No More An Innocent

     Symon Kishka sat in the passenger seat of his father’s car, transfixed on the brightly glowing tracer bullets of an opening salvo from a Russian armoured personnel carrier rapidly finding its range. Moments before, Symon and his father had been speeding along a deserted Ukrainian highway, their successful mission to rescue the two dogs they left at their abandoned farmhouse, well underway. 

The road had been clear throughout the drive towards their home of many years. In the wake of the Russian invasion, an uneasy quietness had settled into their village. It resembled an early Sunday morning just before the faithful exodus of families left the warmth of their homes to journey to church. An idyllic and serene country atmosphere could have mistakenly lulled one into a state of comfort, if it hadn’t been for the distant explosions of guided missiles finding their indiscriminate targets in another village not so far away from the two men’s unscathed bit of heaven on Earth. The dogs - as dogs usually are – exhibited all the traits of seeing their owners return, jumping with excitement, howling, barking, and tails wagging energetically. They had been reluctantly left outside for several days with a limited amount of food and water – all of which had been depleted.

As the family migrated to safer surrounds, the dogs had loyally and patiently waited for their masters to return, keeping each other warm at night huddled in an outdoor kennel. Menacing only in reputation, the two German Shepherds were like overgrown puppies, that could be easily bribed with a tasty doggie treat or two – a trick the local postman learned early on, resulting in the two dogs happily sitting by the mailbox as the postie arrived each day with letters or junk mail for the family. The jolly postman would ask for their paws to shake hands before rewarding them with dog biscuits or other delicious treats, then continue on his delivery route, as the dogs gave short chase.

The docile hounds were well liked by the villagers and were kindly loved by their family, so going back to collect them was a decision never in doubt. Symon and his father had taken advantage of a break in hostilities to drive the thirty kilometres to liberate the pooches from their lonely and potentially hazardous situation. However, it was a decision that carried an unexpected and fatal consequence.

The father and son rescue team were discussing alternative escape routes as they sped back to their temporary lodgings in a family members’ farmhouse - a safe distance from any fighting. Looking forward to reuniting the dogs with the rest of their family, they were about halfway to doing just that when Symon spotted an armoured personnel carrier heading towards them in the opposite direction of their travel.

“Father, pull over!” Symon suddenly shouted. “They’re Russian!”

“We should keep going, son. We’re no threat to them.”

“Stop, please stop!”

Concerned by the panic in his son’s voice, Symon’s father pulled over quickly to the side of the road alongside a stretch of shoulder-high bushes. Almost immediately, a line of tracer bullets zinged past their vehicle, then appeared to pan across the road as the gunner found his target. The thudding sound of bullets striking the car’s grill, engine, then chassis, caused Symon to quickly open the passenger door, and exit the bullet-ridden car, hoping that the door would be protection enough against the high-caliber rounds - now finding their target with frequent accuracy.

“Father, get out! This side, quickly!”

The sound of the car’s windscreen being penetrated by several rounds, did not initially register the severity of the situation with Symon. It was when one of his dogs suddenly wailed like a wounded Banshee, that the realisation of his father’s fate was mortally apparent.

“Father! Don’t Die! Father… Father… Don’t die, Father! Father…”

“Symon…”

“FATHER! FATHER!”

“Symon…”

“DON’T DIE! DON’T DIE!”

“SYMON! SYMON! 3-2-1, you’re back in the room.”

Everything was suddenly silent. Symon’s father had vanished in the quietness, the road had disappeared, and both vehicles had dissipated as the poor dog’s dying whimper echoed into the distance. No longer did the sound of high velocity projectiles fill the airwaves by striking metal and flesh. The gratuitous violence had been replaced by the echoing silence of what looked like a hospital room. In Symon’s immediate vision, sat a young and pretty woman examining his eyes with a small flashlight.

“It’s okay,” explained the woman. “You’re safe now. You’re with friends and people who care about you.”

Pulling her chair closer to him, she continued to reassure him.

“You’ve been experiencing a hypno-induced flashback… It’s normal for people like yourself to recall their traumatic ordeals when in a hypnotic state.”

“My Father…”

“He’s gone, Symon. Don’t you remember? It’s almost three months since the incident.”

The sudden realisation of that statement, sent a cold shiver through Symon’s body, jolting him backwards.”

“Father!”

“It’s okay, Symon. You are safe here. I’m Doctor Sofia, remember?”

“…Doctor… Sofia… yes.”

Another realisation sent a shot of adrenaline through him.

“My family!”

“They’re okay… Drink this water and let’s get you sitting up and a bit more comfortable…”

Pouring a glass of water, Sofia handed it to Symon, who gulped it down frantically, like he had been marooned in a desert for a week without access to food and water.

“Your family are safe. They managed to escape to Poland – just over the border.”

“My dogs?”

“Sasha is with them, but you lost the older one, Leo - the same time as your father. You do remember, yes?”

The grief welled up inside the distressed patient, who instantly broke down, sobbing tears of regret onto his lap.

“We shouldn’t have stopped. It’s my fault. I was the one that told him to stop.”

