Do not go, humble twilight of darkness. Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness. Don't go out when you leave
It's snowing again today. The white blanket, fluffy and weightless in appearance, has not been touched by humans. In an empty room with a bunch of toys and picture books, in the very center of it sits a boy of about six or seven years old - no more. He has thick blond hair that curls at the ends and hazy blue eyes that the child rubs with his fists. He is lying on a soft rug next to the cot, with a colored chalk clutched in one hand. The boy examines the drawing on the album sheet and smiles, pleased with himself. There is a short girl in a violet dress smiling and a man next to her - obviously her husband - holding greens, greenery and green candies in his hands, as well as buttons, which he hands to a man in a white coat - “Uncle Doctor”. The artist himself is not in this drawing. Just as it is not present in the other drawings. The boy thinks about this and much more. Why is he sitting here? Where are his peers? Will Mommy take him home for the weekend? Loaded with these thoughts, he sighs, pressing his cheek to the piece of paper. Yawning, the baby closes his eyes, letting go of the chalk. New medications make you sleepy. - Mika! He, half asleep, was picked up and shook. Waking up, the boy shrank from the cold. The nurse who brought lunch quickly carried it to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, taking his small hands in his own, examined them, sighing convulsively. - Don’t take the paper without me and the other aunt, okay? You could have cut yourself. And don't lie on the floor - you'll catch a cold. Then you may need IVs. But we can’t play them for you, remember? Lowering his eyes, Michaela nodded. He pursed his lips out of resentment, not listening to the guy in medical uniform. Mika looked at one point and, listening to the sound of the wind outside the window, was silent. He looked down at the drawing and noticed that the red had been replaced with black. Lots and lots of black. This is how Michaela, a hemophiliac, cried for the first time, just to get attention.
They were nine. Mikaela hiding behind his doctor being treated and Yuichiro with his leg in a cast. - Meet me. The man squatted down, and the boy next to him recoiled in fear. But he was certainly interested. - Mika, this is Yuichiro-kun. We had nowhere to place him, but luckily your parents weren’t against it. Yuu-kun, and this is Michaela-kun. I think your parents already warned you about him. Try to make friends, okay? This was the first parting word for the two of them. Yuichiro is a restless boy, and adults often came to their famous ward number five hundred and thirty for the sake of safety. - You're a foreigner, right? When he got tired of reading, Yuichiro climbed onto the windowsill. - My mother is Russian, but my father is Japanese. - Wow! It's probably fun. What language do you speak at home? Do you have bears or pandas at home? Yui, who was about to open the window, stopped short. He remembered the words his mother said: “This boy is sick. Please don't bring anything spicy - I know you like it. And never open the windows: adults will do it themselves if they need to.” He noticed in time that his roommate was silent, just as he felt his expectant gaze on him. - We... We are not going home. - A? Where do you live then? - Here. It was obvious that Mika was embarrassed. Noticeable, perhaps, to anyone, but not Yui. - You're lying, this doesn't happen! - he said this more out of surprise than indignation. - I am not lying! - Michaela was really indignant in response. “This doesn’t happen,” the boy repeated, pouting. - Christmas is coming! And then - New Year! It is impossible for a child to be left without gifts on this holiday, that’s what my mother always says. Also, if you make a wish at exactly midnight, it will definitely come true. - Will the truth come true? Looking at Mika's mesmerized face, Yuichiro grinned triumphantly, nodding. - But you must behave yourself, otherwise Santa Claus will not come. - Tell me what I need to do, please, Yuu-chan. - Well, okay, write it down... Wait, what did you call me? - Uncle Ferid always calls me “Mika-chan” and says that he loves me very much. But Aunt Krul said it means that we are friends,” Michaela clenched his fingers and fell silent for a while, hesitating. - Do not you like it? Yui snorted and smiled. He came closer to his neighbor and extended his palm to him, which he shook in bewilderment. Yuya's hand, unlike Mika's, is surprisingly warm. - Let's be friends? It seems that his heart, this tiny part of his body, is about to burst. - I'll tell you how to trick Santa Claus. I'll tell you about my school. And you about yours. - I... I don't go to school. - Wow, you're lucky! That is OK. I'll teach you how to draw and, if you can handle it, I'll make an airplane. - Do you know how to make airplanes?! - the child’s surprise knew no bounds. - Yes, from paper! But, I bet, when I grow up, I will build a bunch of airplanes myself and the Prime Minister and the Emperor himself will come to shake my hand. Yui was proud of himself. He made a friend so quickly. Due to his age, he did not understand at all who he had become for Mika. - Shall we draw? Otherwise it's completely boring. You don't have a console, I see. Michaela shook his head and, for clarity, twice. - I'm not allowed to draw. I might cut myself. Mika pursed his lips again, sighing. Something disgustingly sucked in the pit of my stomach. - Hmm... - Yui perked up. - Wait a second, I'll be right there. He rushed out of the room, and Mika could only look at his back. The new friend disappeared for almost ten minutes and returned out of breath. In his hands he had a jacket, a scarf and... - Here! Yuichiro placed a pair of warm gloves into someone else's hands. - So you definitely won’t cut yourself, right? - Yes... Yes, it is. Thank you, Yuu-chan. He put on his gloves and suddenly felt his cheeks burning. - Now let's draw! You'll see, I'll become the greatest artist. Yui is so self-confident, so stupid and naive. Mika laughed. Happiness overwhelmed him. But the joyful time is fleeting. Yuichiro was discharged the following week. And even though he, with an uncertain smile, assured his friend that he would “visit him someday,” Mika believed that he would come. Even though I knew that this wouldn't happen.
Michaela's twelfth winter has arrived. And just like last year, he writes to Santa. “Please cure me” “I behaved well, so please let them take me home this year” “Is my new mother kinder than the previous one?” “Santa, I’m doing something bad, but let Yui-chan come to my room again. Or at least to this hospital. If I’m asking too much, can he just visit me once?” The children with whom he went to general procedures constantly said that there was no Santa. But that day Mika became convinced that they were lying. The whole class came. He was warned - “they will visit you on Christmas Eve.” - Yo, Mika! I brought the kids from class. Yuichiro smiled - sincerely and brightly. Unlike his own, the faces of his classmates were filled with pity. Yes, they definitely knew - Mika was sick, and his illness was difficult to cure. He's unlikely to live to see thirty. He cannot get hurt or inject himself - the blood does not clot without special drugs. He cannot receive any IVs or blood transfusions. He was unlucky with his parents: his mother is a carrier of the gene, his father himself is sick, but in a much milder form. It is unlikely that treatment at home would have helped Mika. - Nice to meet you, Michaela. The class leader extends his hand, and Mika shakes it. "Lie". - Guys, okay, you can go. Yuichiro said goodbye to them half an hour later, which made Miku incredibly happy. They still only whispered and hesitated in place. - You came after all, Yui-chan. - When you and I first met, I lived a little far away. And now dad has been identified as some kind of big deal in this hospital, and well... - he smiled an embarrassed smile that was unusual for him, scratching his cheek. - Here I am. This time I firmly promise to visit you. He ruffled Michaela's blonde hair. - Ahaha, they are really soft! Without holding back a smile, Mika took out gloves from under the mattress. - It's yours, Yuu-chan. They are still too small for me anyway. - Oh, so you don't draw anymore? - There seems to be disappointment in his voice. - I lost such a wonderful teacher. “Then I’ll break my leg again.” Mika immediately waved his arms and head. - Yuu-chan, I won’t forgive myself for this. - Come on, I liked these unscheduled vacations! - Is it good without school? Yuichiro fell silent, looking into his eyes. He seemed more serious than ever before. - It's good with you. Mika felt his heart skip a beat.
