Disclaimer The novel was translated using artificial intelligence, so please expect errors and, if possible, report them.
In July of 2148, humanity suffered its final blow. Amidst a raging economic and political crisis, civilization began to degrade. But the roots of this collapse reach back three decades earlier, to the year 2120, when Jones Clovincy was appointed President of the United States. That very moment marked our first betrayal of the Sun.
In 2120, the situation in America was tense. The presidential elections were accused of being falsified, although there was no evidence. In the re-held and "fair" elections, the Republican party won, under which Jones Clovincy came to power, and his politics brought extreme changes.
Clovincy gave permission to the expeditionary group ANWO (Also known as anti-nuclear war organization) to conduct research in West Antarctica. The goal of the research was to launch a radiation-containing core at a distance of two meters, in order to evaluate its effect on the ecosystem. At the head of the experiment was the scientist-engineer Jovell Clirsi, who had first expressed the idea of conducting this experiment, for which he received ANWO's approval. He wanted to prove that nuclear technologies would be a grant of safety for the future.
At the beginning, everything went normally — to tell the truth, it even ended well. But two months later, in the Antarctic region, one of the researchers saw a sea lion whose back had been torn away, yet it was still able to breathe and react. This information soon spread all over the world, and an order was given to conduct another expedition in West Antarctica, where increased radiation levels were found.
It turned out that ANWO's radiation had not spread for two meters, but at a radius greater than thirteen kilometers, because of which the region became extremely unsafe — both for its inhabitants and for everyone. Jovell Clirsi was sentenced to forty-five years in prison. The other participants were released. ANWO was fined two million US dollars, yet it continues its activity to this day.
The case was closed on May 15, 2121. Later, these events were called "the first sin against the Sun," the same as the first crime. These events became the beginning of the world's destruction.
Radiation levels — not surprisingly — began to increase daily. Today, it covers forty-five percent of the world. According to governments, the increase of radiation is inevitable, and we cannot stop it. Because of this, the largest countries of the world, such as the United States of America, Canada, China, Russia, and others, faced protests from their people, which had great influence on the world.
Eventually, in 2123, the organization "For World's Peace" (FWP) was created, led by the United States. Every existing country became part of FWP. Through coordinated work of nations, the speed of radiation spread was radically reduced, and now it increases by only five percent annually.
In 2124, when Jones Clovincy left the office of president, George Smith was appointed as the new president. His reforms delivered a fatal blow to America. His falsified elections lasted for twenty-seven years, because of which he ruled the country for that entire period — and this caused protest. This was the second betrayal of the Sun.
In 2148, Smith was sentenced to 267 years. In the elections of 2148, Carl Vensel was appointed president, and he governs the United America (In year 2149 the both continents united into one.) to this day.
In June of 2148, ANWO, with Vensel's permission, released on the coast of California a fish species produced by selection, which was called the Black Strangler. Unfortunately, it turned out that the Black Strangler possessed radioactive properties, which were quickly contagious. Later, it came to be called the Strangler Virus. From 2148 to 2150, a world pandemic was declared.
"Excellent, Arthur. You may sit down," the teacher told me with a gentle voice, and I headed to the back of the classroom and sat at the last desk. I laid my presentation on the desk. The teacher looked at me once again with her green eyes and then called another student. At that moment, we were in world history class.
No matter how many times I open the book, I am always amazed: how did we fall this far? In the twenty-first century, people thought that they would be able to fly with cars. They thought the world would flourish. But here we are, still having to fight for our rights. How ironic.
No, really — I wonder, is humanity moving forward or backward? The cause of development is us, and so is the cause of our downfall. However far humanity moves forward, it falls just as far back. It has always been so, from the beginning of civilization's history until the end it will remain this way. People want more than they are able to have — and this clearly goes beyond the order established in the world.
So I sat and thought for the rest of the lesson, until finally the loud, shrill bell rang through the entire building. That was the sign for me to stop my useless thoughts and go home.
