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READ MY BEST FRIENDS STORY

ITS LITERALLY SO WELL WRITTEN IM SOOO PROUD OF THEM

The Journal of Ivan Mikhailov

The following are the final journal entries of Ivan Mikhailov, a soldier involved in the 1939 Russian invasion of Finland, translated into English.

29 November, 1939

     Captain Aleshkovsky told us they’re shipping us off to Finland now; something about protecting Leningrad. I don't know what the hell Finland has to do with Leningrad, but I just do what they tell me. I only hope we don’t push all the way to Varkaus. I have an uncle who lives there, and I would prefer not to bury more of my family. They’ve split us scouts up into units of about ten to venture through the forests and mountains more discreetly until we can find somewhere to build a more permanent encampment. We arrive in two days, which means I’m sleeping on a train again. God, I’m sick of these trains; the constant rumbling of the tracks ingrains itself in the back of one's mind, making sleep nearly impossible. Still, anything is better than being back in the trenches. I’m told that my unit will be only the second one to leave, and that the first unit is there now, setting up a temporary camp before leaving when we arrive in the morning. I pray for their safety and the success of the mission, and that I may get some sleep tonight.

30 November, 1939

     We arrived in Finland early this morning. The sun was barely up, but the first unit insisted on starting into the wooded mountains as soon as we arrived. After waiting at camp for a few hours as planned, we tried to follow their tracks, but by midday, the heavy snowfall had made their bootprints nearly invisible. By evening, there were no signs of the first unit left. The wind in these forests is piercing and spiteful, yet strangely quiet. It's as if the land itself is lashing out in silent fury at our presence. Sitting here by the fire, I am still filled with an awful coldness that seems to seep through my coat and down to my bones. I fear we are ill-equipped for the harshness of the Finnish winter, but I am thankful for the quiet of the forest. The hushed rustling of leaves and occasional chirping of birds is a welcome change from the train’s ceaseless rumbling. We continue our expedition in the morning, hopefully we can find a sign of the first unit’s survival.

1 December, 1939

      We found the first unit’s camp, completely abandoned. The fire was left smoldering from the night before, and the tents and rations were all there, too. We even found someone's bible left half-open in the snow. The trees around the campsite were splintered and marred, as if ravaged by some great beast, sap flowing like blood from the angry wound. One of the tents was left in a similar state of ruin, with a trail of stark crimson leading into the woods. We found the body about a hundred yards out. He was a young man, couldn’t have been older than 20, covered in deep wounds and missing an arm. Even in death, his eyes were locked in abject terror, a look of dread beyond any of which I had seen in the trenches. We buried him as best we could, but the frozen land and unyielding cold made any proper respects impossible. We followed the bootprints of his comrades, trying desperately to find anything that could hint at their survival, but as the sun left its post and night fell upon us the feeling of hope went with it. The forest feels quieter tonight, as if the whisper of the wind has joined us in mourning. Nikolai suggested putting some younger brush on the fire, said that maybe we could use the smoke to signal to the first unit, or the third which was supposed to have left this morning if we had counted our days right. Dmitryi, a man wise far beyond his years and more experienced than the rest of us, warned that we may attract the attention of the enemy as well. I saw on the faces of our men that the prospect of a quick death at the hands of the Finnish seemed like a welcome gift compared to starving or freezing to death, or whatever terrible thing had destroyed the first unit’s campsite and left with the young man’s arm.

2 December, 1939

     We continued through the forest today, but with an uncharacteristic vigor. I think we clung to the idea that maybe we could find and save the first unit, even though we knew that without tents or rations they had almost certainly died somewhere in these mountains. As we expected we found no signs of life, neither from comrade nor enemy. Still the day was not a complete loss, we found a small crest that could prove a valuable vantage point and wouldn’t require too much felling and marked it on our map. We came across a few small deer, and Nikolai managed to take one. I have never been one to enjoy venison, but the taste compared to our dwindling rations was nothing short of divine. I fear the isolation of the forest may be starting to get to me, as I keep seeing things dart in and out of the shadows from the corner of my eye. I pray that it is only paranoia, but part of me knows that we are being hunted by whatever it is. It feels its eyes on me as I sit here by the fire, hearing its heavy footsteps crunch through the virgin snow. I know the others wouldn’t believe me if I told them, and I find it increasingly difficult to believe myself, but I know that there is something there. Something not of this world. And it hates us.