Yuichiro kept his promise. He came at least once every two weeks. I visited more often in the summer, but left much earlier. But in winter, he even managed to skip, but always stayed late. Once every three days, Mika saw him on the threshold of his room. This is how Michaela lived - from winter to winter. He realized his feelings at the age of fourteen. The guy blushed a little - at such moments Yuichiro always said that he seemed healthier - he smiled, secretly watching his friend, and as if inadvertently touching someone else’s fingers with his own. Yui never pulled back his hands. - If you studied with us, girls would be attracted to you. They are greedy for this type. - Tell them that my heart is already taken. - Hah, you are a true idol. Mika smiled faintly, looking tenderly at Yuya's hand squeezing his own. This year he is much worse, but doctors say this is temporary - the influence of weather, sun, adolescence and everything else. - How are you doing in your studies? “Everything is as usual at school,” he snorted. - I don’t even want to talk. But in art, my work is taken to an exhibition,” he said proudly. -Are you talking about that comic book? - No, no, it hasn't been finalized yet. Remember when I said that I practice oil painting? - Mika nodded. - Sensei liked it. He said that I have a very interesting technique and idea. I wanted to show some light passing through the painting, so I preferred canvas to glass. - Yuu-chan, you will go far. Tell me about her,” his voice sounded quiet and peaceful. Stroking someone else's hand with his thumb, Yuichiro covered it with his second palm. - I will convey his words better. Sensei said that through the abstract outlines you can see the figure, and the light outline emphasizes... Um, holiness? - such words embarrassed Yui. - I also made the first layer black and then white. In fact, I just ran out of red paint, and the old man spun some kind of philosophical nonsense,” he laughed, squeezing someone else’s palm tighter. - When I was six years old, I didn’t have a red chalk on hand either; I had to paint it in black. I don’t remember at all why I did it. - Perhaps it was blood? Mika shrugged. He didn't want to think about it. Understanding his position, Yui continued, poking the cold, thin fingers with the tip of his nose. - Also... There was a lot of blue: sky blue, deep blue, almost blue, actually white. I couldn't find the right shade. Sensei was surprised by this work of mine, he stood near it for a long time. I will never forget his words - it gives me goosebumps like now: “this... It clings to life, it dies, but why are the tones so light and light? I see agony, I see hope. God, this is so cruel." - What did you call her? - Michaela decided to ask when Yui fell silent. “To Eden,” he again looked into the eyes of the sick guy, who had difficulty focusing his gaze. - Garden of Eden? Now Mika's skin was crawling with goosebumps. - I'm scared. - Me too. Yui leans towards him and, without letting go of his hand, gently hugs him. He got too attached to this guy. Yuichiro cannot say: “don’t go,” because it does not depend on Miki. And how I would like it to depend. Michaela is like a spring flower in winter. He, who grew up at the wrong time, fades before he has time to bloom. He turns pale and loses weight every day, but Yui believes the predictions of the attending physician and his father: “everything will be fine, the body needs time to rebuild.” But the guy was so worried that Mika was sleeping more and more often. He runs his hand through someone else's hair and, hearing measured breathing, rightly concludes that his friend has dozed off. - Sweet dreams, Mika. Yuichiro briefly touches someone else's lips with his own, lingering on them for only a short time, and leaves. Only he doesn’t know that Michaela was only pretending to be asleep.
Mika silently cries, tears rolling down from the corners of his eyes. His father, as if missing, finally came to visit his sick son. He, an adult, kneels by the bed of his sixteen-year-old child and begs for forgiveness. And Mika would be happy if he knew that this is a sincere impulse of the soul - the main thing is that it is absolutely causeless. But no, this is not so - he read the bitterness in the face of his already elderly doctor. Mika dies. He no longer walks on his own - only on crutches and only within this ward. As if he saw something else in this fucking life. He is as pale as freshly washed sheets. The golden hair has faded and its color is more like cut millet. Michaela's hands are shaking. While he writes, large drops break on the paper. He howls and almost chokes, biting his lips. He folds the letter into an airplane shape and hides it in his nightstand. Yui comes the next day. He says he knows everything. He says he will do anything for him. He does not let go of Michaela, squeezes him in his arms and allows him to speak out. And he speaks. He says it's not fair. He says that he always knew he would die, but he never thought it would be so early. He says he has never been to his mother’s grave. He says that, ready for death, standing on its threshold, he is afraid of the inevitable. He says that Yui is everything to him. And he concludes: “I don’t want to die.” Mika does not need salvation - he cannot be helped, but a placebo. Yui holds someone else's face in her hands. He brushes Michaela's hair out of her face and kisses her on the lips. Listens to his quiet speeches, to his pleas. He had never seen such a desperate grip on the most ordinary, unremarkable life - he had never valued his own so much. - I will die. - I will die too. We all die. He presses his forehead to someone else's, without looking away. - You are “To Eden”, Mika. You are that image, you are in everything: in my visits here, in my paintings, in my family. Yes, I'm healthy. Yes, I live life to the fullest. But do these criteria determine how quickly a person is forgotten? I'm only sixteen, but I swear I'll never forget you. You are everything to me too, Mika. Mika smiles bitterly. He would like to live his whole life alongside Yui. On the one hand, Michaela is sorry that he condemns someone who is so dear to him to loneliness, but on the other hand, he does not want to be forgotten. - Damn it, Yuu-chan, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be so sorry. You are terrible. He covers other people’s palms with his own and it seems that the softened gaze has become clearer. - Yeah, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have started drawing and wouldn’t have spent so much nerve. If anyone is terrible here, it's you! Yuichiro laughs quietly, and his laughter is partially muffled by the contact of his lips. Quite childish. Yuya didn't have time to teach him how to kiss. Mika closes her eyes and presses her cheek against Yuya's shoulder. He feels sleepy again. Yuichiro is full of bitterness and anger at himself: if he had come more often, Mika would not have been so lonely. He looks at the guy blankly and whispers under his ear, stroking his head: “This is my favorite poem.” Will you listen? ___
“Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness”
Michaela will be gone very soon. He dies like a decorative kitten that cannot be touched. But even such a life does not mean that its outcome should be taken for granted.