When I stood up, I hit my foot on the desk. The desk was old and shaky, because it was missing a nail on one side. Before leaving, I glanced once more at the history book, then quickly closed it and headed home with my blue-black bag.
On my bag there was a small metal enamel pin, with bees depicted on it. Luckily, I live not far from the school, so I don't have to walk for long. I walk and think at the same time: "In the future everything will be amazing, the world will be full of great innovations!"
I don't understand — why did people think that way? Did they really believe that in the twenty-first century, by the twenty-second, something would change? What nonsense…
I thought as I slowly stepped on the muddy asphalt. Sometimes I looked to the right, sometimes to the left, just observing the passing people. Some were in a hurry somewhere, others were just wandering aimlessly down the road. People are fools. At least that's what I thought.
On the way I passed by the hospital, where a "special aid" ambulance was standing. It's been two or three years, and still they cannot cure the "Strangler" disease. Or maybe they don't want to, and they don't even try?
ANWO has committed so many crimes, and still the organization is not disbanded. And their motto: "For a better future!" Except that this future is more for them — for the rich people like them — not for people like me.
After about half an hour I reached home. The yard gate was locked, so I knocked on the iron door five or ten times, but no one answered. I stood helplessly leaning against the stone fence of the yard for almost ten minutes. Suddenly I realized that the key must be hanging on the other side of the fence. And indeed, that's how it was. Standing on tiptoe, I groped with my hand over the other side until I found it. Quickly I turned the key in the lock and entered the house.
It was no surprise that the house was empty. I dropped my shoes at the entrance and went into the living room, where I found a note waiting for me.
"I won't be home until evening, the food is in the fridge." At the bottom, written in small letters: "P.S. Study."
I crumpled the note and threw it away. As usual, I washed my hands, then put on a red-striped shirt with brown sweatpants and ran to the kitchen. When I opened the fridge, there was a container with boiled potatoes and sliced cheese. I finished the food quickly.
I really love writing and sketching, so I spent about an hour just aimlessly sketching. Around six o'clock, I began studying. First algebra, then geometry. I finished literature quickly too, though even during studying I kept being surprised — mostly about people's attitude toward religion.
People often spoke of the second coming of divinity, but the scenario unfolded completely differently. We ourselves destroyed our civilization. We ourselves killed each other. Truly amazing.
When I opened world history again, I started thinking: how many people gave their lives to America, or to other countries? How many "heroes" gave their little lives to their homeland? Did they know that their effort would be so easily thrown into the dirt? Did they know that their fight for freedom would be so easily lost?
I don't want to believe it. No, I don't want to at all. Perhaps their sacrifice is not wasted. Hope has always existed — and always will. The important thing is that we must not lose this hope.
Truly, the past is everything. And the person who does not know the past of his country or the world — he is simply a fool. It is because of the past that we are who we are.
Suddenly I heard the sound of the door opening — it was already eleven o'clock. Of course, I stood up and hurried toward the living room.
Into the room stepped a woman of medium height, with long blond hair and chestnut-colored eyes. Yes, you guessed it right — my mother had returned.
"Did you study?" — those were her first words, exhausted as she came in.
"Thanks for asking how I am — and yes, I studied." I nodded. My mother smiled faintly and sat down on the green couch in the living room. On the small brown wooden table in front of it she placed some groceries. I unpacked them all from the bag and carried them to the kitchen.
She sat for a while, then stood up and went to her room. I simply went back to mine.
My room is quite small and cozy: a small-sized bed with a white cover, a medium wooden wardrobe in which I keep my clothes and my "secret" letters, and also a wooden study desk, with an office chair in front of it. On the wooden floor, everywhere, there are crumpled papers or books scattered. The books are mostly connected to history or philosophy. My school bag always rests neatly in the corner.
When I was about to get ready for bed, I heard a knock. Before I could say "Come in," my mother was already inside.
"Today I met your homeroom teacher," she said, looking directly into my eyes, her right hand clenched into a fist. I stayed silent.
"She says you are often late to class." My mother continued, and I tried to avoid eye contact.
