CHAPTER ONE

LONGING FOR THE PAST

Is life really so painful, are men really so cruel. In the vast memories of my mind, I recallI
recall, my struggle, my fight, my hopes and fearsMy country. A shell without a soul, a cover
without its book. This is the reality, the past is dead.
Natasha gazed into her dressing table mirror. The crisp shine no longer there, pitted and
browning at the sides, with a crack running from top to bottom, unwilling to stop until it reached
its goal of destruction. Gently, she put the thumb and fore finger of her left hand on to the
handle of the draw, beneath the table. Carefully, with love and tender touch she pulled the draw
open, to reveal a silver hair brush. Its surface faintly glistened in the dimly candle lit room. A
wry smile greeted her old companion. A tilt of the head, hair brushed back, she grasped it in her
hand, removing it from its resting place for so long. Lovingly she moved her fingers along the
bevelled edge of the brush, caressing the decorated surface with her brittle but neatly cut nails.
She remembered the day her mother had given her the trinket. She recalled how she had
discarded it as Just another item, throwing it into the dark recess of the draw, never to see the
light of day until now, treated with such unjustified indignation.
She lowered her eyes towards the cold glistening object, Looking at it one more time. Her eyes
began to fill with tears. Tears of the past, the ones she should have spilt as a child. But as quick
as they apeared, they were gone. Sent back to that place where they came, full of emotion and
weak minded thoughts. Slowly she pushed the small white stall away from the ornate Edwardian
table and stood up, firmly and stoecly . With expressionless austerity she walked over to the
French doors , at the far end of the room. They were warn, a kind of caramel colour, faided
white with time. A yellowed voile gently flowed in the late evening sun, held in place only with
the splinters that riddled the time forgotten wood. Placing both soft manecured hands onto the
pealing gilt handles, she through open the doors. The ugliness that now overwhelmed humanity,
squeezed through the light, into the faded opulence of Natashas life. With the brush tightly
gripped in her right hand, she angrily rose it aloft. With hate raging in her heart, she through
the brush into the pit of depravity, along with the life she once knew, now only a perpetual image
in the dreams of the past.
As she watched her past fall before her, more tears began to fill those icey blue cold eyes.
Is this the end, she cried, letting the emotions once again well up from within her. She clasped
her head in her hands, bowing down she fell to the floor on her knees. Then from behind her a
voice echoed around the sparcely furnished room.
Yes it is my love was the reply, in a strained broken voice, pain etched in every word. Natasha
removed her hands from her face, wiped away the tears and gently pulled herself up to confront a
dark figure, standing in the centre of the freezing, damp poorly lit room. Slowly it emerged from
the cover of the shadows, to reveal itself. It was Michael, her dear husband Michael. The
uniform he wore was torn and blood stained. His battered weather beaten face was bruised .
There was pain in his eyes, etched on his face.A troubled mind. He reached out his
trembling hands towards Natasha, looking at her, trying to grasp what he once had.
Michael she screamed Where, What ? trying to get her words out, unable to
communicate. Without saying another word, she rushed over to the safety of his strong, dutiful
arms. She laid her head gently on his chest, and gripped her husband tighter than ever before.
This time the tears began to flow freely. She no longer felt able to turn off the tap of emotions.
Michael moved the hair from her forehead and kissed the brow of her head.
Not another word Bushka, Not another word! He whispered You are safe now, Ill never let
you go. NEVER!