The Lonely

The bleak, gray sky of London loomed over me, spilling its relentless rain upon my face. The droplets pounded against my skin like bullets, stinging and numbing as they soaked through my clothing. A shiver ran through me, leaving me feeling cold, alone, and vulnerable.

A figure appeared in the prickling drizzle and there he was- Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav, his broad back visible even in the periphery. He always looked so dashing in that scarlet uniform, yet I desperately hoped he would turn around and see me; see the distress on my face.

I needed help.

He turned to face me, his gaze piercing into my very soul. His fiery anger and frustration dissipated into pure concern and vulnerability. Even more terrifying was the realization that this unyielding man was now afraid. With all of my remaining strength, I raised a trembling hand to my cheek and felt something wet and slick. It shouldn’t have been possible to feel my own teeth from the outside, but there they were, erupting through my flesh.

His words were stern and commanding, but they brought me a small sense of comfort. “Stay awake! Everything will be okay!”

He leaned in with compassion in his eyes and pleaded with me while he spoke our beloved mother tongue. “Don’t fall asleep, Arina. Focus on me.”

I tried to follow the orders of Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav, but I could feel myself slipping away. Was this the end for me?

In a last desperate attempt, I thought back to the first time I met this man, hoping it would somehow save me from an inevitable sleep.

Was I dying?

—

“State your name.”

They say that you should never meet your heroes, but Ivan Stanislav did not disappoint. The massive Russian Bear sat straight behind his office desk, while the rain slashed against the window over his shoulder. His olive uniform, with its blue highlights, was even more imposing in person. He effortlessly minimized the presence of his longtime comrade, Alexei, who sat in another chair next to him.

After “defeating” Hayes Hanlon at UltraViolence 2022, Ivan was back in the spotlight and once again an international figure. Thus, the semi-retired man of the army required support staff, and Arina, a timid young woman, had applied. Though she felt her prospects were bleak, the opportunity to work for Ivan Stanislav was too good to pass up. For he was everything she aspired to be: confident, outspoken, strong-willed, and important. Working for him might give her a sense of purpose.

For Arina had always felt insignificant, unimportant, and inconsequential.

She did her best to look appropriate. Her suit was a simple gray, tailored to fit her frame perfectly without any extra adornments or frills. The blazer hugged her waist, while the straight legged pants gave her a professional appearance. Made of high-quality wool, Arina had saved a great deal of money for this treasured outfit.

“Arina Rakhila Timofeyevna, Praporshchik Stanislav.” She replied quietly, though her voice wavered with nerves and her palms were slick.

Ivan scanned her resume through his trifocals and read out loud, “Moscow State University.” He tore his gaze from the paper to look at her more closely.

Ruslan, the aggressive one, chimed in, “Your father, a veteran of Chechnya, is deceased, Ms. Timofeyevna. And what about your political affiliation? I see none listed.”

She swallowed hard before replying, “Well, I am officially unaffiliated, Mr. Ruslan.”

An awkward silence filled the room as Alexei carelessly tossed her resume aside and Ivan maintained a stern expression without even glancing at it.

“That is all,” Ivan said with finality.

And just like that, Arina, true to form, had blown it. She left the office with tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Gone was the opportunity to make something of herself, and instead, she sobbed all the way back to Moscow.

—

“You scum!” Ivan’s voice boomed around us as he turned away, shouting curses at our unseen enemies. I shivered in fear and agony, wishing for his brutal gaze to return while he shielded me like a protective papa bear. As I lay there, broken, I reflected upon how wrong I was about him.

—

While most would have been ecstatic to receive the news of being hired by the great Ivan Stanislav, Arina couldn’t help but sink into a state of despondency. How could she possibly live up to the expectations and standards set by such a renowned figure? The weight of potential failure and the fear of disappointing the living legend consumed her thoughts.

Arina’s mother had always showered her with compliments of beauty and intellect, but she could never see it herself. In fact, she often felt quite unremarkable and dull. She wondered if Stanislav saw something in her that she couldn’t? But that was a foolish notion.

Living in Kaliningrad only further isolated Arina from her family and any sense of familiarity. Stanislav was a stern, sometimes harsh taskmaster, representing an old way of thinking and championing, whether he knew it or not, a regime that so often ground up its younger generation. Had he become numb to the truth, having at one time been a youth who survived?