"It won't happen again," I whispered. But she didn't unclench her fist.
"The reason for being late?" — she did not take her tiger's eyes off me.
"What does it matter," I murmured again.
"It does matter, Arthur. It matters a lot." She was clearly very angry now.
"On time!" she finally shouted.
"I said it won't happen again! Stop interrogating me!" I suddenly shouted too, without even knowing why. When I looked at her, I don't know what she saw in my eyes at that moment.
"Mother, I'm sor—"
"All right. Just don't let it happen again." She didn't let me finish. She simply switched off the light and left the room.
I lay down quickly. My thoughts went to how I could explain to her that every morning I go to visit her husband's… my father's grave? How could I explain to my own mother that three years have passed, and yet I still cannot forget my father?
I didn't have to think long. Soon, I fell asleep. Stars shone beautifully in the sky around the moon, as if they were embracing each other. And I quietly drifted into the night.
Unfortunately, that beautiful night passed quickly, and my sweet dreams were shattered by the disturbing noise of the alarm clock. Today I decided to go to school earlier. Quickly I put on my uniform and packed everything "properly" into my bag.
My mother wasn't at home, but on the kitchen table she had left me a warm pie. I don't want to lie — I didn't eat it, I just put it in the cupboard. Then I put on my mud-stained shoes and headed toward school.
The road, as always, was dark and gloomy. People wandered aimlessly, one going up, another down. It must have rained at night — the asphalt was all covered with mud. On the whole way, I kept thinking about yesterday.
My mother's eyes and face when I yelled at her kept turning in my mind. I wondered — what did she see in me at that moment? It's better if I apologize to her when I return home. Today I decided that after school I would stop by the cemetery.
In half an hour I was standing in front of the iron school gates. For a little while I stood and watched the building, and the students slowly entering. Finally, I went in too.
In the school hall, the lights were half working, because most of the bulbs were burned out. To tell the truth, our principal is quite well-known — I don't know where all the money goes. But I understand: everyone only thinks about their own comfort.
The first class was mathematics. After climbing the endless stairs, I entered the classroom. I always like to sit at the back of the class, there I feel more distant from everything. I don't even know how to describe the feeling.
As I entered, I bumped my forehead into a medium-height girl. A piece of paper slipped from her hand. I didn't realize what had happened at first — apparently neither did she. Suddenly I came to my senses and bent down to pick up the paper. When I handed it to her, she only nodded her head and rushed off somewhere.
So I didn't even have the chance to say sorry. I couldn't really get a good look at her either. The only thing I noticed was that she had short dark hair. She was wearing a short black skirt and a white shirt, over which she had thrown a sleeveless, dark red pullover. Unfortunately, I couldn't study her face properly.
I glanced once more into the hallway, but quickly returned to the classroom, just as the bell rang.
After mathematics came algebra, after algebra biology, and after biology, literature.
In literature class, the teacher gave us an in-class essay with the title: "What is a hero?"
We were given fifty minutes to write.
I spent most of the time thinking. If I wrote what I truly thought, maybe they'd consider me strange. Why strange? The answer is simple:
"In my opinion, a hero is an individual who possesses the highest personal qualities. A hero fights for others, not for himself. A hero puts his own existence, his future, in danger — just for one purpose: to help others. In most cases, the sweat and struggle of the hero is not valued, and he is easily forgotten. Time passes, and he disappears from history, as if no one ever expressed gratitude. In principle, a hero is a devoted knight who does not shed blood for thanks or for attention, but simply because he wants to help another. I don't know if this is foolishness or nobility, but I know one thing — I could never become such a noble knight, even after centuries. I don't really understand why people sacrifice themselves for others. Do they know that this society will never appreciate them? Do they know that their sacrifice will simply be buried with time? It hurts to think about it, it hurts to realize how easily people forget their courage. Heroes are not born, heroes are made by their actions. And yet, even heroes fall under society's judgment. People are ungrateful — it was always so, and always will be. The hero only has hope, that maybe, somehow, he will change something."