“Let it smolder endlessly in a furious sunset”
Maybe he shouldn't have been born. It would be easier that way. And not so painful. Day by day he becomes weaker, and wakes up even less often - he loses the strength for life, but not the craving for it.
"Anger burns as the mortal world fades away"
Michaela no longer gets out of bed or eats; He just drinks a lot. The father, along with his next wife - this time pregnant - and their little son visit Mika more often. And he is glad, seriously glad: he likes this kind woman who does not feel pity for him, his half-brother, who does not come without a gift, be it a postcard or a pebble from the asphalt. He even forgave his father. Mika has never been able to hold a grudge, and what’s the point in that now.
“Let the wise men say that only the peace of darkness is right. And don’t light a smoldering fire.”
Two months later, Mika passed away. Having fallen asleep a few days ago, he never woke up. This is the best death he could hope for. Painless for both his body and soul. But the others didn't think so. Countless “what ifs” hung in the air. If Yui showed him what the world is? If his own father had taken him to his late mother? What if the drugs were different? There will be no end to regrets. This room still smelled of Mika, and it was impossible to believe that its owner was no longer alive. It's too bright, everything is too alive. Here are scattered books, here are white gloves and food that he never touched. Yes, this room still breathes life! Impossible, impossible! For the first time, Yuu cries after seeing his corpse in person. Just as pale and cold as always. Peaceful. Hey, he's just sleeping, he must be, right? Right? It's all a lie, everyone is fooling him, Yui knows. He couldn't die, it's Mika. Mika, who taught him English. Mika, who always won against him at cards. Mika, the only one of his kind who calmly played the mafia. How can he not exist? Anyone, anytime, but not his Miki. Not him. - O-oh... He's just... Yui is trying to pull himself together. He shakes and his voice trembles. My eyes were instantly covered with tears. - Mika, wake up! This isn't funny, Mika! He shook the lifeless body by the shoulders and shouted at it, demanding to wake up. - Come on, what are you doing?! Enough, please, y-you've already pranked me. I beg you... I beg you, Mika, get up! He sobs, feeling the burning tears on his cheeks. He doesn’t give up trying to shout to Mika. He almost loses his mind when the pulseless hand falls from his own. How, oh how can you say that the person he clumsily kissed less than a week ago is just a corpse? That there was nothing left of him except this body, in which there was no life. That Michaela really went to Eden. Yuichiro falls to his knees and, covering his mouth with his hands, howls, swallowing tears. - Come back... Come back... I beg you, I will do everything... But just like last time, he is not capable of anything.
“Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness. Anger burns as the mortal world fades away."
He was buried a few days later, in the fateful winter season. Only the closest ones were present: Yuichiro, father, and old Doctor-san. "Stay with me until I die" This is too little to leave. "Tell about your life" This boring and stupid life was necessary for Mika; he needed an external world full of ugliness. He loved him, being ignorant. Michaela rests in the ground. Nothing bothers him anymore. He is mute, he is deaf, he is blind to all living things. And when his body decomposes, the memories of the warmest and most intimate will cool down; details will be forgotten and all memory will turn into decaying grayness. It hurts too much.
This is for you. The technician found it in Mika's cabinet. - Thanks a lot. Yuichiro takes from the doctor’s hands a carelessly made paper airplane, on the wing of which is written in small letters: “For Yui-chan.” Already at home he opens the sheet. It has raised spots and crooked, almost illegible handwriting. “Hey Yuu-chan, how long has it been? I'm already dead, right? God, Yuu-chan, if only you knew how creepy this is, how scary it is. I CAN'T HELP anymore. I'm left alone with my disease and I'm just fucking waiting for it to win. All for nothing. All these therapies, treatments, consolations. It would be better if I lived an even shorter, but full life, and not like a damn plant. That would be more honest, wouldn't it? But... In that case, I would not have met you, Yuu-chan. And believe me, this is worth a lot. You gave me an incentive to live. You are my meaning, my hope, my love. Yes I love you. I love you like I have never loved before. I love life more than life itself. You know, these are not just words. This letter is my confession, my message to you. I want to confess honestly. I've always been jealous of you, Yuu-chan. You have your whole life ahead, joyful and carefree. You are a talented artist and a truly good person. I couldn't truly love anyone else. Do not forget me. I don't want you to forget me. Maybe you won't be happy. Maybe you won't care. Maybe you’ll send me and my selfishness to hell altogether. But I had to say it. I want you to be mine and mine alone, Yuu-chan. But I am weak and can never become your support. Do you think these words are wasted? Well, you're right. I'm a moron, an idiot, but be with me, please. Yuu-chan, I'm not going to the Garden of Eden. I am a sinner and there is a place reserved for me in hell. But you don't think so, do you? So save me. I don’t know how, I don’t know if you need it. But save me. I can not do it anymore. I'm going out. I need you. Please, Yuu-chan. I gave you my all. I have nothing left. Protect me, because I myself am no longer capable of this.
Truly loving you, Michaela
"What's wrong with this life? If anyone was worthy of it, it was Mika, and not a person who, even after many years, would not look at the eternal message without tears. “Thank you, Mika, for being there. You have always lived - you have not existed. You may think that forgetting is easy, but this is not true at all. I can’t, I’m actually still a weakling. I don’t know if I will become a famous artist, and I understand that neither the Prime Minister nor the Emperor will shake my hand. But please watch me. Believe in me and I will be there. See you later, Mika.
Forever yours, Yuichiro
" He will not send this letter - it will be kept in a box hidden in the attic. It contains small, tattered gloves, a photograph of them together and two letters. Both are farewells.
An agent codenamed "Winter Soldier" would disappear from time to time after missions. Usually he was found in the area of the last mission, he did not go far, did not hide. However, several times the search was delayed for months. The geographical dispersion of targets for destruction, insufficient control during movement - the opportunity to leave, in fact, was always there, you just had to want it. But why would a person without a past run away? No need. Still, this happened when the Soldier's suppressed personality made itself felt. Some things cannot be eradicated from the very depths of consciousness, even through brutal body modifications and brainwashing. Something stronger. Inexplicable, durable. It emerged from the depths and reminded of itself.