He demanded perfection and paid close attention to even the smallest details. Every day felt like a relentless struggle as she donned a uniform she despised and fulfilled his demands. Worse still was the fact that Kaliningrad was a desolate wasteland compared to Moscow. She did not crave wild parties or an exciting lifestyle, but rather the safe haven of a cavernous library full of literature, but she found none in Kaliningrad.

Arina’s lack of self-confidence stemmed from a deep-seated hopelessness that plagued her, like many Russians. Poor upward mobility, a broken home, and few prospects of true happiness. But despite this, and without any alternative, she threw herself into her work with unwavering determination. With no social life to speak of, her only solace was in the relentless pursuit of success at PRIME.

And when Stanislav rose to dominance, defeating the best wrestlers around and bringing hope back to Russia, Arina too felt that glimmering hope grow in her breast. It revitalized her, and she truly learned how important her work was and how passionate and true Stanislav was to his purpose and charge: to bring hope to his people.

Yet, when Stanislav experienced two devastating losses at Culture Shock 2023, she was struck by an unexpected emotion: empathy for the man who took defeat so hard. It opened her eyes not just to the importance of the mission, but also the necessity of their cause. From that moment on, Arina eschewed her resentment for the outwardly crotchety, demanding, blustering Ivan Stanislav and somehow discovered beneath all those layers of the man, there rested a person simply trying to do right by his country and his people.

—

He was kind to me despite my knowing that, eventually, I would let him down. He took the time, when I asked, to begin to teach me about communism and what helping weaker people could do for the world. He was the only man who believed in me.

I’ll never forgive myself for taking so long to believe in Ivan Stanislav. So many have such hatred for him and he may have earned some of that sentiment. He tries to hide the truth from me, but I know that, at times, he allows his frustration to boil over and yes, he has done violent acts to others.

Am I guilty of helping him in that regard?

As he knelt over me, someone pushed his back and he flung them away like they were nothing. His hand clasped mine, sticky with blood, as I stared up at him with murky, tear-filled eyes. Despite the incredible pain in my head, I tried to speak.

“Ah’m… thorry… Thtarthhyy…” My words came out as a gurgling bubble that exited not just my quivering lips, but my cheek.

How scared I was.

He shook his head and caressed my hair. “Shh, Arina, shhh… keep your eyes on me.”

I hated that I had been right all along. The dread that I felt when I was hired came to fruition.

I failed him.

He should have hired someone else. But if I was to listen to Ivan, that meant that I needed to keep myself busy. Don’t sleep. Focus and reflect upon how we got to this point and perhaps I can find some solace in these final moments.

—

The European Tour was both a sore spot and an opportunity for the Russian Bear. Being closer to home meant a more amenable schedule and it also granted him an opportunity to visit nations he hadn’t seen in some time. England was one of them.

At the latest ReVival event, Stanislav had made the difficult decision to remove Arthur Pleasant from The Red Army. While Arina believed Arthur to be unstable at best, she never liked seeing Stanislav struggle with the realities of these difficult decisions. He made it seem effortless on camera, but removing Arthur was a heartbreaking act.

Betrayal always hurts.

She wished Alexei was here. She wasn’t sure why Ivan insisted on leaving him in Russia. Yes, Alexei had injuries from his RAPIER match against Lindsay Troy, but they weren’t severe enough to keep him away. She heard the old communists fight over the decision but Ivan had the last word. Thus, Alexei stayed home and Arina joined him.

The two men had such love for one another, and yet the bond seemed to be fragmenting before her very eyes. Moreso, she could tell it was taking a heavy toll on Ivan emotionally. Removing Pleasant did not help matters.

Arina enjoyed the travel. She had never left Russia until PRIME and hadn’t been to an event since Ivan had lost the Universal Title. It was exciting to be back, even for just one night. She even felt like she had made some friends in PRIME, despite their alliances against The Russian Bear and her own awkwardness. Ami Troy was pleasant enough, and Lindsay Troy treated her with respect. Anna Daniels had nice things to say of her. And the “monster” Brandon Youngblood? She heard he complimented her Think Red article!

