Blood and Circuses Needed

*Header Photo: “Intolerance” by axcy

Typically, faceless and indifferent pandemonium, in one moment turned into a crowd craving for blood and circuses that came to the square to stare at one who was sentenced to death.

Greedy eyes, half-open mouths, hands, ready-to-severe ovation. I walk hunched and quickly. Restlessly, I turn around to check if that old woman in black flies behind my back. The old woman in a black dress and a black straw hat went into the half-empty tram. She was holding a Bible and an icon in a large wooden frame.

She looked around at a few passengers. And all black like a shadow, towered menacingly over me. She stamped. I was taken aback, but made room quickly. The old woman in black sat down, straightened her dress carefully, put the open Bible on her knees and began flipping. She leafed through the small pages and looked at me now and then. It was as if she was looking for a suitable line.

Etis-Atis-Animatis! Etis-Atis-Amatis!

It breathed something fateful, ominous from that old woman. The “witch” word whirled in my head. And I try not to think of what was whirling in the old woman’s head.

No, a witch was not flying behind me. That black cloud was not a witch but my own fear. We used to go together, we hasten away under the fire of many glances of the crowd that hungers for blood and circuses.

In the crowd’s glance, we, my fear, and me see each his own: one – a painful, messy and an unjust death, another one – a celebration of his own will.

Me and my fear. “Me” drew its tobacco-caramel Moscow in watercolor. “Me” did not put a signature on the picture and threw it in the bottom drawer carelessly. “Will draw it better later.”

At the same time, the fear was drawing Nazi graffiti in the underpass. And it left a signature on the wall. It looks like a symbol of the sun. And the inscription reads:

“Russians arm yourselves”




About Yana141 Articles
Journalist by education, barstool philosopher by heart. Moskvaer. Rebel. Frustrated hedonist.

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