“You are not to blame, and you did not know what would happen next. The Russians kill anyone – especially civilians. It’s like they’re afraid of everything, so just shoot first…”

“What’s happening to me?”

“You’re suffering from severe PTSD, Symon. We’ve been treating you as an outpatient, but there is still some work to be done before you are well enough to deal with the paralysing grief you’re experiencing. It’s affecting your memory and we need to use more aggressive practices to treat you.”

“Am I a prisoner?”

“Not at all! You’re a patient, a very important patient… and a Ukrainian hero.”

“A… hero?”

“Yes, songs have been written about Symon Kishka, the man of nine lives.”

“I… I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

Puzzled, Symon momentarily relaxed in his chair, listening to Dr. Sofia repeat her prognosis.

“I’ll try to explain it more clearly. You have been suffering from trauma related amnesia, but I’m hoping we can unlock that memory today.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, we have been developing an untested method here at the clinic. It has the possibility of opening those closed areas of your subconscious. Your mind – for whatever reason – is blocking access to your past. If we can get you to embrace that obstacle and look beyond it, we believe you’ll be able to free yourself from those debilitating shackles holding you hostage. The benefits outweigh the risk.”

“Risk?”

“We combine Electroconvulsion Therapy or ECT with deep hypnosis. It is possible that you may lose all recollection of who you are, or memories of your family - permanently. You may even forget your own name… We’ve been reluctant to try it on you, but this may be the only way to eliminate those traumatic flashbacks you keep experiencing. If we can help you to deal with the trauma, we feel that you will regain control of your emotions.”

“How does it work?”

“In a nutshell, we attach electrodes to your scalp and send an electric current coursing through you in the attempt to stimulate the anterior temporal lobes of your brain. This is done while under deep hypnosis to let your mind unravel its tangled imagery. I will prompt you to verbally describe what you see. By vocally recalling your experience, invaluable therapeutic value will be gained…

Symon took a moment to process the detailed information, then with a single nod of his head, he agreeably followed Sofia out of the room, down an empty echoing corridor, and into a large square operating room that resembled a scene from a TV hospital series. All kinds of unused medical machinery lined the four walls of the room. In the centre of the floor, a gurney-style bed attached to an electronic device, sat awaiting its patient. Sofia guided Symon to lay down, then attached several electrodes to his scalp, making sure he was comfortable before placing him into a deep hypnotic sleep.

“Ok, Symon. You are floating above the table, totally relaxed, safe and warm without any worries or cares.”

Sofia’s words trailed into the distance as several calls of ‘CLEAR’ filled Symon’s immediate hearing, followed by flashes of white lights illuminating Symon’s vision - like he had just stared directly into the flashlight of a camera as it took a photograph. He instantly felt calm and clear-headed as the sensation of floating in air enveloped his emotionally detached senses. Acutely aware that he was existing in a parallel plane of transcendental consciousness, he began to experience sensations of being reborn into a new reality - like a reincarnation of his own life but starting in the middle of it. Life’s questions suddenly became clear, memories flooded back into his brain like a river cascading down a waterfall.

“I want you to describe everything you see and experience…”

Symon’s freefall suddenly jolted him back to the exact moment of shielding behind the car door. Bullets silently pierced the windscreen. In fact, there was no recognisable sound at all. It was as if a television mute button had just been pressed. The memory of sound was there but the actual physical resonance had disappeared. His attention was drawn to his father, slumped slightly forward in his seat, a fatal, gaping wound in his chest. With each subsequent strike, the lifeless body convulsed in recoil. Symon instantly realised that he was beyond help.

The situation was dire, but a surprisingly calm Symon, opened the rear passenger door to let his dog, Sasha escape to safety. His older dog, Leo lay motionless, eyes closed, mouth slightly agape, looking like he was sleeping through all the perverse behaviour instigated by murderous men with blazing guns. A brief image of Leo in doggie heaven, playing with the other puppy dogs and chasing rainbow-tinted tennis balls, brought a momentary comforting smile to Symon’s face. Leo was free from his old age and undoubtedly in a happier place. That was more than Symon could hope for as several Russian soldiers converged on him, wrestling him to the ground. Strapping his hands behind his back, the soldiers jerked him to his feet, then angrily dragged him towards their armoured personnel carrier.

The sun had begun its daily journey over the horizon as Symon assumed a kneeling position behind a row of trees parallel to the highway. He was not the only captive. To his right, were four other men, similarly bound - also kneeling on the ground. The Russians methodically rifled through their captives’ pockets, keeping any money and credit cards they found. Boasting a display of wrist watches in their bag of booty, they joked among themselves, playing a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, until one remained the victor. The reason for the selected winner became shockingly clear as he produced a pistol from his tunic, while his two compatriots rested their weapons against the APC, then shuffled off to relieve their bladders against a tree, several meters away. The victorious pistoleer stood menacingly behind the five prisoners. Starting from Symon’s position, he sidestepped from left to right reciting the words, “Eeny Meeny Miney Moe,” halting behind the fourth hostage.