That is exactly what I wrote and turned in. I didn't know what else to add. Perhaps indeed, in today's society, showing kindness is simply stupidity.
The fifth class was social studies. I like social studies because there I can freely express my thoughts. As usual, I sat at the last desk by the window. The desk was wobbly.
The teacher entered late. She was a tall woman, with bluish eyes and long dark-brown hair. She wore a knee-length skirt and a shirt with blue stripes.
"Hello, Miss Luiza!" — we all greeted her. Some stood up, others didn't. With her left hand she motioned for us to sit. In her right hand she held papers.
There was unusual silence. Normally, my classmates filled the neighboring classrooms' walls with their laughter and chatter. This silence was a miracle — and of course, I enjoyed it.
Miss Luiza walked down the rows and handed out papers.
"This test will not be graded. You only need to write about yourselves," she told us in a calm voice, then sat down at her desk and started reading something.
We all slowly began writing.
The first question was: "Where do you see yourself in the future?"
The truth is, I don't see myself anywhere. I don't know what I want. And even if I did want something, I would probably give it up quickly.
If I were to describe the concept step by step, it would be like this: I like something → then I set it as my goal → soon I notice something more attractive → then I abandon the first and switch to the second. An endless cycle with no beginning and no end.
But I still had to write something, right? So I simply, honestly, wrote: "Lawyer."
You probably ask why lawyer? The answer is silly and simple: my father was a lawyer.
The next question was simple: "In your opinion, can a social group achieve more than an individual?"
We didn't have to explain, only to circle the answer.
In my opinion, the individual does not have the ability to achieve as much as a group can — although it depends on the environment. In most cases, dear reader, the people in the group create a greater danger to the group itself than to others. People are very selfish creatures. Everyone wants to be first, everyone loves attention, the feeling of standing above others and looking down. Everyone wants to express their opinion, and the abundance of opinions creates conflict. Conflict leads to either the group's disbandment or its weakening. When we want others to dance to our applause, those others also want us to dance to theirs. And this endless cycle of egoism creates never-ending conflict.
So I directly circled: Individual.
The next question was suspicious: "What does it mean for a factor to be correct?"
I considered the question very foolish.
What does it mean for a factor to be correct? It means that some fool does not utter endless, meaningless, delusional thoughts about an issue that is already based on facts. But sometimes, a seemingly intelligent person will state their "true" opinion even about a fact-based matter.
Let me ask you: if two writers go on a date, which of them wrote about it? Or maybe they didn't go at all? The one who lacks sound reasoning thinks both went on a date. The lack of sound reasoning sets limits on fools' possibilities. But neither answer would be correct, because the date was mentioned only in the writer's book. In the book, which is the author's invention.
An ignorant person will not even bother to understand, he will just throw out meaningless words and call himself right.
When I finished the third question, I noticed there were only three in total. I was very surprised, but simply handed my paper to the teacher and returned to my precious seat. Soon everyone else turned theirs in too. Miss Luiza put them aside and stood up.
"I want to ask you a little question before the lesson ends," she said with a sweet smile, then looked around the class.
"Imagine you are captured, and the ruler there asks you: will you save one person dear and beloved to your heart, or a hundred strangers? If you choose the one you love, all one hundred strangers will be killed and you will be released with your beloved. If you choose the hundred strangers, they will be freed — but your beloved will be killed."
The teacher smiled again. To me, that "gentle" smile seemed more like a snake's.
The class stayed silent for a long time. No one dared to speak. Any answer would ruin someone's reputation. But me? I have no reputation to lose. Proudly, I raised my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl on the left side of the class — the same unfamiliar one — also raised her hand at the exact same moment, in the exact same way.
Like wild, untamed animals, we both shouted out at once:
"Of course a hundred for one!" I shouted.
"Of course one for a hundred!" she shouted.
At the very same second, the very same moment.
"Are you stupid?!" I yelled.
"No, you are!" she shot back immediately. "What kind of fool sacrifices a hundred for one? Loved one or not, for society, those hundred people are far more useful!" She jumped up from her desk.