Once upon a time, thousands of years ago, Arctic frosts tightly bound the seeds of the northern lupine flower. Having thawed and fallen into the soil, they came to life, sprouted, and the greenery, warmed by the warm spring sun, was soon diluted with clusters of blue-blue inflorescences. Memories returned to the Agent bit by bit after the cryochamber. Outside the cold, his mind most often simply did not have time to find the very soil for memories to germinate and connect in a chain one after another. He was like a machine - devoid of empathy, strictly following directives, not failing tasks. Ruthless killer. Winter Soldier.
The seeds of memories remained deep in the Agent's subconscious. They sprouted in sudden bursts, infrequently, inconsistently, in small details. But they appeared more clearly in dreams. And the further, the more threads were wound into a ball of memory. However, what doctors would call a miraculous escape from amnesia, an almost incredible case, this very miracle carried pain incomparable to the most cruel torture. The bitterness of losing something dear, the regret of a whole lost life. How to relive the loss of someone who was everything in the past, how to come to terms with the idea that nothing can be returned?
American in Italy
The sun was setting, painting the sky pinkish-red and fiery orange, the clouds were outlined with a golden border and glowed from within. The sea was calm, the wind had died down. Today he watched the sunset on the veranda of a small cafe. His legend was impeccable; he had not given anything away for four months. Who would suspect a cold-blooded mercenary in an artist who came to live in Northern Italy for an indefinite period of time for inspiration? Silence and unsociability was not perceived with hostility by the locals; no one in this small town encroached on the hermit’s personal space. Signor Brooks is a creative person, they have their own quirks. Curiosity only bothered me for a couple of weeks, then no one paid too much attention to it. He lived in solitude, but often came to his favorite place, which tourists would definitely like if they stopped by this quiet corner on the seashore more often.
Seeing him on the threshold, the owner of the coffee shop was already preparing a portion of Americano. The aroma of coffee could be heard even outside, on the covered wooden veranda covered with wild grape vines. The order was repeated two or three times, depending on how much time the guest spent at his table. Usually he made some kind of pencil sketches, which he carefully hid from prying eyes. Only carried away by the process, frowning and whispering something unintelligible, he forgot himself, and seemed not to notice anything around, shuddering every time he heard footsteps nearby. Just like now. These steps were unfamiliar to him.
– Parli... parli inglese? The sir from the bar said that you speak English - the person is not local, and, judging by the accent, he comes from the States. The man looked up from the album on the table, the tourist looked with curiosity at the stroke of the pencil lines.
- I'm saying. How can I help? – the guest asked.
- Mr. Brooks, right? My name is Thomas, my son and I are traveling by car. God, how great it is that we came across you! Nobody speaks English in this country! Do you mind if I sit down? – the man nodded, the American sat down on the chair opposite. - We seem to have made a little mistake in the turns. Treacherous mountain serpentine. It’s beautiful, I won’t say anything, but still. We are going to Genoa, according to the estimated time we should have already been there. Can you tell me how to get there?
- Certainly. It's easy to get lost here, that's true. Do you have a map? – he did not smile, and the American was a little embarrassed that his friendliness had no effect on his interlocutor. He was different from all the Italians he had previously met with their overflowing emotions. Probably an immigrant. Or also a traveler. But what does it matter to him? The tourist took a tattered brochure folded into four times from his bag and handed it to the coffee shop guest. He moved his album to the side and unfolded the map with his right hand, for some reason not helping with his left, which would have been more convenient. But, without having time to inquire about the reason for the not very logical action, having looked at the drawing better, the American recognized who was depicted in it, and this turned out to be more interesting.
- Wow, it's Captain America!
- Who, excuse me? – the man immediately reached for the album, as if he was not the one who made the sketch and saw it for the first time in his life.
- Well, here you go, a suit with a helmet, a star on the chest and a shield. Captain America. Don't you know him? Every child here knows him. Hero of the nation! My father even saw him in '43. Just then he volunteered and was sent here to Italy. He told how sad the news was for the soldiers that the guy had died. It's a pity I didn't have time to see the victory. A legend, not a person... What's wrong with you? – the American caught himself when he saw how the man’s face tensed. He was puzzled, as if this story about a dead hero had anything to do with him. Which, of course, couldn’t be true, because a minute ago he didn’t even know about Rogers’ existence.
- Dead? - Mr. Brooks asked slowly and thoughtfully stared ahead, looking somewhere over the tourist’s right shoulder.
– Yes, he crashed on a plane, it seems there is some confusion with the official version. Sorry for distracting you with my tragic stories, I didn’t mean to. Nothing?
“No, everything’s fine,” Brooks smiled. Then he explained the road and drew the route with a pencil on the map. Thanking him for the saved vacation and the time spent, the American said goodbye to him and the owner of the establishment and left. Ten minutes later he was already taxiing onto a deserted road. The next day, Thomas no longer remembered what he talked about with the man from the cafe.
The agent made no mistakes, worked accurately and left no traces. A deadly shadow, a ghost in the flesh, devoid of feelings and human emotions. During the operation in Yugoslavia, the Agent ceased to exist. The soldier took a position on the roof of a building opposite the city hall, took aim and was ready to open fire at any moment as soon as the code word was heard on the receiver. This is how it looked from the outside. But something was happening in the sniper’s head that prevented him from pulling the trigger a minute later, and after the fifth repetition of the order. Not a voice, something like a memory. He shot at the wall, coming to his senses. I missed because I was confused. He thought about it. That is... This shouldn't happen. Then everything happened very quickly - instincts kicked in, the Agent moved along the roof, planning an approximate escape route and would have been able to leave unnoticed if someone from the target’s security had not shot at him. The bullet pierced the metal just above the left elbow and grazed his side.
About a month after the escape, serious problems with my arm began. It's not just about the pain at the junction of iron and flesh. It was always there, it was to be expected that without painkillers the sensations would worsen. Pain is only the least of the evils, if everything came down to physical sensations, there would be no reason for concern. It's easy to get pills. The situation with the mechanisms was much worse. The agent left the laboratory before the planned replacement of parts, apparently, he will regret this. The bullet went right through and broke several contacts, which immediately impaired motor skills. Sometimes the hand didn't work as it should. Over time, he got used to it and minimized the movements of his left hand. We managed to correct some things, but still the hand became more and more like a meaningless claw. In the third month, without being examined by specialists, things got really bad. Any attempt to use the hand required incredible effort, and even a greatly increased dosage of medications could no longer relieve the pain. It’s just that if he drank too much of them, the body immediately eliminated the substances. No effect.
