On Red Wings

The hangar was alive with noise, the kind of bustling energy that only came on calm mornings. Sunlight filtered through the open hangar doors, casting long golden beams across the concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of jet fuel and engine grease, and laughter echoed from a group gathered near one of the MiGs.

Mikhail sat on a crate, his flight suit half-unzipped, relaxed for once. The ground crew, dressed in their grease-stained coveralls and shirts, surrounded him, joking and laughing. He had a cigarette in hand, and a grin spread across his face as he listened to Yuri go on about some outrageous story—something about sneaking into a dance hall in the middle of the night with his girlfriend. The crew’s laughter was infectious, and Mikhail shook his head, grinning from ear to ear.

“Bullshit, Yuri!” Mikhail called, his voice full of mock disbelief. “There’s no way you managed to talk your way past the guards with that ugly mug of yours.”

Yuri shrugged, putting on an exaggerated look of innocence. “I swear it’s true! They just couldn’t resist my charm!” he replied, prompting another wave of laughter from the group.

Mikhail leaned back, his head tilted toward the ceiling, savoring the warmth of the moment. There was a lightness in his chest that he rarely felt—a sense of belonging, of peace. The camaraderie, the familiar faces, the shared stories—it all made the world feel just a little bit smaller, a little less daunting. It was moments like this that made the days bearable, even when everything else seemed uncertain.

He blinked, still smiling—and then the world around him shifted.

Suddenly, the laughter was gone, swallowed by the deafening roar of fire. The warmth of the hangar turned into a searing heat that clawed at his skin, and Mikhail's grin vanished as he opened his eyes, finding himself not in the hangar but standing in a barren, scorched field.

Behind him, the twisted wreckage of his MiG lay in a crumpled pile, one wing snapped off, the other still smoldering. Flames licked at the torn metal, the cockpit shattered, smoke rising in thick, dark plumes that choked the air around him. The acrid scent of burning fuel and scorched earth filled his nostrils, clinging to his senses like a nightmare.

Behind him, the twisted wreckage of his MiG lay in a crumpled pile, one wing snapped off, the other still smoldering. Flames licked at the torn metal, the cockpit shattered, smoke rising in thick, dark plumes that choked the air around him. The acrid scent of burning fuel and scorched earth filled his nostrils, clinging to his senses like a nightmare.

Bodies lay scattered across the field, twisted and broken, burnt beyond recognition. Charred hands reached up toward the sky as if in their final moments they had tried desperately to grasp something beyond the agony that had consumed them. They were faceless, nameless—unknown casualties of the same war that had claimed the ground around them. Mikhail's heart pounded in his chest, a rising sense of unease making his skin prickle.

He tried to move, taking one slow, shaky step forward, his boot sinking into the blood-streaked mud. The weight of everything pressed on him, heavy, as if the very air were suffocating him, trying to push him into the earth below.

Suddenly, he felt it—a cold, unyielding grip around his ankle. He looked down, his eyes widening as he saw one of the burnt bodies, a hand reaching out from the ground, its fingers clenched tightly around his boot. The body’s face was half-buried in the mud, but its hollow, empty eye sockets seemed to be staring right at him, pleading or accusing—he couldn’t tell.

Mikhail’s heart leapt into his throat. He tried to pull away, but the grip only tightened, holding him in place. He stumbled backward, panic rising in his chest as he kicked at the skeletal hand, but then another hand emerged from the mud, gripping his other leg. More bodies began to move, the charred, lifeless forms reaching out toward him, their hands grasping his legs, his arms, pulling at him with relentless strength.

“No!” Mikhail shouted, his voice cracking as he struggled, his muscles straining. He thrashed, trying to free himself, but more and more of the scorched hands latched onto him. They pulled him down, dragging him through the thick mud, his body sinking into the earth. He clawed at the ground, his nails digging into the dirt, but it was useless—there were too many. Their grip was unbreakable, and no matter how hard he fought, they kept dragging him down, the mud swallowing him up inch by inch.

He could feel the cold earth pressing in around him, and hear the muffled roars of the flames above as his head was pulled beneath the surface. The last thing he felt was the ground closing over him, forever damming him to darkness…

***

Mikhail woke with a start, his body jolting upright, the darkness of his bedroom pressing in around him. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. Cold sweat clung to his skin, the fabric of his undershirt damp and sticking to his chest and back. He ran a trembling hand over his face, feeling the chill of the night air against his damp forehead.

"Just a dream," he muttered, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "It was just a damn dream."