"Imagine, your beloved one will lose life because of your actions!" I shouted, also standing.
"And it's better that a hundred lose their lives because of you?!" she rushed toward me.
"Beloved and stranger are not the same!" I started quickly walking toward her.
"So what? A human is a human!" she said, now standing right in front of me.
When we came to our senses, we looked around. The teacher and all the students were staring at us, some laughing, some smiling. My face flushed. But the teacher, with a hushed voice, gestured to us:
"Continue."
We both nodded, then stared at each other like a tiger and a lion. And suddenly, I recognized her — she was the very girl from mathematics class, the one I had bumped into and returned the note to. Her eyes widened too; she must have recognized me.
"Imagine — a hundred people with families, children, wives — all will be leveled to the ground because of your ugly action," she told me quietly now.
Suddenly, for some reason, my mother's face flashed in my eyes. I have no friends, no relatives, only my mother. I would not give up my mother — not for a hundred, not even for a thousand lives.
"And will you carry the pain? The pain of losing the one you love? Especially when maybe you have no one else left?" I lowered my voice as well.
"You must be a devil, if you so easily sacrifice a hundred people for your own egoism!" she shouted.
The word "devil" made me flare up.
"If I am an egoistic devil, then you are a heartless, egocentric narcissist!" I shouted very loudly. I don't even know why I shouted so. Maybe because it was the truth — and truth hurts most of all.
For me, the only person, the beloved, is my own mother. To choose the hundred would mean betraying my mother.
The girl fell silent. At that moment, I studied her face carefully. In her chestnut-colored eyes I noticed weakness. I don't know how. She didn't say a word.
Thoughts ran through my head: Did I go too far? Did I say something I should not have?
Before I could dare to speak again, the bell rang. The girl grabbed her bag and rushed out. Everyone was staring at me, but the teacher said nothing, nor did anyone else. Only one student, from the middle row, shouted:
"You're the heartless one now!"
Everyone picked up their bags and left. The teacher also gathered her papers and went. I slowly walked to my desk, grabbed my bag, and left the classroom with heavy steps.
I felt lost, like a flower about to bloom but ripped from its roots before it could show its petals to the world. My head was full of meaningless imaginations. I felt like a sheep cast out from the flock — but that's exactly what I was.
I looked up at the sky. Clouds were drifting. I want to be one of them. I want to be a cloud. I want to be in the sky, looking down at everyone from above. A cloud that worries about nothing, just moving without even knowing where or why.
So I wandered the streets, hoping that an endless, invisible storm would erase my trace. I thought and walked for a long time, until I remembered that I wanted to pass by the cemetery after school. Without further thought, I headed there.
The way was long, but still I went. On the way I bumped into some drunk people. One of them even pushed me. The horrible smell of alcohol followed them — cheap cognac, I recognized it quickly. Not surprising, to be honest.
I grabbed one of them by the shirt and kicked him in the stomach. Before he came to his senses, the others dragged him away and ran. I continued down the asphalt.
In half an hour I was at the cemetery. In the sky I noticed crows circling. For a while I watched them above, then walked toward my father's grave.
When I reached it, I noticed the gravestone was cleaned — which I found very unusual. I didn't think about it much. I took off my bag and laid it on the grass. From inside I pulled out a small envelope, in which was a letter I had written.
Maybe my father is no longer in this world, but still I write letters to him. When you write and send a letter, you never know if it was read, or if it even arrived. I write letters and leave them on the grave until the wind takes them away.
Maybe it's foolish. Maybe I look like a pitiful young man sunk in grief. Maybe someone would even think I've gone mad. I don't care. I don't care what others think.
Of course, I don't want to hurt anyone, and I don't want to become the cause of anyone's sorrow. But sadly, or maybe luckily, no one can hurt me anymore, because I don't have anything left to take or destroy. Yes, I have my mother, the only person who still loves me. But even she might someday stop loving me, or worse — join the heavens.
I placed the letter gently before the gravestone and was about to leave, when I noticed a girl kneeling before another grave, doing something.