His left hand refused to move, and it became more dangerous to appear in public. The agent enjoyed spending evenings in cafes where friends and families gathered for dinner, the warmth of their communication spreading through the air and reminding him of something lost, similar to this communication. He looked closely and studied the locals, of whom there were very few. The illusion of complete safety bore fruit - he was able to sleep and remembered more things from the past. For example, the fact that he once sincerely enjoyed company. Just a couple of routine polite phrases, and the anxiety in my chest subsided for the whole evening. So he temporarily got rid of the scratching sensation in the depths, from the darkness that appeared in dreams and drove him crazy. Mr. Brooks had already gotten used to his new name, although he regretted that he could not remember his real one. He learned to ignore the instincts of the Winter Soldier, learned to distinguish the lines of memories that came to him most often at night. He did not suffer from insomnia; during the day, the painful condition tired him, and only sleep could bring peace. True, not always. There were nights when he woke up from his own scream. From choking tears and something unbearably heavy, pressing on my chest and not allowing me to breathe. From the feeling of abandonment, from the fact that everything is unreal, and sometimes the boundary between reality and memories blurred into a formless substance without any emotions. Who is he? What kind of person? A mercenary from the collapsed Union, who made a dangerous journey, miraculously escaped from the currently turbulent Eastern Europe, where countries are redrawing their borders one after another? Mr Brooks? A hermit inspired by the beauty of northern Italy, who does not have a single landscape or even colors to convey a breathtaking atmosphere in a subtle play of colors? The one who makes do with a simple lead pencil, tracing all the available paper with portraits of one single person? A soldier, the devil knows how he found himself in the nineties of the twentieth century, having been transported here straight from the front of World War II? A boy with a training rifle over his shoulder, hitting the target ten out of ten shots and insanely proud of himself? A guy from a city with the most dangerous alleys in the world, because there really wasn't one where he didn't have to save a sickly young man too weak to fight off the bad guys?
He already believed that he was crazy, because the memories contradicted each other and did not want to come together. He saw the lives of different people. But he was also sure that all this happened to him alone. All this made my head spin. He tried to capture on paper everything he saw in his dreams, hoping that over time he would find the missing detail that would explain everything. And he found her differently than he expected.
Captain America. A hero in a wonderful costume. He knew him for sure. A random person with one phrase shed light on the main mystery in his life. The agent laid out all the scrapbooks and all his drawings on the wooden floor of his spacious room. How had he not noticed before? Now, comparing everything at once, he saw obvious similarities. The thin boy and Captain America looked at him with the same expression on their faces, or rather, it changed, but it changed completely identically. Identical lips, smiles, sometimes sly, sometimes sincerely joyful. The same eyes, sad or squinted, a decisive look and sly winks. The blush that appeared on the sunken cheeks of the angular teenager and exactly the same on the face of the brave adult soldier. This is the same person. But why has he changed so much? What caused this?
The agent was too tired of the darkness, of the unknown. She used to be intimidating, now the purpose of his existence was to find out more. What if he can still find himself and his name? He was no longer afraid. Whatever it was, he had already lived it. And somehow, following Captain America didn't seem like a bad idea. He's probably done this before.
The owner of the coffee shop kept the reservation sign at a table in the corner of the veranda for a long time. Only the guest never showed up either a day later or a month later.
\
Ghost
The laboratory again. Blinding white light and sterility. People in overalls. Security. These are not from the Soviets, but the meaning is the same, the procedure has not changed fundamentally. Inspection. Anesthesia. Checking directives. An interrogation during which he remains silent, hiding the fact that he knows everything. He knows who he is and how he ended up as Cinder's test subject. And what he did later. If they knew about his disappearance, they were hunting for him, they were waiting for him, then Hydra probably had a spy. That's what Bucky Barnes would do. He would have done just that.
The hand had already been examined, and from the conversation he understood that after replacement and testing he would be sent to a cryochamber. Only this time it would be better for him to never wake up again. He painted himself into a corner himself, and they took advantage of it. But now he doesn't care. He understood the language, he responded to trigger words, although he had not heard them for a long time. Maybe he really is no longer James Barnes, he died in '43, crashing into rocks. He did too many terrible things that Barnes would never do. He was forced, he was turned into a machine for murder and violence. Neither blood nor memories can be washed away. The burden is too heavy for an ordinary person to continue living. It's his choice. If he forgets Steve again, he will forget himself. There will be no pain, nothing will happen, only instincts will remain. Perhaps consciousness will give him memories again, and he will begin to guess about something. Maybe he won’t survive the next reset or they’ll get rid of him later. What the hell difference does it make? He is nothing more than a ghost.
Crossing borders with a faulty arm was more difficult than before. Clumsiness is absolutely of no use to those who are hiding and want to be an invisible shadow. Avoiding large populated areas, the Agent reached Austria and searched for American tourists, moving to more crowded areas. He talked to people, and they told him slightly different variations of the same story, and in detail he recreated what seemed most plausible to him. One day I was more lucky than I could have wished for - there was a historian who was resting after the conference and knew a lot of details. Moreover, he had research materials on the Captain America phenomenon. This is how the Agent learned about both Steven Rogers and James Barnes. He was shown archival photographs. Barnes had his face. Maybe a little younger and much more smiley. The agent smiled in order to win over his interlocutor. There was almost never any sincerity in this. Nobody talks to surly strangers. He also smiled in the morning if he saw Steve, if he could draw him cheerful, happy about something. Memories didn't make the present any easier. What an irony it is to learn so much about the past without being able to recapture it. He was again over the abyss, she was reaching out with a deadly embrace. He saw the train with Steve Rogers rushing into the distance again.
Steve died too. It was stupid to think that he could survive. But even meeting him again as an old man was worth waiting so many years in oblivion.
One day he noticed that he was being followed. I felt someone else's gaze, deliberately wandered through the ancient streets of a small Austrian town, and went to the neighboring one. The tail remains. He was discovered, it's all over. The only question is why they didn’t catch him right away. Most likely, they assessed the danger.
However, this course of events was not surprising and was a kind of salvation. He had just lost his best friend again, even more than a friend, now he had gathered together almost everything that had been building up in his thoughts. He won’t have to exist any longer with this knowledge, grief won’t corrode him from the inside, he’ll forget everything again. James Barnes will die again.
It is impossible for them to find out that he remembered.
When it got dark, the Agent was on the outskirts of the city, he managed to confuse his pursuers. Lighting matches with one hand is difficult, but the task is doable. He couldn't help but carefully examine each piece of paper from the bag before putting them one by one into the leaky iron barrel. He said goodbye to Steve, his eyes filled with tears, he couldn’t hold them back. At the same time, the grin never left his lips. “Men don’t cry,” the voice in his head belonged to Steve, he had heard it so many times. Now there was a reproach and even a challenge in it. "Of course not. But did you cry when I died? How was it for you?
Barnes the agent did not take his eyes off the charred paper. The graphite lines were the last to disappear, smoldering in the red-blue flames. Each new leaf flared up brightly, flared up for a moment, engulfed in death agony, and fell into gray ash at the bottom of a rusty barrel. Minutes, perhaps an eternity later, the smell of burnt paper was dispelled by a gust of wind, and smoke rose and dissipated in a thin stream from what was a reflection of the past.