But when she saw Ivan sitting alone in the Red Army locker room, something didn't feel right. He sat there with his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor, not bothering to mend his torn uniform or wash the blood out of the pants.

“Is everything all right, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t look up. “Yes.”

But she could see the turmoil raging within him. Yet, rather than pushing the issue, she gave him his space and left him alone.

The following day brought no relief for Ivan. Together, Ivan and Arina sat in the back of a large van, his oversized frame taking up most of his side, while she sat opposite and faced him. He stared out the window with an intensity that made Arina wonder what was going on inside his mind.

She tried to make conversation, speaking softly in their native Russian. “Thank you for bringing me to London, Starshy Praporshchik. I have never been.”

He didn’t look at her as he replied. “You’re welcome.”

She picked at the brown uniform pants she wore, fidgeting nervously in her lap. “Anna Daniels, hm?” she ventured, hoping to distract him from whatever demons were plaguing him.

“Bah,” he growled as he tore his gaze away from the passing scenery. “I should be challenging for the Universal Title, not wasting my time with Anna Daniels.” His frustration was palpable. “Lindsay Troy is playing her games again.”

Arina nibbled on her lip. “I thought you and Ms. Troy were on better terms? I mean… after what she did for your mother…”

He snarled with anger. “A ruse, nothing more. She stole the Universal Title from me, then gave me a Lifetime Contract to distract me. And now she pays for my mother’s surgery and lets that steroid-abusing moron ruin our War Games match.” He shook his head in disgust.

Arina couldn’t help but interject. “But I thought Arthur ruined the match…”

His eyes turned volcanic as he glared at her. “Lindsay orchestrated it all. And now, she pits me against Anna Daniels, one of the few allies I have in PRIME outside of my beloved Red Army. She is trying to isolate me.”

In that moment, Arina saw Ivan Stanislav as possibly the loneliest man alive, second only to herself. But there was a tinge of manic paranoia as well, that made her nervous. How could a man who had an entire nation loving him feel so alone? She took a deep breath and decided to take a risk.

“I have a confession to make, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav.” Her voice trembled slightly as she awaited his reaction. “We’re not going to the airport.” A pause. “We are going to Marx’s Tomb.”

For a moment, there was complete silence in the van as Stanislav processed her words. She had defied a direct order and made the decision to slow his return to Mother Russia without consulting him.

Lilly-livered Arina lacked the immediate courage to look into Ivan’s eyes. But when she did, she braced herself for anger, disappointment, or frustration.

Instead, the old man smiled.

—

I wish I could tell him what I wanted to say, but it hurt too much to speak. I wanted to tell him, “I’m sorry, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. I should have followed your orders. I’m sorry for altering your course and now I am causing you more inconvenience. I let you down. I have jeopardized your match with Anna Daniels. I am now a distraction and for that, I am truly sorry.

Maybe he saw the terrified look on my face, because even if he couldn’t hear my thoughts, he hugged me and despite it all, I felt safe and embraced sleep.

—

The gentle drizzle fell steadily on Highgate Cemetery, but Ivan Stanislav paid no attention to it. He was too excited about the pilgrimage he was making to Marx’s Tomb. Arina, typically anxious and guarded, stubbornly contained her happiness.

They walked through leafy lanes, passing by other gravestones and memorials to the departed. Ivan reminisced about his previous visits to this place long ago. Arina had scouted the area the previous day, taking note of the large bust of Karl Marx perched atop a squat marble pedestal. Upon it were the words “Workers of all lands unite” and at the time, she was surprised at how the bust itself was almost eye level. Perhaps it was made in a way to show equality, versus power?

But today, her excitement turned to shock when the duo saw the bust covered in a large tent and cordoned off by angry protesters. The mob carried signs, and the words cut deep:

“Go Back to Russia!”

“Fuck you, Stanislav!”

“Murderer!”

“Slava Ukraini!”

Arina’s heart raced in her chest as she looked up at Ivan, the fear in her eyes mirroring his anger. She desperately wanted to tell him that she had seen the tomb just the other day and everything was fine, but the truth showed in his eyes: this was premeditated.

A group of almost thirty individuals stood between them and their escape. Like a bear trapped in the woods with a cub, Ivan let out a frustrated bellow and tried to push through the group, but even his immense size and strength couldn’t will the bodies to part.

