Forgive myself

The feeling of guilt is very similar to all my life. Maybe I will blame myself even a minute before my burying or cremation. I haven`t decided yet.  

I can compare guilt with a big piece of food in your stomach which doesn`t let you exist normally. It presses on all your organs and prevents you from breathing deeply. It will never leave your miserable body. And you will cry, but this hellish piece won`t come out with your tears. Also, you can scold yourself with the most fucking words in our world, but this foolish piece won`t even become smaller. This fucking piece of guilt.  

So, my dear Diary, are you ready to hear my short revelation for the hundredth time? Yes, I still try to persuade myself that it`ll help me.  

This fatal event happened in my early childhood. Then all world was smitten with such an awful disease as a revolution of 1917. We hated either Russians, then Ukrainians, then again Russians. But there was our rule of life: if you want to live, you should loathe and shouldn`t show your emotions. But I was too young for understanding this truth.  

At that time Makhnovists often came to our houses in search of the fresh blood for their army. And men had to hide whenever they could. In wardrobes, under blankets, in basements, under carpets, in suitcases, under tables, in sacks, under beds, in jugs, … behind the curtain.  

That day, anarchists decided to visit our small poor house on the edge of Yuzovka. Damn them all! When we heard a noise of their steps, my uncle hid behind a curtain in the living room.  

– Sasha, – my mother turned to me, – you can`t say anything about your uncle to these bullies. If you say that your uncle is here, you`ll never see him again. It`s the truth of our lives.  

Six years old sincere girl understood everything literally. I had to keep silent.  

Makhnovists with rifles came in our living room, made us shook like leaves. My mother was scared also of the fact that her husband has long been at war, and she couldn`t lose the last man in our family. Other women (my grandmother, my aunt, my sister, my cousin) tried to show equanimity on their faces. But that time I was interested in only “Can my uncle escape while standing behind the curtain? ”, “Does he breathe behind the curtain? ”, “Or maybe he stops breathing on a while”. And in general, he was the most interesting person in the room. So, I stared on the curtains all the time.  

– Are there any men? We are looking for brave soldiers who can join our ranks.  

– No, all our men are on the battlefield now. Finding here someone isn`t reasonable for you. Go away! – answered my mother.  

And I continued to stare on the curtains. Even now I don`t understand what caught my eye, but I couldn`t watch elsewhere.  

One of the Makhnovists noticed my straight view on the curtains. He ran his gaze along that line. He slowly came to the window and pulled back the curtain. We never saw my uncle again.  

From that time my family called me “stovpets”, that means “stupid”.  

After a while, they forgave me for this mistake, because I was small. After all many families faced with such trials at that time because they hoped that my uncle stayed alive, or even died happily. But the most terrible guilt is guilt before yourself.  

And now I am silent. Enough from me.