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold wooden floor, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He was quiet for a moment as he wiped away the sweat from his face before he looked up, his eyes finding the faint glow of the clock on the wall—3:47 AM. Mikhail stared at the clock, its dim numbers seeming almost blurry in the dark room. He sighed, his breath shuddering as he tried to steady himself. "Not even a few days, huh?" he whispered to the empty room, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Can't even give me that?"

Ever since the war ended, the nightmares had been Mikhail’s constant companion, arriving unbidden like some unwelcome visitor who always knew when he was most vulnerable. Sometimes they came every couple of days, sometimes they stayed away for longer—ten days, maybe two weeks at best—but they always came back, pulling him under, back to those places he’d tried so hard to forget. The only reprieve he ever got was when he drowned himself in alcohol, dulling the edges of his mind enough that the memories couldn’t find a foothold. He hated it, but it was the only thing that worked.

“Not even a few days,” he muttered again, his voice softer now, his words meant more for himself than anything else. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wipe away the last remnants of sleep and the terror that still clung to his skin. He could still feel it—the cold grip of those skeletal hands, the press of the earth as it swallowed him. No matter how many times he reminded himself it was just a dream, it always felt real, like he was right back in that barren, bloody field.

He pushed himself up from the bed, the old frame groaning as he stood. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the chill creeping up through his bones, grounding him in the present. He needed something—water, a cigarette—something to help push the ghosts back to wherever they hid when he was awake.

Mikhail made his way to the kitchen, the darkness of the apartment almost comforting in its familiarity. He reached for a glass, his hands still trembling slightly as he filled it with water from the tap. The cold liquid ran over his fingers, grounding him, and he brought the glass to his lips, taking a long drink. It was a ritual he knew well—drink the water, light a cigarette, wait until his heart stopped pounding in his ears.

He set the empty glass down, his eyes drifting across the small, cluttered kitchen. The photograph caught his eye—a picture of him in front of a MiG, his smile full of a confidence he no longer recognized. Around him were men and women he’d known, their faces filled with hope, with life. He turned away from it, unable to look at that version of himself for too long. It was a reminder of what he’d lost—who he’d lost—and he didn’t need any more reminders tonight.

He grabbed a cigarette from a crumpled pack on the counter, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The first drag was harsh, the smoke burning his throat, but it steadied him, the warmth spreading through his body and helping to chase away the cold that had settled deep in his bones. He moved to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to look out into the night.

Mikhail stood at the window for a long moment, watching the street below, the cold night air sneaking in through the small crack in the windowpane. The quiet of the town was almost surreal, a world away from the chaos that had lived in his mind moments before. He took another long drag of his cigarette, feeling the warmth fill his lungs before slowly exhaling, watching the smoke twist and curl into the night.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, standing there staring at the empty street wasn’t enough to push the restlessness away. He needed more. He needed to move, to feel something other than the cold sweat on his skin and the lingering echoes of his dream.

He crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the windowsill, the embers glowing for a moment before they faded to black. He turned away from the window, moving back through the darkened apartment. He grabbed his coat from where it hung over the back of the chair, shrugging it on and buttoning it up as he moved toward the door. The coat was heavy, worn at the elbows, but it kept the cold out well enough.

His boots were by the door, scuffed and old but still sturdy. He pulled them on, his breath still coming in deep, steadying sighs. He needed this—needed the cold air to clear his head, needed the empty streets to remind him that he was alive and not buried in that field of ghosts.

He stepped outside, the door creaking slightly as he pulled it shut behind him. The chill hit him instantly, biting at his skin, his breath fogging in front of him as he took his first step down the narrow stairs that led to the street. The snow crunched beneath his boots, and for a moment, he just stood there, listening to the stillness, the distant hum of the town’s life barely audible in the quiet.

Mikhail took a deep breath, his chest aching from the cold, then started down the sidewalk. The air was crisp, and the light dusting of snow on the ground crunched under his weight as he walked. He kept his head down, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he moved through the narrow streets of Arkenversk.

The town was asleep, the windows dark, curtains drawn. The only lights were the streetlamps that cast their orange glow across the snow-covered roads. It was peaceful, and slowly, as he walked, he felt the tension in his shoulders begin to ease. His heartbeat slowed, the cold air numbing his thoughts, the movement of his body helping to burn off the lingering adrenaline.

He didn’t have a destination in mind. He just walked, letting his feet carry him through the familiar streets. Past the rows of small houses, their roofs heavy with snow. Past the shuttered shops with their signs swinging faintly in the breeze. Past the harbor, where the boats bobbed gently in the water, the ropes creaking as the tide shifted.

