War Without End
We see the explosion long before we feel it. The bomb, carried over on a Geran-3’s husk of fiberglass and metal, lights up the room for a second through the reinforced window. First, it blooms into an orange hot cloud of flame. Then comes the familiar slap and pop. I blink involuntarily.
"Second one this week," the attendant says, without looking up from her desk.
I sigh and say, "Same in my raion."
Her eyes flick over to the monitor, and she nods knowingly.
"Ah yes, my cousin lives there too. You haven't had the best run of it so far this year."
Outside, the rubble has stopped crumbling and raining down. Wisps of sirens drift in as emergency response vehicles race to the scene. I wonder how much longer this will take. It’s been an hour already, waiting for a decision. Even in war, bureaucracy is the last casualty.
"Ok..." She starts after a few taps on her keyboard, "looks like we're all done."
I raise my eyebrows at her but still have to ask for clarification.
"You're all approved."
"For the whole 2000kWh?"
"Yep, that's right."
I squeeze to keep the shock from my face. I've never had my whole energy budget request approved. No one ever does. That's why you pad the numbers. You say you have 10 ovens running when only 2 of them actually work. A walk-in freezer when all you turn on is a small fridge. All the things I could do with 2000kWh... My head spins with possibilities, and the utility attendant looks at me over her glasses.
"Today's your lucky day Mr. Babych. That drone hit the Chanta Mount factory. Industrial baker like that uses most of the district's power supply, so we're gonna have a surplus for a while."
I nod, thank her, and finally stand up to leave. A couple comes in through the first armored door, shaking off dust and bits of brick as they do. They take a number from the machine by the entrance. I pass them wordlessly, and outside I feel the chill of fall wash over me. This is going to be a good month.
Kyiv sprawls more than rises over the horizon, especially these days. The black cloud spewing from the factory across the street is the only one in the sky today. Around it the traffic weaves through chunks of blasted concrete and metal. To my left, huddled behind a parked car, a family of three stands still. Oblivious to the perepichka seller yelling at them just a few meters away.
"You think I can just give this to someone else now? If you want it you take it!"
They stand still, except for their eyes, which dart across the street as if reading it.
"Hey. She's talking to you" I say in English, and the woman's wide eyes flick to mine.
"What?"
"Her" I say with a gesture to the vendor, who waves in short angry bursts at them.
"Oh, yes," she says with a blink, "right. Anna sweetie, your hotdog thing..."
They walk over, and the young girl stands on her toes to receive the snack. Her mittened hands soften the crinkle of the plastic bag wrapped around it. I wonder if the meat in it came from my shop. They leave almost hesitantly, with many more looks over their shoulder at the factory remains.
"Fuckin' tourists" the vendor says, staring at their retreating backs, ignoring the fact that they're her main source of business. She turns to me, and looks me up and down as if it’s the first time she’s seen me.
”What are you doing outside? Aren’t you supposed to be home, working?”
I nod at the squat electrical utility building behind me, dark and smooth like a beetle among the pockmarked apartment buildings.
“Had to get my new energy budget approved.”
”How’d that go?”
”Fantastic.”
She gives a gruff growl and turns back to focusing on her stand, heating up a new batch of food. I suspect I could have said anything, and gotten the exact same response.
”How’s sales been?” I ask, and she takes a moment before answering.
”Good, better than usual. Bunch of tourists coming in this summer. Guess some sickos like the thrill of it. But there’s some that just wanna watch the underdog hold back the big bad bear. Those ones tip better.”
”Maybe it’s just that flights are cheap.”
She raises her shoulders and pouts her lips to say she doesn’t know either. Her hands are wrinkled, more than I remember seeing before. I’ve known the woman in passing for 8 years now, ever since the war started. The years have sunk into the skin of her hands and face. I look away and focus on the clear sky, away from the drone’s impact site behind me.
”Still doesn’t feel real sometimes” I say before I can stop myself, and of all things this is what stops her dead in her tracks, hands still holding a frozen piece of bread, eyes now locked onto mine.
”I know what you mean. It feels like a fiction, a caricature. Drawn by a hand that hasn’t even seen the real thing.”
The quiet stare after this makes me too uncomfortable to say anything. I just turn around and wave a noncommittal goodbye as I walk back home.
As soon as I get back to my butcher shop, the sound starts again, a kind of ticking noise, trying to draw my attention. Even though I know exactly where it's coming from, it still sounds like it's coming from inside my own head. I ignore it, best as I can anyway, and continue with the day's tasks. There's a few carcasses that came in from Lviv that need cleaning and butchering, and it keeps me busy enough. I put in some calls to farmers I know, telling them I'll be buying more this month, thanks to my new energy budget. I've done the calculations just to be sure, and I know I can fire up the second freezer room and fit in a bunch more pigs.