That's all. Steve is gone, he won't see him again.
The agent rose from his knees and walked towards the center with uneven steps. He would soon be noticed, he was no longer hiding. He walked forward along the cobblestone street, illuminated by the dim light of a lantern, no longer caring where his feet took him.
When the harsh cold light blinded him, chained to the chair, he closed his eyelids and drew blue eyes and a smile in front of him. It's okay, James. You've died before. The second time is not scary at all.
Man on the bridge
Every time he woke up, he spent the first moments feverishly wondering where he was. Every cell of the body was ready for possible pain, for an electric discharge that could pierce him immediately or with the first hesitant movement. He is ready for the cold, which makes his muscles cramp. The agent analyzed external stimuli, but did not note anything extreme. Silence. He opened his eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. The room is dark because the window is covered with an old dusty striped curtain. He rose from the creaking bed with his legs ragged, breathing slowly, counting an equal number of seconds for inhalation and exhalation. He reached out and pulled back the curtain a little. Dawn was just beginning, the sky was overcast, which became a little lighter to the east. The agent sat down on the dirty, cold floor, unzipped his black fabric backpack and took out a notepad. I checked the last few days. He remembered every word, every phrase. The uneven letters on the pages formed words like honeycombs in a beehive, gradually merging into uneven curves and sharp points of handwriting and occupying almost all the space on a blank sheet of paper.
The agent continued to leaf through the notebook, all the pages of which were covered in blue ink, all the way down to the one he first filled out two days ago in Washington. Three words are scattered on it, as on all the other pages, in all possible variations of handwriting. Like a copybook for a particularly crooked first-grader. Large letters alternated with small ones, in some places they were almost weightless, only outlines and a light touch, but in some places the thick paper was torn, and crumbling blue-white edges scattered around, pressed by the pressure of fingers and palms to a smooth, clean surface.
"James Buchanan Barnes"
This name was listed next to the portrait of a man who looked exactly like the Agent. And the man on the bridge, the one who refused to fight, his name was Steven Rogers. And this name also firmly settled in his head, filling the voids between the fragments of memories that were probably associated with him. And yet - they were friends, the Agent saw newsreel footage, photographs, saw how a man similar to him and Steven Rogers laughed together, discussed something, friendly, without any distance, even saluting the sergeant in the photo, he grinned a little and the senior The rank of captain with a large white star on his chest tilted his head down approvingly, as if he was nodding, and did not hide his smile. The agent understood that the story was not false, but he could not remember, could not prove to himself that it was true. He wasn't James Barnes, at least not without the memories.
But he didn't remember Steven Rogers. I remembered something else. The first - very vague - the sky, black, strewn with countless points of stars, the tops of trees, fog, silence and insane fear, which shook, which still gives goosebumps. He didn’t know how he ended up in the forest, didn’t remember how he got out of there, and how he returned to the designated point, but he remembered the white light hitting his eyes, and the fear that shook his body when the bracelets closed on his living and metal wrists, and the unbearable pain pierced right through him. The agent was again ready to unquestioningly carry out orders and instructions. A flash, as long as a lifetime, eclipsed the glimpses, and only by some miracle did he vaguely remember one night and his feelings. Nothing else was imprinted in my memory. Besides that confusion, that feeling that he had emerged from some bottomless pool, perhaps from the underworld itself.
The agent did not have dreams in the cryochamber, his consciousness was simply cut off and then he fell into blackness. Until the time came for the next mission, and he gradually began to distinguish a humming mixed noise, hear voices, and then see the vague outlines of people in white and behind them soldiers with weapons in their hands. He slept during long operations, his body needed to recover. But it was a brief, dreamless slumber. Almost always. Unless something unexpected happened. Just like on the hellicarrier a week ago. The man said the phrase and the Agent failed the mission. There was no reason for this, all that remained was to deliver the final crushing blow, and the target would be eliminated. But this man looked at him, losing consciousness, offering no resistance, accepting his fate meekly, looking as if he knew him, and as if he was asking him to remember. As if he should have remembered. And then something closed in his head, he did not hear the roar and grinding of metal, the roar of the burning engines of the aircraft carrier, he heard the echo of those words and knew that he had already heard them once. Or... were those his words, the Agent? Or, more accurately, James Barnes?
He pulled the man out and left him on the shore. He himself did not return to base. He hid at a safe distance, cashing a reserve check from a hiding place, at the risk of being discovered. But Hydra, having just been beheaded, has not yet had time to grow a replacement head, so it’s easy to neutralize the minimum security. There was enough money for a used motorcycle, clothes, and there was still a reserve left on which to live for a couple of months, taking into account the rent.
However, the Agent did not stay in Washington. Having barely recovered from the mission, a day later, he went to the Smithsonian Museum. He knew that he would find something important about Rogers there; his face was on all the fresh newspapers that littered the street stands. The agent studied several different samples that smelled of printing ink and, more from the pictures than from the text, realized that it was worth visiting the aviation museum. The words were hard to read and he could only make out little of what was in the article. Some letter combinations seemed to be mixed from other languages. The Agent frowned and looked intently at the black and white photographs, smoothing out the newspaper sheets that were ruffled and turned over by the wind. At the end of one of the articles there was an address, but the numbers were much easier to understand. He hailed a taxi and showed the driver the address as it was - on a torn piece of paper. He didn’t say anything, just continued humming the song that was playing from the radio. The language was unfamiliar to the agent, but he was glad that no questions were asked. He didn't know exactly how justified his action was. What he found on the spot made him change his mind.
Steven Rogers was the name of the man in the suit. James Buchanan Barnes is the name of a man with his appearance. His name. He took a notepad out of his backpack, opened the first blank page and wrote down both names. This took several minutes; not all the letters wanted to turn out the same as on the stand. The agent acquired a printed folded booklet with the history of Captain America. There were entries in English, Spanish and French, which should probably be able to make out something with careful study. The audio recording accompanying the video mentioned that before the war and the tragic death of James Barnes, they lived in New York, in Brooklyn. The agent decided to go there. It was unlikely that everything there would remain the same as it was in the thirties, but there was still hope for fishing out new memories in familiar places. Knowing the dangerous points on the map, those that were related to Hydra, he could remain in the shadows, avoiding them. If this didn't work, he would disappear, maybe go to South America or New Zealand, but for some reason something was squeezing his lungs at such thoughts. Something inside convinced him that Plan B would not be needed.
It was already getting dark when the Agent, with a backpack over his shoulders, walked out into a parking lot on the northern outskirts of Washington, pulled on a motorcycle helmet and headed out of the city. He did not stop for a long time, only when the fuel gauge showed a cutoff at which it was time to look for the nearest gas station, he briefly turned off the deserted highway.
