On the Wings of Hope: Prose (Recognized)

When the sun will rise

Heavy-heavy eyelids. Slowly opening eyes. A cloudy sight. A haggard sick face. A man, lying on a bed. Dimmed light. Curtained by something dark windows. The setting sun. A fluttering crimson haze before the eyes. The body is not felt at all, some rubbish is still spinning in the head. Unclear semi whistle-semi rustle poured in a premise.

An effort – and he hardly managed to open his eyes. A face in a white surgical coat, bent over him, a calm sight. The face attentively studies him, looks in his eyes – as if looking in the soul – and gradually departs.

There are no more powers to keep looking... he has closed his eyes again. It's now possible to listen to ... only to try to understand, remember and realize yourself. He must do it... He did not remember even why, actually, he has to, but only one thing – must.

A quiet-quiet conversation very-very nearby – that man in a white coat was engaged into unhurried dialog with someone another. He spoke very faintly – didn't want to be overheard.

He must hear it, obliged to! Must understand, where is he and what's with him. He has strain oneself greatly, trying to decipher habitual human words in flying sounds...

"...To do."

"...But we cannot allow it. After all... living. He... a human."

"...A choice?"

"...Always is!"

"He has... symptoms... Virtual ski... is... syndrome... he is not long for this world... a day or two at most."

"...But they are. We cannot... allow... to die."

"...State-of-the-art capabilities... do not allow... irreversible change... cells... of a brain... Horrific weapon... monster... virtual reality... physical influence of virtual world... Electrochemical stimulation... cells... altered... brain impulses... mental waves... almost like alive... no way!"

"Really... he... no hope?"

"You... his medical record."

"...Have brought yesterday. And just the next day... should die?"

"...So, unfortunately... no means."

"My God! ...dies... ble... death... cannot aid!"

"...Regret it very much."

"..."

"Go, make arrangements... to make asleep... last... long dream... Capsule... life-support... two hundred years."

"...I shall do."

"...Go."

A noise of the door softly closed by automatics after the left person. The same man in a white surgical coat has approached him once again.

Smoothly bend head, a penetrating glance, confusion and pain on a face – pain and hope. His words addressed to him...

"...Please forgive. Have to... to make... for you to survive... have to survive... no other way possible... not now. Impossible... Until mankind realizes, what it creates... until denies... virtual substitutes of life... Festering abscess... on mankind's body... must get rid themselves... choose life themselves... real... living... life... until... no... most advanced medicine... will never be a cure... Understand... cure... in the strength of spirit... to make... right choice... again... forgive us... cannot do another way... Put asleep... two hundred years... When the sun will rise... will revive... when... real life... not... pitiful glitches in a brain... only then.

A whistle and noise again. Opened doors, entering people – lots of people in white surgical coats. Life... life... real life... he has just now started to feel its taste... in that condition in which he was... only now... before this... A headache – the wild pain which has cut through a brain – and darkness before his eyes... No! Hands, shaking him... he must regain consciousness, he is alive! They have understood it... they will fulfill their duties.

The longest dream. Several centuries... He will regain consciousness when the night will come to an end and the sun will rise... rise over mankind. Maybe he will once see this world again.

Bend faces... grief on them. The approaching mechanics... And words, words, which rushed into his ears like a wild roar of sea waves – "Meet this time... be happy... in real life... Farewell!"

Pain. And the oblivion...

04.01.2005