Soon I recognized her. It was the same girl in the red pullover.
For a moment I stood there, wondering whether to approach or not. But fatefully, I am a very curious person. So I went closer.
Step by step, I drew nearer, until I was right behind her. She didn't notice me until I spoke.
"Hello," I said quietly.
She jumped up, turned, and slapped me on the cheek. Then she stepped back, looked me over, and lowered her head.
"Sorry, I didn't see you," she said very softly, shyly. Clearly she was embarrassed and couldn't raise her head.
"No problem, it happens to everyone," I smiled. "To tell the truth, I should be the one to apologize, for startling you like that."
"No, no… really, I didn't notice you," she quickly lifted her head and began staring at my face.
"I came to apologize…" I said.
She looked surprised.
"Apologize? But for what?" I was shocked. Is she really so clueless?!
"For today, in class… I shouldn't have called you an 'egocentric narcissist.'" I lowered my head now.
Her face grew serious — apparently she hadn't recognized me at first.
"Oh. You…?" she rolled her eyes.
"I sincerely apologize!" I blurted out.
"In that case, I apologize too."
I lifted my head, astonished.
"But for what?"
"I also went too far. I shouldn't have called you a 'heartless egoist.' Even though your decision really was narcissistic." She smirked.
"I agree…" I nodded. She seemed surprised.
"You agree? That surprises me." Her lips curved into a beautiful smile.
Before I knew it, a smile appeared on my own lips too.
"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked, glancing at the grave, then back at her.
Her smile quickly faded, like a withering rose. She looked toward the gravestone.
"My mother rests here."
A shiver ran through me. My eyes widened. I was afraid to speak. Only now I realized why I had seen weakness in her eyes during class. Only now I realized that the egoist was me.
I wanted to drop to my knees and beg forgiveness. But she didn't change her expression. She simply looked at me and continued:
"She committed suicide."
That was the last bullet. The egoist wasn't her. It was me.
I know my own grief. I know what it is not to have a parent. But maybe she suffers ten times more than I do. Why had I never thought of that before? Why only now?
Her honey-brown eyes never left the gravestone. When I gathered my strength, I lowered my head and cried out:
"Sorry! Sorry for being such an idiot!" I stared down at the muddy ground, too scared to make eye contact.
Suddenly, she laughed.
"All right, all right. But what are you doing here?" she asked, half laughing, half puzzled.
I lifted my head. Looking at her face, I realized how much of an idiot I must have looked. My face burned red. After a few seconds I managed to put on a serious expression.
"My father rests here," I said, turning and pointing. Her smile fell.
"He died during the pandemic, three years ago."
When I saw her saddened face, I smiled, wanting to lighten her mood.
"I'm sorry… for calling you a devil," she said.
I chuckled. She smiled at my laughter. She had such a beautiful smile. I could watch those gentle lips forever. Truly, no one should judge another from afar — because from far away, things always appear less detailed than up close.
"Don't worry, it's all in the past."
I looked at her mother's grave again and noticed a letter lying there. She quickly realized I was looking at it.
"Yes, it's a letter," she said.
While she spoke, I couldn't stop watching her lips. God, I had never seen such a beautiful smile in my life. Suddenly it struck me that I still didn't know her name — which was really shameful. Before I could ask, she spoke first.
"You can call me Nina," she said. Her soft, warm voice went straight into my heart. I had never felt anything like it before. And how did she even know I was about to ask?
"And you…?" she looked at me.
"Arthur. You can call me Arthur!" I shouted nervously, without knowing why I was nervous. What was so special about her? What was it about Nina that made my heart scream like this?
Nina laughed. I laughed too.
"Arthur… I'm glad to meet you, Arthur." She extended her hand. I froze for a moment, then finally reached out and shook it.
"Now I have to go, sorry… but I'll be happy if you come here tomorrow at the same time, Arthur," she said, then slung her bag over her shoulder and ran off somewhere.
I didn't even manage to say goodbye. I stood watching until she completely disappeared.
