Little Windows

I see the world around me through a little window; my window into the world is but a three-inch circle. Through this tiny portal I view my world with a distant fascination, I find it exhilarating yet familiar, comforting but frightening in the same breath. Ah yes, breath, my chest rises slowly with every inhalation of cold air, it dries my mouth and I feel it scrape against the back of my throat.

The air is so cold, and the world through my tiny window is white. Powdery snow covers everything around me; it hides the browns, blacks, grays and even the stubborn greens of the mighty pines that refuse to surrender to the bleakness of winter. I remain motionless, my breathing steady, my posture firm. Occasionally I remove my eye from the small window and lean down to scrape up a mouthful of the crunchy snow so that my exhalations will not be seen, so my breath will be disguised. My world through my window is an amazing place, I can see trees and other plants, the beauty of life all around, from time to time a bird or small animal will dart across my window, earlier today a black bird stopped right in the center of my view, even though he was far away I saw him, saw him ruffle his feathers, turn to observe this world we shared, looked in my direction and departed. Even though I could see every minute detail about him, my observations remained unknown to him. My body covered in snow, my window into this world was my only interest, and I waited calmly and patiently for the person I knew who would come to this window, and that is when I would become myself again, until then I am a stone, I am a tree, I am an unmoving, unwavering object that fits completely and naturally into my surroundings.

Hours go by, the snowflakes come again, small white unique structures that dance all around me, and believe me they are beautiful but also problematic. Every now and then one of these snowflakes lands on my window and melts, leaving a small water spot that makes looking through my window a little harder, but I have done this before, many times and I am a stone a stone does not concern itself with the snow around it, it only sits and waits.

Finally I watch a person walk by my window, a beautiful woman with long dark hair, she carries with her a case. She walks with confidence, her steps calculated and careful her head held high and eyes facing forward. Through my window I watch her, though her body is covered in clothing designed to keep a person warm, I can see that she is desired by many, and had by few. Three men now enter my window; I shift my window slightly only a hair, for this stone is interested in these men. One man carries a similar case to the one the woman holds, the other two cradle Ak-47’s. I watch the bearded man with the case talk, I cannot hear his words, but I see his lips move, the other two men are taller and bundled in clothing, so I cannot tell if they are thin or not, both have shorter scraggly beards and both glance around in different directions, looking for anything that does not belong. They do not see me, for I am a stone and I belong in this world, this environment is my home. I watch as the man with the case becomes animated, his lips spread farther apart and the color of his face turns a deeper red, he raises on of his hands in a motion of anger and turns away from the woman. She steps backwards once, her lips are moving as well but her eyes are no longer on the man with the case, but on the two men with the rifles. She raises her hand in the air. My breathing stops… I inhale one last time and hold this breath. My muscles tighten in certain areas and relax in others, I have calculated the distance through my window from myself to the men below, I have judged the slight breeze and accounted for it as well. My concentration is on the men below nothing else in my life is important, nothing else matters. The woman takes another step backwards, and brings her hand down in a chopping motion.

My finger squeezes the trigger, and in less than a fraction of a second a firing pin strikes a percussion cap on a bullet inside the device I hold to my body, the bullet is a 7.62X54 and it exits the barrel of my rifle traveling at roughly eight hundred and thirty meters per second. Before the men below even hear the blast from the rifle it hits the first one in his neck, time seems to slow as I watch through my tiny window as a blossom of red erupts from his thick coat and dances across the sheer white of the snow covered ground. My window moves again to the other man, he has stepped back and raised his rifle to point in my direction, I have become more than a stone, my window settles upon him, I see him so close every line in his face, I can see his breath as he moves, I see the fat in his cheeks bounce as he tries to back away to remove himself from the crosshairs he knows he is standing in. I squeeze again this bullet rushes out to meet its target, the rifle rocks back into my shoulder. The second piece of brass is ejected and pirouettes through the air beside me as if it were a lonely dancer, asking me to join it in this one last song. This bullet finds a mans forehead between it and the frozen landscape, and like the one before it does it’s job well and adds a little color to the blank monotone of it’s world. I must move quickly now, I turn my little window away from the carnage to follow the larger man with the case, he is easy to find, through my window I watch him run, each step takes him farther away from the woman and myself. I do not worry; my breathing is still steady, the grip on my rifle still firm. I am patient; I am a stone, albeit a deadly stone.

I squeeze the trigger, one to make him stop. The bullet strikes him in the back of the leg, right above his kneecap. He falters, and falls forward into the snow. But he is a strong and terrified man and he pushes himself off the ground and attempts to stand once more, I squeeze again, this round drills cleanly through the back of his head, he is facing away from me but I still see the red splashes against the snow as he falls. I quickly turn my window back to the first two men, both remain still, both have headshots and are actively painting a red motif on the pure blank canvass. I return my window to the man with the briefcase; the woman is beside him now, prying the case from his hand. She looks around, then directly at me through my window; she smiles and purses her lips in a kiss. She knows where I am, but still cannot see me for I am a stone, invisible to all. I smile, I cannot wait to rid myself of this persona and remove my thick clothes and hold her body against me. Smell her black hair, taste her lips. I stand, the snow slides off of me, my rifle is wrapped in cloth and the only visible skin around my eyes is painted black. The world around me recoils, realizing that I am an intruder, and a violent one at that. I have brought death to this forest and the forest fears me. I apologize mentally to the trees, for deceiving them and ending up like all the others, taking and not caring for my impact. My joints pop and creak in protest as I bend over and scoop up my expended brass, only four shots. It’s incredible to think that only four bullets just changed the world, three men are dead; will their families miss them? Will children now grow up without fathers? Were they married? Will friends miss them when they no longer show for evening drinks?

I am no longer a stone, I am a man holding a semi-automatic soviet made Druganov sniper carbine, with a 50mm optics set that has been my only window into the world around me for hours. Because I am a man the physical needs that did no effect the stone return, the urge to piss, the need to drink and eat. My head throbs with a dull headache and many parts of my body are very cold.  I cannot wait to join my companion in a warm room with a hot bath. Hopefully our next job will be somewhere warm. I begin walking towards my Valkyrie, who waits below, now with both cases. She seems so far away to have been so close in my window; my feet sink into the snow with every step. With any luck by nightfall the three bodies will be fully covered, and may not even be found until spring. Becoming a more permanent resident of the forest than I have been, more peaceful ones at that. Snow is everywhere I’ve spent two weeks in this frozen world…I shake myself, freeing the last bits of packed snow and ice from my thick coat and pants. God I hate the Ukraine.