Mikhail paused there for a moment, staring out at the dark water, the reflection of the moon shimmering on its surface. He took another deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, his eyes half-closing as he let the quiet of the harbor settle into him. The calmness of the scene—the gentle lapping of the waves against the dock, the stillness of the water—was almost deceptive, as if it were trying to lull him into forgetting everything that had weighed on him for so long.

He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air, and let his gaze drift downward, toward the inky black water below. The surface was smooth, the moonlight giving it an almost inviting sheen. He stood there, the wind tugging at the hem of his coat, and he found himself wondering—how easy would it be to just let go? To step forward, let the cold water swallow him up, and finally, finally have silence?

The thought came unbidden, slipping into his mind with an eerie calmness. It wasn't the first time he'd thought about it, but standing here, with the water so close, the temptation felt stronger somehow—almost like it was calling to him. The idea of an end, of no more nightmares, no more memories, no more of the crushing weight he carried every single day, seemed almost comforting.

He stared at the water, his heart heavy, the silence around him pressing in. It would be so easy. One step and everything would fade away—no more ghosts, no more hands dragging him under, no more cold, empty apartment to wake up to, night after night. Just peace, finally.

His hands tightened in his pockets, his fingers curling into fists, and he closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back against the feeling. He could almost feel the cold water, the way it would wrap around him, the way it would pull him down, the weightlessness of it all. But in his mind, the image shifted, and suddenly, it wasn't peace he saw—it was the hands, skeletal and charred, pulling at him, dragging him under, the darkness swallowing him whole.

Mikhail opened his eyes, blinking against the cold air, his breath coming in a shudder. He took a step back, away from the edge of the dock, his heart pounding in his chest. The world around him seemed to snap back into focus—the sound of the waves, the creaking of the boats, the distant call of a night bird somewhere beyond the harbor.

"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the water. He shook his head, a grim determination settling in his chest. Not tonight. Not like this. He wasn't ready to let go—not yet, even if sometimes he wished he could.

He took another step back, putting more distance between himself and the water, his eyes still fixed on the dark surface. He clenched his jaw, drawing in a long, shaky breath, and turned away, his feet carrying him back along the dock, away from the edge, away from the temptation.

He walked slowly, his shoulders hunched, his hands still buried deep in his pockets. The cold air stung his face, and his legs felt heavy with each step, but he kept moving. He had to. Even if there was no clear reason why, even if he had no plan or purpose, there was something in him that refused to give in—some stubborn part of himself that wouldn't let go.

Mikhail knew that the thoughts would come back—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. They always did. But for now, he was still here. And for now, that was enough.

Mikhail made his way back through the quiet streets of Arkenversk, his footsteps echoing softly against the snow-covered ground. The cold had seeped into his bones, and he was tired—tired in a way that went deeper than just his body. The walk had helped clear his mind, but now the exhaustion was settling in, a weight that made each step feel heavier than the last.

He turned the corner, his building coming into view, its familiar worn exterior half-hidden in the shadows of the early morning. He moved up the few steps to the entrance, reaching for his keys, but as he approached his apartment door, he stopped.

The door was ajar.

Mikhail frowned, his brow furrowing as he stared at the narrow gap. He couldn’t remember if he’d properly locked it when he left. The door had always been a problem—one of the hinges was loose, and it sometimes swung open on its own if he didn’t pull it just right. But something about the way it stood open now—just slightly, enough for a sliver of darkness to show—set his teeth on edge.

He pushed the door open slowly, the creak of the hinge echoing through the narrow hallway. The apartment was dark, the dim light from the street outside casting long shadows across the floor. He stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning the room, his senses on high alert. The air felt different—thicker, somehow, like something was wrong.

His eyes moved to the living room, and he stopped, his breath catching in his chest.

Someone was standing there, their back to him, holding something. Mikhail’s heart pounded as he took in the figure—a stranger, tall, dressed in dark clothes. The person was standing in front of the table, holding the photograph of him in front of the MiG, their head tilted slightly as they looked at it.

Mikhail clenched his fists, taking a step forward, his mouth opening to speak—but before he could say anything, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, like a needle piercing his skin. He tried to turn, to react, but his body felt heavy, his vision blurring.

A cloth was pressed over his face, the harsh, chemical smell filling his nose and mouth. He struggled, his hands reaching up to grab at the arm that held him, but his strength was fading fast. The room spun, the edges of his vision growing dark as the stranger in the living room turned, their face still hidden in the shadows.

Mikhail’s legs gave out beneath him, his body collapsing to the floor as the darkness closed in, the last thing he saw being the photograph slipping from the stranger’s hands, the glass frame shattering against the floor.

Then everything went black.