posted on May, 28 2016 @ 07:36 PM
“No one will know”, Petya reassured himself. “Not until I’m long gone.” He was all too familiar with the potential consequences that come
with defecting to the west. Especially since he was often judge, jury, and executioner to many that betrayed their Russian homeland.
He lights a half smoked cigarillo in attempt to calm himself before he makes his attempt across the border. His false mustache brushing against the
filter held tightly between his quivering lips. “Here we go”, he hesitantly whispers to himself and he puts his car in gear, and heads to the
checkpoint marked “HALT HIER GRENZE”.
“Papers!”, the aggressive Russian guard demanded, observing the slight tremble in Petya’s hand. Looking at the identification document, the
sentry is overcome with the realization of who’s sitting in front of him. “Out of the car. Now!”, he exclaims. Another Russian guard approaches
the car, breaks the window with the stock of his rifle, and drags Petya out of the window frame by his collar. He begs for mercy as he’s dragged
into an interrogation room only feet away from the border crossing. “Please let me go”, he pleads. “I have money. I will pay you”. Without
saying a single world, the two Russian guards leave the room. One returns to his post, and the other goes into the other room to make a phone call.
Petya, holding on tightly to the idea of his wishful outcome, continues to reassure himself that the guard will take the bribe. Quietly, the guard
walks back into the room. “How much money do you have?”, he asks. Before Petya can even answer him, the soldier draws his Makarov from his brown
leather holster and puts a bullet in-between his eyes and smirks with a sense of accomplishment. He had won a trophy. A trophy that could not be