Have We Not a Right to Live?

Doctor, Could You Tell Death to Wait?

"Society is much like a house. We go to it for safety from the outside world, which is brutal and uncaring. Yet, what good is a house if it has no roof to protect from the rains and sun? What good is a house if it has walls with which to keep out criminals and animals, yet no door through which to enter?"

-Spodris Kurlass, the Right to a Life (1931)

Bratsk is a cold place. The wind batter the windows, and the snows block out the sun. Occasionally a train will rattle through the sleepy village, and at other occasions the rare reporter will show up to question the people of the town.

Bratsk is a cold place, and Spodris Kurlass knew that. The 93 year old man stared out the window from the hospital. He knew that his time was coming soon. Ever since he was sent out here to watch over the Soviet government's attempts to build a dam, he had felt his health slowly declining. He could remember clearly, the cool gravel of Stenkurst. He thought back to his youth, trolling with his father out in the Gothic Strait in the days before the revolution. He thought about the sun shining down when he was without worry. Without care.

But Bratsk is cold place by comparison. He couldn't get out of his bed, let alone try to fish in the waters near the town. He sighed then continued to reminisce as the gentle sound of the dams waters lulled in the background. He thought to his adolescence, oh what times those were. He rose to command his fellow brothers after the Sailor's Council collapsed in order to make sure the Oligarchs didn't lay his home to waste. Oh what good times those were. He was so diligent, making sure every man had his job with the fiery passion of a million workers. Now he was left trying to fill out one last document, to help the next generation of soviets, yet he couldn't do it. He couldn't find the drive.

For Bratsk had made his heart cold by comparison. He continued to look out the window over the snowy streets of the small village in the heart of Russia. He thought back to when he thought no one could stop him, as the Minister-President of Wumoria. Then, when it seemed that the future was so bright, when all was going well. His work in Stenkurst had given way to what could've been the start of the Revolution in Rose, and he began plotting with the Technocrats to tear down the obstinate Pine Benchers. Yet, it was the betrayal of that damn admiral. Damn Miroslav Zotov. It was because of him that Kurlass would never again see his home in Wumoria. It was a cruel trick.

Then, Kurlass was brought out of his memories by a cough. He began to cough harder and harder. Though he didn't want to accept it, he knew in his heart that this was going to be the end. As the machines around him screamed to life, and doctors began to rush into his room, he saw a short figure enter. She was clad in white, and Kurlass knew who this must be. For he was a Wumorian as any other, and he knew who Laima was. He coughed up blood, and for a second was able to speak. He turned to the doctor beside him and said, "Doctor, Could You Tell Death to Wait," he began wheezing as his voice became more raspy, "I still have a few things to do." His coughing started back, as he began to choke.

Bratsk is a cold place. Its winds batter shutters, and snows block the sun. Yet it was inordinately cruel to Spodris Kurlass, who would never again see Wumoria's shores.