nargony.
Thanks Emily!

Miranda:" Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place."
"Picnic at Hanging Rock" (1975) Movie.

Offline Grand Duchess Jennifer

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #12 on: August 22, 2009, 12:29:51 PM »
Thank you, RosiePosie! :-*

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Offline rosieposie

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #13 on: August 23, 2009, 04:59:14 AM »
Your welcome :hugs:
Beautiful faithful Nargony.
Thanks Emily!

Miranda:" Everything begins and ends at exactly the right time and place."
"Picnic at Hanging Rock" (1975) Movie.

Offline NAOTMAA Fan

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Re: Liubov Sviataya: A Short Story
« Reply #14 on: August 24, 2009, 05:17:50 PM »
Thank you everyone for the generous compliments on this! The things you've said have really made my day, and I really just hope you enjoy it : D

I love it!
Just one thing: What does Liubov Sviataya mean? Is it Last Night? (That's a guess)

RosiePosie is right! I named the story after a piece of Russian church music Holly sent me; I listened to it while writing this. It's incredibly haunting and beautiful, if you're interested I'll email it to anyone : D

I feel like giving constructive criticisim lol but I'm holding back.  Maybe just one little one.   As most know the grand duchesses didn't really like their royal title (their given title, they didn't mind that they were of royalty but didn't like be addressed as Grand Duchess  _ _ _ _ by their peers or servants.)   so Anastasia wouldn't have minded that the servants would address them as Miss or Madam etc. 

No offense taken, I just want to explain though. I wrote "This last bit is whispered, the Lord forbid those pigs hear our own loyal servants use our old titles!" not so much to make Anastasia seem like some whining sob, but more as a jab at how petulant and ridiculous the Bolsheviks might have seemed from her point of view. I thought of it more as a joke. I'm well aware of Tatiana's assault on Buxhoeveden's leg when she introduced her using her formal title ; )

IMO, it needs a good, objective editing: it is rather obviously word-heavy, with reminiscences of  "Little Professor" traits shown especially in the extreme/almost compulsive overwrought detail and also the fascination to achieve shock effect.    AP

I'll be honest, that sounds like the gist of what my English teachers have to say after reading something of mine : D
« Last Edit: August 24, 2009, 05:32:40 PM by NAOTMAA Fan »
"...I am in Tatiana's room...Olga and Tatiana are here. I am sitting and digging in my nose with my left hand... Olga wanted to slap me but I ran away from her swinish hand..."
-Anastasia Nicholaievna Romanova, May 8th, 1913