The Death of Stalinism in Bohemia (After Svankmajer)

My heart harbors nothing but hatred for him.

I wish my fists weren’t so feeble and weak, I want to crack open that head of his, see his eyes, those half closed eyes, pop out of its sockets. When I left school I wanted to get home so badly, but no, I had my duties to the party. I could see him behind my shoulder, smirking, with that muted smile. he always seemed to know it all, I can almost listen to his condescending tone although I had never actually heard his voice. All the adults talked about how wise he is, how he fought alongside them when the blue ones arrived.

And in the walls I can see him, as if he was checking up on me, if I actually repeated the chants and hymns in his angry hour. I know that if I ever had a problem or question he would never listen to me, I know it with my brain, but I can’t shake off this hatred of mine.

Not even because with my brain I know he is made of stone.

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