Before dawn, the Agent deviated from his route again to take a couple of hours' nap. He felt tired, hungry, his eyes were drooping. He struggled with drowsiness for a moment, then saw the red and blue neon letters of a roadside motel sign. After paying for the room and having a hot hot dog, he collapsed helplessly on the bed and instantly fell asleep. Not for long, just a couple of hours. To wake up before dawn and check your notes, to make sure again that what happened is real.
In Brooklyn, he quickly found housing, in a house that had seen better days, with peeling gray paint on the door. However, the location was perfect. The owner was not going to visit more than once a month to collect rent and did not ask questions. The neighbors, too, were not morbidly curious and did not knock on doors to get to know each other. These people probably had their own secrets. Safely, but at the same time within walking distance, the Agent hid the weapon he had grabbed from Hydra and studied the surroundings. The new shelter had no drawbacks; the uninhabited environment did not matter at all. He didn't even think about what was cozy and what wasn't. Food, sleep and safety are more than enough. The area is quite large, and it will take time to get around everything. The agent understood this, but there were no other clues, and he wandered through the streets, wide and narrow, comfortable and dilapidated, looking around in search of something familiar. He sat for a long time on the river bank near the old bridge, here the sensations became clearer, he was almost sure that he had been here. Sometimes, passing by some eatery with a retro sign or an alley, he would freeze in place, rooted to the spot, and then it seemed that he remembered. Let some fragment, a separate sound, something inside respond to this.
The dreams he had were... contrasting. Often he woke up in a cold sweat from the fact that he had become a killer without feelings or memory. He killed men, women, they begged him for mercy, but their words meant no more to him than a meaningless breath of wind. Others were filled with inexplicable joy and lightness. But there were special ones.
He walked along the alley, the dark asphalt path was covered with fallen maple leaves. Reddish-brown, green with yellowish spots, bright orange, very beautiful. Scuffing the toe of his boot on the ground, he lifted a couple of leaves into the air, which spun like a miniature tornado and hurried back down, twisting and changing places. Having landed, they continued to move - the wind became a little stronger and carried them forward, traveling further through the autumn.
Admiring the play of warm October colors, he saw a shadow in front of him. Elongated, much longer than its owner.
The smile, the carelessly tousled blonde locks parted on the right side, the stoop and sharp shoulders - all this seemed vaguely familiar, even familiar. He came closer and closer and saw more. Freckles and moles on the cheeks. Long eyelashes. Clear blue eyes, dark around the edges of the iris, as if outlined. Wrinkle on the left eyebrow. Who is he?
- Buck! Why are you taking so long? Let’s go, quickly! – the guy quickly walked forward. We needed to follow him, but it just didn’t work out. My legs seemed rooted to the asphalt, I couldn’t move, my voice disappeared. He stood there, silent and paralyzed, anxiety rolling in like a tidal wave, slowly rising higher, flooding and turning into panic.
“Bucky, why are you standing there, let’s go!” - they called him, and most of all he wanted to regain the ability to move, at least a little, to say a word, to ask to come back, to wait. But he couldn't, couldn't...
Suddenly the wind increased and thick fog approached from all sides.
- Buck, please! - the quiet request that echoed became louder, and the contours of the familiar face blurred, disappeared behind a curtain of milky-white haze, he mentally screamed, moved his lips, but not a single sound disturbed the dead silence that reigned around. Both the alley and the guy disappeared, leaving only fog and an oppressive feeling of powerlessness.
The agent woke up and, not realizing what he was doing, reached to the bedside table for a notepad and pencil. He opened a blank page at random and began hastily drawing the face of the man from the dream. He didn’t know why the lines lay on the surface so confidently and accurately, as if he knew how to draw. It's unlikely that this is what hired killers are trained to do. Absolutely, they don’t teach.
Nevertheless, he managed to reproduce the image very clearly; a silent request was reflected on the guy’s face, and it seemed that the drawing was about to come to life and say the request again. Yes, he would be glad to come, but where?
The dream repeated itself. Summer has passed, and in October the trees got rid of their elegant, variegated foliage. The agent continued to record the memories on paper. There was no doubt that Steve Rogers, Captain America, and the fragile guy were one and the same person. The agent thought it would be worth going back and looking for him in Washington. For some reason, every day the desire to see Rogers became stronger. The agent found himself calling the man by name in his thoughts. Just Steve. It seemed so natural and familiar. Only the name “James Buchanan” did not evoke such emotions. Another thing is “Baki”. Yes, that name was appropriate. He even turned around on the street when he heard him.
When the first snow fell, the Agent continued to go around his already familiar route. Early in the morning, when the December sun had not yet risen and illuminated the dense curtain of clouds with white, he came to the Brooklyn Bridge. For some reason, this particular place seemed the most important, here the heart skipped a beat and was haunted by a feeling of nostalgia.
One morning the Agent saw a lonely silhouette on his bench. He froze in surprise and slowly moved towards the man with an unsteady step. He sat in his blue jacket wide open, as if he wasn’t cold at all, and looked calmly at the bridge and the river, and at the various types of boats floating by. The agent realized that he had been discovered, and although his appearance was also rather unexpected for Rogers, they were probably looking for him deliberately. The agent pulled off his backpack and took out one of the albums. He stretched out his hands forward and came closer, but did not dare to go further. He didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say.
Fortunately, Rogers, who had been watching him with fascination since he came into view, rose from the bench and carefully approached himself, taking the album in his hands. He wasn't afraid, or didn't show it. Rogers opened the album and froze. He saw himself. Flipping through the pages further, he seemed to refuse to believe what he saw, brought the album closer to his eyes, and looked puzzled. Finally, he said, barely audible:
– You know, Buck, I have memory problems. I thought that of the two of us, I was the artist.
The agent did not answer anything, because he himself did not believe what was happening. He must wake up now. I just didn’t want that at all. Steve dispelled his doubts, took a step forward and hugged him so tightly that he would have crushed him if not for the serum and an equally powerful hug in return. They stood there for a long time, hiding their faces from each other to fight off the tears that were welling up. Having overcome this attack, Bucky said as casually as he could:
– I know a couple of good ways to strengthen memory. I can teach.
One day he will remember the fire and dozens of painted sheets that turned to ashes. He will wake up from a nightmare, drenched in icy sweat, for the first moments convinced that he is alone again and has lost him again. He will remember the thoughts that oblivion will bring freedom. And finally, he will understand that Steve will never disappear from his life again and will always be there. Because he never left. He always reminded me of himself. And helped Bucky return. Become yourself again. James Barnes now forced the Winter Soldier out, he did not resist and left his mind clear. Still, one thing must not be forgotten: when people say that they are starting from scratch, they are lying. Rebirth is not an easy process, but Bucky managed to come back from the darkness and start living again. This new world surprised him with its madness. But life, in all its palette of emotions and colors, was even more amazing. He was not alone. Steve was always there.