Arina’s English was woefully inadequate so she tried to plead with her hands. A steely grip spun her around as a man yelled in her face, “Russian tankie bitch!”

She cried out in fear as Ivan swiftly turned and struck the assailant, sending them flying. The chaos blurred as Arina stumbled backward, and a sudden, skull shattering pain struck her on the side of her face.

She would not remember much of this moment, save for the bleak, gray sky of London that loomed over her and the great sense of dread that filled her heart.

—

Surrounded by enveloping darkness, I drift in a place disconnected from the harshness of reality. The familiar world I once inhabited, With its sharp lines and vivid colors, Has faded into a tranquil void where the only illumination comes From the gentle radiance of my own musings.

In this world of dreams, The atmosphere carries secrets in a tongue that is neither Russian nor English, But a combination of sighs And the faint echoes of my heart's rhythm.

Lost in this ethereal plane, I am suspended between awareness and peaceful oblivion, Uncertain whether I am truly alive or simply dreaming of existence.

I ask myself if The Muse has been here before, And I believe I know the answer.

I am alone, Yet not lonely, For now I, Arina, Am a creator of worlds And ruler of my own quiet universe.

In this surreal dream world, Where reality fades and the mind roams freely, The sensation of a large, Warm hand enclosing mine brings a strange sense of comfort.

It's like being caressed by a gentle breeze in the warmth of a Russian summer.

His heat permeates my unconsciousness, A symbol of human connection amidst the vast emptiness of my own mind. It stirs up memories of someone strong and protective, Grounding me in this quiet expanse and reminding me that I am not alone.

The owner of that hand carries with him An undercurrent of kindness in his touch. It carries patience and compassion to a woman like myself, Who often fumbles with words and lacks the courage to stand tall.

I feel a sense of safety, A silent reassurance that echoes the protective nature of a father. His hand is a fortress, A bastion of the old world’s strength and certainty in this numbing purgatory.

He is my anchor to life, And a reminder of the complex layers of human connection, A blend of respect, Guidance, And quiet understanding that transcends the need for spoken words.

His is a touch that speaks of the quiet struggles of the soul.

His words are a lullaby to my being, A soft echo of compassion amidst the stern vibrations of the past. They carry weight and conviction, Promising safety and security.

His voice commands respect Yet offers solace, Revealing the complexity of a man who embodies both the remnants of a bygone era And the present role as my protector in times of vulnerability.

As addictive as this space is, With so much power that I have never experienced, I feel an uncanny urge to return To him And to the cause that he champions.

—

Laying motionless in the sterile hospital bed, her face masked by bandages and a breathing tube, she seemed almost ethereal. Beside her sat Ivan Stanislav, his large hand enveloping hers as if trying to hold onto a piece of her that could slip away at any moment. She appeared to be breathing, but unconscious. He applied gentle pressure to her hand.

His voice trembled as he spoke to the still figure lying in the hospital bed. "Arina, my dear. I just wanted to let you know how much your surprise meant to me. Even though it didn't go exactly as planned, it was still a beautiful gesture that brought a glimmer of joy to this lonely man." He blinked rapidly as he looked at the beeping machines that were keeping her alive, wishing his words could somehow reach her and bring her back to him.

“Alexei is coming, and he will bring your mother. I will not leave until they arrive and then, when you can, we will get you out of this wretched country and back home, where you belong.” He released her hand, and let it rest on his own, feeling the fragility of her skin against this calloused palm.

“I would normally stay by your side, Arina, but I know you would insist I go to Paris, and so I will.” He sighed, wondering if his words were reaching her. Was she even aware of his presence?

“I never told you this, but many people loved your writing, Arina. Your words brought them joy. You did that. Ms. Daniels even suggested you have your own column and, I was thinking, when you recover we can make that happen. What do you say?”

Silence greeted him once again.

Ivan leaned in and lightly pressed his lips to the back of her hand, before sitting upright, rigidly, on his stool. He pulled a stand closer and with trembling hands, he set out a box of tissues, then carefully placed his trifocals on his own worn face. He cracked open a book and began to read.

“To prevent the true meaning of his struggle against anarchism from being distorted, Marx expressly emphasized…”

And Ivan read her the words of Lenin late into the night.