I don't know what happened to me. For the first time in my life, I felt something like this. All people had always been the same to me, even those I'd known my whole life. But Nina — she was completely different from everyone.
Soon, I picked up my bag too and headed home.
The whole way home, I thought about Nina. I tried to switch my mind elsewhere, but no — only she was spinning in my head.
I soon reached home. As I entered my room, my bag slipped from my hand and fell.
My mother was sitting there, holding in her hands the letters I had written — the ones meant for my late father.
My heart trembled. In her eyes I noticed a trace of tears. I was afraid to speak, terribly afraid.
"I was at Alexander's grave today," my mother said. She turned toward me and looked me straight in the eyes. In that moment, it felt like I had left this world.
In her gaze I did not see anger, but clearly pity and pain. Suddenly, it struck me — the gravestone had been clean. I realized too late.
"Mother, please, listen to me…"
She nodded, stood up, and grabbed my hand.
"I don't want to… I don't want to, Arthur," she exhaled deeply. "I just don't understand why you hid all this from me?"
She let go of my hand. I stared at the floor, wishing I could sink into it. My eyes grew wet; tears were gathering. But I didn't want to cry in front of her.
The reason I never told her was because I didn't want her to feel pain. Mother works so hard, I know she does everything for me. She tries to replace father, because father was the center of my life. From morning till night — until sleep — father was always there.
When we struggled, he cheered us up. When I was in pain, he hugged me. For father, nothing was more precious in the world than me. I know that. Mother knows it too.
I love my mother, of course I do. But father was my world. Until I turned fourteen — three years ago. On my birthday, my sick father breathed his last.
Even when ill, he supported me and smiled. Tired, exhausted, suffering — he always smiled. I remember when I was six or seven, other children mocked me for my old shoes. I never told father, nor mother. I didn't want to cause problems.
But one evening, father found me in the yard, my eyes full of tears, one eye bruised. He forced me to tell everything. That very day he sold his wedding ring and bought me new shoes.
If only he were still alive — would I be able to love people?
When I regained consciousness, I found myself lying on the couch. Mother was sitting beside me, reading. She immediately noticed I had woken.
"Are you feeling better? You fainted when tears came." She smiled warmly at me.
I couldn't hold my emotions. I hugged her tightly.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry for keeping this secret," I said, clutching her.
But suddenly, mother laughed.
"Silly boy…" she chuckled again. "Don't worry. Of course it hurts that you kept it secret, but…" She inhaled deeply.
"I have no excuse!" I cried.
"I miss Alexander too. But we must accept his passing." She stroked my head. "I didn't read the letters."
Hearing that, I sighed in relief. I didn't know what to say. Or what I should say. I simply went to my room, closed the door, and lay on the bed.
I felt like a fish trapped in a net. I thought and thought, but I could not find justification for myself or my actions.
I just lay there like a dead body, staring at the ceiling.
Why was I born into this world? Does my life have a purpose? I can't do anything. I am just an object, whose existence proves itself only by disturbing others with its presence. Maybe I was born only to end up in this state? Maybe from the beginning, from the very start, my destiny was defeat?
I am afraid of the future. I am afraid of waking up tomorrow. I am afraid of meeting Nina. I am afraid simply of existing.
How many people might I lose? How much pain might I feel? But then again, will we truly live this life if we don't feel suffering and pain?
The feeling of pain and the instinct to avoid danger — both belong to animals and humans alike. In that sense, we are no different from them. The difference is only this: animals try to avoid physical pain. But we humans — both physical and moral.
Yet if we don't go through this valley of suffering till the end, will we ever taste eternity? Suffering is the path to healing and to strength — especially moral strength.
A man dies twice in his life — but the first death prepares him for the second.
When I looked at the clock, it was already ten. I quickly put on my striped pajamas and prepared for bed. My thoughts went to Nina.
Tomorrow, I will tell her everything. Yes, everything. She will either accept me as I am — or, if she doesn't, it means our meeting was never fate.
With these thoughts, I fell asleep.