By the way, about paints. Steve, shocked by the artist's hidden talent, soon gave Bucky a set of oil paints and brushes of various sizes. The first sketches came out, to put it mildly, unimportantly. Barnes claimed that he last held a brush in his hands in the thirties, while still a child. Then Steve came to the rescue and did the drawing for him, because Bucky wasted a whole dozen sheets. The colors refused to adhere to his plans and dripped in heavy drops, blurring the picture. He freaked out and broke a couple of brushes in half by squeezing them too hard. But now Steve was determined. When they had a free evening, they sat down at the table and for a couple of hours Bucky mastered a new technique under the strict guidance of Rogers. The last couple of works were already inspiring hope - Steve nodded approvingly, proud of Barnes. The colors remained in their places and did not mix haphazardly. Still, Bucky always had a sharpened pencil and a sketchbook ready on his bedside table.
Masterfully avoiding Steve's ambiguous hints, Bucky hid a whole layer of memories from him for some time. He felt awkward talking about it. He drew this in secret when Rogers went somewhere on business. He hid it securely, although he knew that Steve would not violate his personal space and interfere where he was not asked. But a slight feeling of shame constrained him, and he preferred to postpone a serious conversation until later.
The original plan had to be abandoned soon. Bucky didn't expect that every day spent with Steve would be a real test of stamina and restraint. Long days spent in the company of a friend turned into weeks and months. When Barnes caught himself thinking that he could not hide the direction of his greedy gaze even in public, he made up his mind. There was no more patience left. Enough. He's waited too long. Memories with Steve could be old dreams that he had no idea about. What if this is not true? What if that's what Steve meant when he asked about some strange memory?
Taking advantage of Steve's brief absence from their rented apartment, Bucky pulled out his sketches, setting up an impromptu exhibition. Half an hour later, Steve returned and immediately appreciated the first few particularly revealing works, leaning against the wall and getting covered in crimson paint. Rumpled sheets, arched back, rounded buttocks and powerful thigh muscles. A heap of blond hair.
“Why... why didn’t you talk about it?” – Rogers squeezed out, his face still as red as boiled crayfish.
- God, is Captain America shy? – Bucky feigned indignation, dramatically raising his eyes to the ceiling. – Where does this modesty come from? From what I remember, it shouldn't exist? – the effect was achieved, the target stared at the floor in amazement. Great. Barnes wasn't the only one who felt uncomfortable.
“You know what I’ll tell you, Steve? Stop wasting your time and blush and take off your clothes.
- But I…
- Be a friend, take off your clothes quickly. “I urgently need to practice drawing from life,” Bucky, smiling slyly, tucked a stray strand behind his ear. - Need your help.
-
*Parli... parli inglese? (it.) - Do you speak English?
Notes:
The first part is set in the 1990s. The characters belong to the Marvel universe.
Written at the request of Zootexnik for the ReverseBang fest.
Arter - ZootexnikThe title is a translation of the first line of the poem "Don't go gentle into that good night" by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas.
We present to your attention an incredible poem full of protest against death by the famous Welsh poet Thomas Dylan (October 27, 1914 - November 9, 1953), beautifully translated by Alexandra Berlina.
It is truly immortalistic. What is especially disturbing is that the poet wrote this poem for his dying father...
Probably, if cryonics had already been invented and cryonics organizations had already been created, perhaps Thomas Dylan of his father...
It seems that Thomas Dylan was a natural immortalist - a person who does not accept the power of death. But he himself died shortly before Julian Huxley coined the word "transhumanism"...
It is interesting that Dylan Thomas's drama The Doctor and the Devils was made into a film starring Timothy Dalton. The plot is based on a true story about how a scientist bought fresh corpses for anatomical studies, although he suspected that they were obtained by murder.
Don't go meekly into the darkness of death
Do not follow peacefully into the distance where there is no light,
Let old age meet its end with anger.
Though the sages know that darkness is the answer
To the light of all words, the sage should not
Resignedly to where there is no light.
And the righteous man who kept his vow
Carry goodness like a sunny crown,
Evil weeps when the light fades.
Savage, free man, poet,
A wonderful singer, a ray catcher,
He will not wander where there is no light.
Seeing a swarm of comets before death
Through the blindness of all the years gone by, blind man
Riots if the light goes out.
You are not on the slope - at the top of your years.
Face death with anger, I ask you, father.
Do not peacefully follow into the distance where there is no light.
Rebel, rebel when the light fades.
There is another translation (by Vasily Betaki) of the same poem, which perhaps someone will like more:
Don't go out when you leave...
Let old age flare up with the glow of sunset.
The sage says: night is righteous peace,
Without becoming winged lightning during life.
Do not go out, going into the darkness of the night.
A fool beaten by a storm wave,
Like in a quiet bay - glad to be hidden in death...
Stand up against the darkness that has suppressed the light of the earth.
The scoundrel who wanted to hide the sun with a wall,
Whines when the night of reckoning comes.
Do not go out, going into the darkness of the night.
The blind man will see in his last moment:
After all, there were rainbow stars once upon a time...
Stand up against the darkness that has suppressed the light of the earth.
Father, you are in front of the black steepness.
Tears make everything in the world salty and holy.
Do not go out, going into the darkness of the night.
Stand up against the darkness that has suppressed the light of the earth.
Last night I watched the wonderful, cool, wonderful, delightful film Interstellar (translated as Interstellar) 😉 before that I read two lines of reviews:
Review No. 1: “This is the best science fiction of the last 50 years”
Review #2: "The film features 10 actors."
Plus, I found a budget on film search: $160 million.
*
what I thought: 10 not very well-known actors is not enough for a budget of 160 million and it was not clear what 160 lyams were spent on. And there are no special effects like in Transformers, and large-scale historical views... BUT approximately in the middle of the film, a world cinema star wakes up from hypersleep... and that's at least 15 million dollars, the remaining 145 remains to be found)
* but this is not what the situation is about, it’s about the poem. There it sounds exactly twice... and I didn’t catch the meaning (sadness). So I’m thinking, I’ll write a post, reprint the verse and understand the meaning)
*
So, Google can help me)
A literal translation of the poem from the Interstellar dub:
Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Let infinity smolder in a furious sunset.
Anger burns as the mortal world fades away,
Let the sages say that only the peace of darkness is right.
And don’t light the smoldering fire.
Do not go humbly into the twilight of eternal darkness,
Anger burns at how the mortal world is extinguished.
*
*reading reading
*
and here is the original
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
*
poem: looking for the title of a film where at the beginning of the film a man climber climbs an icy crevice and reads a poem of several lines)
