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Natig Rasulzade
Suicide notes
Novel
I’m twenty five, I’ve been to war, and over three years ago now, at the end of 1981 I got back from Afghanistan, I still had nine months until full demob, I got blown up by a mine and lost an arm, actually it wasn’t me but a fellow next to me in the chain, we walked in a chain, we were moving towards an afghan village and this place, we had known it before, wasn’t mined, this mine that blew up my friend was accidental, some bastard fixed it there, just in case, for some plonker, and there you are – my friend stepped on it and flew into the air before my eyes, myself being thrown away by the blast, I fell immediately, feeling a cutting pain in my elbow and before passing out managed to raise my head and see how, a few paces away, in a cloud of dust and rocks, were quietly (I went deaf from the blast) falling down to earth human entrails of indistinguishable colour. We hadn’t expected a mine here, how on earth had he managed to step on that stinker, did himself in as well as mutilating me, well whatever, it’s in the past now… I hadn’t really been close to him, not like we had squabbled or something, it just happens like this – we simply hadn’t got on well together from the begi