3 December, 1939     It is only Dmitryi and I now. The others are dead or missing. I couldn’t even see where the shots came from, just heard the faraway crack of a rifle and watched my comrades fall. It all happened when we came upon a large clearing in the early morning. It was flat with hardly any trees, and the nearest hills were far enough away that an enemy force could not reasonably shoot down at an encampment there. It looked perfect, but there was something wrong about it. I couldn't place what it was, perhaps something in the stillness of the place, but it didn’t matter. Before I could say anything Nikolai and another man, whose name I never learned, started off into the clearing. Neither man made it ten steps before being gunned down. Nikolai dropped immediately, blood hemorrhaging from the back of his skull. The second man wavered for a moment and turned back at us before a second shot put him down too. The others ran, abandoning all logic for instinct, and those unlucky few that ran too close to the edge of the clearing were faced with the same fate as Nikolai. In my panic I tried to follow them, but Dmitryi grabbed my back and threw me to the ground. The sharp cold of the snow against my face as I hit the ground pulled me from my hysteria and I understood what his plan was. Dmitryi had scrambled behind a tree opposite from where our unit was running, and was motioning at me to join him. I took his advice and dove behind the tree next to him, crouched down, and tried to calm my breathing. We must have sat behind those trees for hours, because by the time we decided to head off again the sun had passed over us and was now beginning its descent. We hiked in silence toward where we thought base cap was until dusk, and set up our camp under the glowing purple and orange sky. We decided against a fire, better to take our chances with the cold than a bullet Dmitryi said, and ate what little food we had with only our bodies to warm it from being frozen. Dmitryi is asleep, and has been for a few hours now, but I can’t bring myself to lie down. The vision of the men I once called brothers gunned down like rapid  dogs race through my mind. If only I said something, I could have saved them. The forest is silent again, and the perfect stillness makes my guilt all the more crushing.

4 December 1939

     That thing returned last night, after I finally managed to wrestle myself to sleep. I heard it, no, I felt it outside my tent last night. I don't know why, but I am certain it was there. The trees were shattered in the same pattern as before, but beyond that the air itself was heavy and uneasy. It's as if the land knows what's coming, that whatever demon is stalking me will undoubtedly kill me, that the only reason I am alive is because it chose to let me live. I can see it in Dmitryi’s face too, that he knows too what's coming the same as the trees know and the wind knows and the snow knows. But there is something more to his face than the forest’s. The forest is sorrowful, it does not wish me to meet such a horrible fate. Dmitryi, however, he savors it, he revels in my fear and celebrates my helplessness. I bet the bastard saved me from those snipers just so he could finish his sick game of cat and mouse. I don’t know if he controls the beast or just summons it, for all I know he could himself be the foul thing, but I know he has something to do with this. 6 December 1939     I have made a grave and unforgivable mistake. Yesterday I confronted Dmitryi about the demon he had summoned to kill me. He claimed he had no idea what I was talking about, and assuming he was lying I pulled my rifle on him. He began to swear, on his mother, on his father, on his homeland, on his god, that he had nothing to do with whatever it was that had cursed me. He said he didn’t know why the trees were destroyed around our campsite every morning, and that the creature darting around the corners of my vision had nothing to do with him. I didn’t believe him, I don’t know why. Dmitryi was an honest man, I had no reason to distrust him and he had nothing to gain from tormenting me. I realize this now, but it is far too late. I killed Dmitryi Andreev, shot him twice in the chest and once in the head. The blood spilling out of his unmoving body filled me with such incredible relief that I fell to my knees and  exploded into uproarious laughter. Laughed from deep in my gut and through my entire body. Laughed harder than I had in my entire life. I even went so far as to thank God for my freedom. I truly believed I was saved, if only I had been right. That night the beast came for me. It came for me in spite of Dmitryi’s death. It came for me with such ferocity, such incredible, biblical wrath. The entire earth seemed to tremble as it crashed through the trees and heaved itself at me. It came for me and I knew that such a great and terrible force could not possibly have been controlled by Dmitryi for he was merely man, no different than I. The beast seemed to be made of absolute darkness, a hulking nothing charging through the forest hell-bent on my demise. I shouldered my rifle and fired into the impossible figure. The shadow seemed to warp and absorb the bullets, opening up and swallowing them into the inky black. I turned and ran, my legs ached from days of hiking through heavy snow with every single step, my body screaming at me to just lay down and die, screaming that I could not go any farther, but I ran. Sprinting through the forest I heard that thing following me, gaining on me, I turned to look but as I did I tripped and was thrown forward into a small patch of moonlight. The beast was upon me now and all I could do was look in fear as I watched my death leap at me. And then disappeared. It crashed into the trees behind me, where the moonlight ended. It could not exist in the light, in all of its great and terrible power it could not reach me in the light of the moon. For the second time that day I thanked God, however this time it was through tears instead of laughter. I sat in that patch of moonlight until the sun rose over the mountains, the whole time watching as the beast stalked just outside the confines of my shelter. The guilt of killing Dmitryi weighs heavy on my soul. I doubt I will ever be able to look myself in the eyes again.

