1917: Burning Flame

It was a cold night in the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, Russia in 1977. A lone cottage nestled in a small clearing. The wood, old and splintered with rusted nails extruding from the dilapidated beams supporting the porch. Curtains blowing from the small window on the side. Some shillings on the roof were broken or outright missing. A bird settled in one of the holes were its nest was laid. The door creaked as it was shut closed by the owner of the cottage. He walked over to a the large wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. He noticed his reflection in the glass doors of the cabinet. He stroked his narrow jaw, feeling his stubble beard like bristles on a brush. He pulled at his lower eyelid and let go. Slowly he ran his fingers over his large forehead, the skin rough and wrinkly. He furrowed his brow as his blue eyes noticed how grey his hair had gotten. "It seems age really takes its toll, Mikhael, " he whispered to himself. He sighed as he opened the glass door and reached for a bottle of Vodka and a small drinking glass. He walked to the other side of the room to a small table where he pulled out a chair from underneath and sat down. As he lowered himself into the seat, he groaned and his face grimaced with pain. Mikhael poured himself a drink and took a sip, promptly clearing his throat afterwards. He examined the bottle of liquor and smiled slightly after looking at the brand." This was your favorite kind, huh, old friend, " he said. Mikhael raised his glass into the air and drank the remaining vodka in the glass. After serving himself more, Mikhael reached towards a nearby bedside table and opened a drawer, pulling out an old black and white photograph that was creased as if it were folded repeatedly. Mikhael examined the back of the photo that read ' Tosno 1917' and then flipped it over to look at the image. It was a picture of him and his squad mates from the Russian Revolution. Mikhael scanned the picture searching for a specific face." Ahh, there you are Nikolai..." he let out a hearty chuckle, " You handsome devil." His smile faded and his eyes started welling up with tears. He closed his eyes tightly as to prevent any crying. A single tear rolled down his pale cheek and rained unto the picture. Mikhael sniffled and wiped his face with a flannel handkerchief. He began to drink more Vodka and talked to himself saying, "I should have stayed and helped. You could have been here with me drinking as well, " he sniffled again, " But I ... I was a coward. I always acted like I was better than the rest and you humbled me. I never cared for others and you showed me how to. When I needed help, you held out your arm. You believed in me... and I let you down." Mikhael glared into the bottle and started sobbing. A ringing in his ears as the outside noises began to drown out. In its place the ticking of the clock on the wall, growing ever more loud as each individual second passed. Time seemed to slow to a crawl.His awareness began to fade and he fell into a sort of trance. He felt groggy as his mind began to flash the events that led to the fateful death of his best friend, Nikolai.