The loud crack of the gun discharging did not disturb the soldiers standing in the midstream of their impromptu toilet break. They were happy to not be an active part of the killing, so just kept talking to themselves about the upcoming World Cup of Football later in the year. The thud of the dead hostage’s face hitting the ground brought a wry smile to his executioner’s crazed expression, before he repeated his deathly recital – this time starting at the fifth hostage, sidestepping back to Symon, then halting behind the third hostage.

“Eeny Meeny, Miney, Moe!”

Another shot rang out. The mad Russian was playing a very sick game with their lives.

Symon’s hands had been tied with ripped bits of woollen clothing. He realised they were not very tight around his wrists, so he started to stretch the binds by wriggling his wrists and pulling his hands as far apart from each other that he possibly could. He had no intention of being an easy victim and intended to run for his life. This turned out to be a prophetic and wise decision because the executioner began his next recitation randomly with Symon. Three left, Symon thought, it will end with me.

“Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mmm…”

The gun discharged its deadly projectile; however, a split second prior to that moment, Symon had taken a mental note that the shooter was right-handed, so just as the gun-toting murderer ended his recital, Symon ducked slightly to his right and with his freed right arm, spun around and pulled the soldier to the ground, causing him to release his grip on his gun. Reacting instinctively, Symon grabbed the pistol and shot the soldier in the back of his head twice, instantly killing him. The rapid succession of gunshots alerted the two soldiers who had just finished urinating. Seeing what had just taken place, they rushed to retrieve their assault rifles. Without thinking, Symon met them head-on, firing the pistol until it ran out of ammunition. Falling to his knees, Symon gasped for breath. The adrenalin rush had shot his heart rate up so high, he felt like he had just competed in the one-hundred-meter sprint against Usain Bolt and won! Sudden concern enveloped him as he noticed several bullet holes in his puffy winter jacket. Quickly checking himself, he was relieved to find no holes in him. What a lucky escape, he thought.

Regaining control of his heart rate, Symon took stock of his situation, and surveyed the deadly scene in front of him. Three dead Russian soldiers lay face down, motionless. Standing up, Symon quickly untied the binds on the other two hostages, who immediately ran to their ex-captors, kicking the lifeless bodies, then spitting on them as they recovered their stolen valuables and cash. Thanking Symon profusely, the two men ran off across the open field behind the tree line as Symon slung an assault rifle over his shoulder, then grabbed a shovel from the carrier and headed back to his father’s car. Approaching the passenger side, he was happy to see Sasha sitting on the verge wagging her tail at him. He patted her head and scratched her chin before crossing into an adjacent field to dig a shallow grave for his father and Leo. 

A sweaty and exhausted Symon covered up the last of the makeshift grave that he placed his father and Leo into, then arranged a hastily assembled wooden cross made from scraps of tree branches and stringy bark, to mark the grave. Leaving identification papers on his father for later exhumation and with Sasha in tow, Symon resumed his journey.

Darkness had set in. The biting cold of the evening began to permeate Symon’s clothes, as a car approached from behind. It cautiously slowed before stopping next to him. A white sticker in the window signalled that there were civilians on board. Surprisingly, the driver was one of the men he had saved earlier. Recognising Symon, the man beckoned him and Sasha into the vehicle, then accelerated away to avoid any potential ambushes. It had been a long and harrowing day. Exhausted, Symon gave Sasha a hug, then drifted off to sleep as the driver extolled the exploits of the man of nine lives to his other passengers…

“Symon… Symon… 3-2-1… welcome back...”

Symon opened his eyes. A new reality dawned on him. He could remember everything. The pain of his father and Leo’s death pierced his heart once more; however, this time, he felt like he could deal with it. An ill-fated, unrequested rite of passage beyond his control had made him stronger and the realisation that he would somehow get through these feelings of grief, felt like a huge weight had fallen from his shoulders - like he was his normal self again.

“Dr. Sofia… I remember it all. It worked… I’m okay.”

Removing the electrodes from his head, Symon sat up, then headed towards the exit door.

“You should rest first.”

“I’m fine. I’m back, thank you, Dr. Sofia. I have things to do.”

“It would be nice to re-visit things once a week.”

“I can do that, Doctor. I’ll still be around.”

“Good! What will you be doing?”

Symon paused in the doorway, silhouetted by the light emanating from the hallway. A pleasure-laden smile filled his face as he envisaged the new vivid images swirling around his mind.

“…I’m going to find my family.”

“Yes, that will be good for you.”

A wry smile intently stretched across Symon’s facial expression.

“…Then, I’m going to kill Russians…”

Pausing for a reaction that never came, he disappointingly shrugged his shoulders, then chuckling to himself, swiftly disappeared into the hallway, leaving Dr. Sofia pondering if Symon’s startling declaration was a side-effect of her treatment. Had she taken an innocent victim and unleashed a beast into the world intent on killing Russians? No, Symon Kishka was no more an innocent in the senseless war propagated by thugs and murderers. He was an ordinary man prepared to defend his country’s difficult quest for freedom… A freedom that needed to be preserved… at any cost…