7 December 1939

     I spent the night in a moonbeam again, waiting for the beast. It never came, or at least I never saw it. I have done nothing but dwell on my sins. All of them. Every single one died because of me, Dmitryi died by my hand. He was a good man. They were all good men. And I killed them. My guilt has contorted itself into rage, my grief into hatred. Hatred of myself, rage against my own depravity. The thought to kill myself was quiet at first. A horrible whisper in the back of my mind. It has grown into a thunderous demand for retribution. I want nothing more than to let myself pull the trigger, to avenge my brothers, to end my suffering. But I fear such an end is far too merciful. Ivan Mikhailov was found December 29, 1939. The trees surrounding his body were destroyed. He was found covered in deep cuts, and missing an arm.

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WHEN I TELL YOU THAT THIS MAN IS SO AMAZING I MEAN IT

HE WENT ON A CRUISE WITH HIS FAMILY DURING NEW YEARS SO WE COULDNT SEE EACHOTHER AND HE BROUGHT ME BACK GIFTS

HE BOUGHT ME BRACELETS BC HE KNOW I LIKE JEWELRY AND HE FUCKIN SPRAYED HIS COLOGNE ON THEM AFTER HE LEARNED THAT I LIKE HOW IT SMELLS

HE ALSO GOT ME A SMALL GLASS TURTLE BC HE IS JUST THAT SWEET

WEVE ONLY BEEN DATING FOR LIKE A MONTH

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Out here in my early show Dean Winchester fit whlle listening to hozier the way god intended

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okay so what actually lives rent free in my head is this line

because like, viktor, girlie pop, what DO YOU MEAN???? this man has KILLED YOU and after THAT you had a homoerotic fight where after you wrapped your legs around him and choked him he rejected you and destroyed your little robot avatar that shed tears about it

and at the peak of your no emotions no free will evolution you are "... pleased to see him" PLEASED?? to?? see?? him??

truly a fatal case of gay yearning

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My father just told me that in order to make sour patch kids edible to him he rinses them off

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they should serve eggnog year round as a controversial milk

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bass makes a dollar. i make a dime. that's why i think about lesbian sex on company time

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jinx: *makes an ableist joke towards viktor*

viktor: *immediately deadnames her*

they deserved more time together lmfao

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Jayvik sketches

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Which could mean nothing… 🤷🏻‍♂️🙃

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How scared should i be? Do you think hes got it handled orrr

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I take this back math is fucking stupid and should die

Yall math is fuckin easy

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Yall math is fuckin easy

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Yall i wish i had a partner to dance in the corn pits with

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Inflation is so bad I bet $20 isn't even enough to turn a straight man gay anymore that's gotta be like at least $40 in today's economy