Life at War: Purchase impossible to sell. Part 2

Please follow the link to read the 1st  part of the story

Life which has chosen ... a militant. Four shots, competent work of an intelligence unit on first aid. Operation in Bakhmut, still Artemovsk at the time. And life. As a commodity. As a bargaining chip. The price of freedom of one of our guys. You catch yourself thinking wild - damn, I'm glad that he survived ..! I smile unconsciously looking at the way he smokes keeping the final pause, Alex Sardaryan, not just me. The smile froze on another face ... Invisible to me, but clearly tangible. Yes, I'm sure - he smiled. He's not a killer. He is a warrior.



"Militants"... Maybe it was him. A survivor getting four shots one of which hit his liver. Maybe it was his friend, and he kept silent about him during a rambling confession in night Kiev. Or maybe he forgot. Because there were episodes that he would prefer to forget in his life. To erase from memory. Dissolve in the depths of the unconscious.

I do not know his name. But I think that I am familiar with him all his life. Such a bozo necessarily lived in your native district in Donetsk. Unremarkable, blond. Or just gray. Performed poor at school. So that to be not worse than a neighbor. Then was graduated from unnecessary secondary technical school in order that everything to be as it should be. He went to work in the mine. Or the plant. And if has no guts - to a car wash. Married. Has a daughter. Full deal. Typical life without a break in pseudo "european-style remodelling" in a Khruschev-era prefabricated house, and if he is lucky in a nine-storey panel house built in 70's where one can hardly miss each other in the kitchen not having touched buttocks of other relative. At weekends - swimming in a career near Avdeevka. First car bought on credit is rattling "Lanos". Everything to be as it should be. To ride a daughter, or a mother in law. Well, you get the idea. Bluffs are worth more than money.

Money that dried up at once. Together with the work and war. The beginning of another life when a life is a commodity. He sold it. Cheap. For food and cigarettes, although at first thought that for the bike for his daughter - he admits saying goodbye forever. His life is over, even if it proceeds. Continued there in Donetsk. Illusory dilapidated city that replaced him the whole world. A world where he could freely and willingly heard laughs of his daughter, and happiness could radiate from eyes of his proud father... But no, the world has not accepted him and spat back. The circle is closed. The "militant" has died, the shell left that is able to kill ...

The shell which does not cause hatred and that burned a year ago when concrete in Donetsk Airport had not sustained, when earth in winter under Debaltsevo was scorched. I realized that I no longer hate the enemy! Not this particular confused loser. I ceased to hate them all. I despise them, yes. I do not want peace in the conditions of Moscow, yes. Staple "ideals" of "DPR" are alien to me, yes. But there is no hatred. 

It's not about that the role of the "militant" was played by transparently fragile Galina Dzhikaeva familiarity with which is an another story from a past life. And in the fact that I was brutally, to the point of exhaustion, tired from the war. From life as a commodity, not a supreme value, the highest good and the incredible pleasure worthy to revel in every moment. An excellent and unique. Like life itself.

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