As soon as I mention it, I know I messed up. Shouldn't think about the freezer rooms. Especially the one I've kept running this whole time, almost empty, just because I don't know what to do with that last pig carcass. I've kept it much longer than any other. Just hanging there in the corner, frozen solid and unmoving. I desperately want to get rid of it, but I know that's impossible. There's not many dead pigs that talk, and even if the conversation is bad, that's enough to keep it around. Sometimes I think you like to talk more than listen. But I know I have to face it at some point, so finally I give in to that incessant ticking noise, and head over to the freezer room.
It’s cold enough here to cloud my breath in front of me, and I stick my hands in my pocket to protect them against the harsh bite.
"You again."
It’s the same attitude every time, and I wonder if you even know how much effort I put into keeping you here. How much keeping this room running eats into my energy budget.
"Of course I know" and of course you do. You know it even before I think it.
"You didn't come here for idle chatter, so come on. Out with it. Let’s keep this story moving."
I stand behind the hanging carcass, its head facing away from me. It's crazy enough to talk to you, let alone doing it while looking at the frozen mouth and pupils of a dead pig.
"You just want to talk about pig bodies? You know I don't eat meat, that's disgusting."
“And I'm a butcher, thanks to you by the way. So, add it to the list of things you don't like about me. All the ways you made me into a punching bag.”
"It's not that long a list. There's plenty I like about you. But damn that shorter list sure is a doozy... Got some real red flags on there."
“Yeah? Like what?”
"Well, why you're still here for one, you coward. How the hell did you get out of service? Your brother's on the frontline right now, and here you are at home, safe and cozy."
“Fuck you! You're one to talk!”
"Hmm. Fair point."
I know I've got you there. You can't hide behind words all your life. And even when you do, it's terrible cover. Even in this world that you literally created, you don't come out looking very good.
"What are you talking about?"
“Dead little pig hanging on a hook. And me? Sure, I'm not on the frontline. What would you know about that. Where were you when this all started, and I mean really started, back in 2014. I still see more danger every single day than you ever will, for the rest of your life. I've dodged drones and missiles for over 8 years now, and it’s become so normal I can’t even flinch anymore. I’ve been to countless funerals and memorials for people you didn’t even have the heart to write into existence. You created this mess, and I'm still coming out of this looking better than you!
"You're damn right I created it, and created you as well. So watch your tone, before I make you shut up. Permanently."
There's nothing I can say to that, so I just shuffle around, shaking out my cold legs to return some feeling to them. After a moment of that, you finally continue.
"Look, I'm not mad at you. I'm not even disappointed. I get it, I think so anyway. I wish I’d done more, but what more is there to do? There’s so much regret in me, but this thing’s too big for me to control. I can’t control the reality of it all, but I can control this little bit right here, this little corner of fiction.”
“And you chose to make this? A war that’s still churning on?”
“Yeah well, happiness doesn’t make for good fiction now does it Babych?”
I watch you spin about for a moment, wishing you would just spill it out already.
“You’re right, I just need to get it all out. So ok here’s what’s really on my mind: I used to care so damn much, thought I could make a difference if I just kept caring. But our attention spans weren’t designed for this. One year, two years, hell three years later, I just can’t anymore... I'm tired of it. I can't keep caring like that."
“You're telling me.”
"I know, I know, it’s all so goddamn selfish. Firstly the lack of caring, and then on top of that, feeling guilty about it too. Double the selfishness! I don't have any right to this feeling when you're still suffering and still dying. So fine, I made all this up to get some relief from it all. To stuff my feelings into a neat little box and put it away on a shelf. Which just comes back down to the same thing..."
“Let me guess. Selfishness. Spoken like a true pig.”
"Yeah," you say, and I'm sure I hear a smile in your voice, "why do you think I made myself one?"
Nothing's changed for me, but I get the sense that it doesn't matter. You got what you needed out of this, out of me. Catharsis and resolution, enough to move on and end this story. So you're silent again, and I leave the freezer room with a heavy step. I close the heavy door, and somehow I know you're done forever. Done talking to me, and probably done letting me talk as well. I have a shot of vodka, at least you have the decency of giving me that. The last thought I have is a comforting one:
At least I can butcher that fucking carcass now.
How’d you like it? Bit of a different one this week right? Next time we’ll be back to the usual sci-fi, but for now I’d love to hear what you thought of this story. Let me know in this quick form.
This story was self-indulgent, but obviously the suffering is real, and felt by many more painfully than I could ever imagine or write about. If you want to donate, here’s a list of charities.
As always, thank you for taking the time to read that. I really appreciate it, and I hope you got something out of it. See you for the next one in 2 weeks.
-Noud