Mr. World's last memories

first

Victor World. December 20, 2012, 10:45 p.m.

Psychiatric hospital of St. Monica. Registration point.

In the booth sat Richard Elmarsh, Nicholas Ive. The hospital departments were calm. Extra bypass is needed, but you should go quietly so as not to wake you up. Those who could smash the hospital were locked up. I stood near the window, looked at how my colleagues drank tea, ate cookies and discussed issues in a crossword puzzle, called with me. We boldly went.
In the first section lay "cartoonists".

Silence. In the second, the “Lunatic” walked several people, opened the window leaves, closed the doors, woke up due to harsh sounds and hid under the covers.

Boring. The third room was scary. In the fourth, there were drunkards. In the fifth - gamblers. In the sixth, those with brain injuries. In the seventh - aggressors. In the eighth - those suffering from epilepsy. In the ninth, somatics. In the tenth - from "dementics" to "peaks". These are the people who lived in the hospital. It was clear that the surgeon is needed everywhere.

Bypassing did not give any results, as if a dream helped to lead an adequate lifestyle.
However, with the onset of dawn twilight, a stir appeared in the sixth and seventh divisions, and five doctors still had wonderful dreams. Not ready for such a twist of fate.
- It's still dark! Let me sleep! I asked.
But still, Nicholas woke up.
- Mind woke up! Let's go to! - said Nicholas.
So they found boxes of ice water, built long hoses, connected the device to the water tower, and then dragged the colossus into the rooms, pouring frozen water on those who broke things and tried to slip through the ventilation or balconies outside the hospital fence; coped with electricity, but the rebels broke the brackets on the doors, threw firecrackers into the reception rooms.
Aggressive patients understood where the cans and tanks with chemical poison stand, took the remaining devices, launched a chemical - compounds of fluorine, potassium permanganate, nitrate, sulfur. The territory turned out to be infected, ours lost consciousness due to a lack of oxygen, and six of them had torn tissues on their clothes, and they died immediately.
When I retreated to the second floor, I, Richard, and the department head discovered the cabinets with gas masks and protective suits in time, dressed, got out of the shelter. After - they ran with guns at psychopaths, shot and chopped down those who dared to attack. Some quiet patients were dragged to the third floor, at a sobering station, windows and doors were closed, the rooms were cleaned, the dead were thrown into the "black" exit, information was taken, they left the infirmary together with quiet patients, and the entrances were locked. The building was lit with multi-colored fire and burned down. Gas valves exploded. A lot of dead.
Here the bandits were treated, did not think about it, only fulfilled our duties. And the city leaders fled with those who hid before the accident.
Nicolas just waved a hand in which he held notebooks and left. Coffee should have drunk more than necessary, otherwise such a sad event would not have missed. Now I'm sitting at the table, looking out the window and see dead silence.

Recently, I recalled the words of Igor Huberman - “Today, having drank coffee in the morning, the wondrous one felt calm; it’s funny: I know that I’ll die, but there is no faith in it,” and thought: “Why?” There is a hunch, an obsession, the surrounding space becomes a stranger, and the person himself feels it. " No encouraging answer could be found. Unless - to go down the street and go to a psychologist, conduct counseling classes to forget about a strange event.
They said on the radio that the city administration, together with the police, had gone to a healthy area, a dome was held over the buildings, and the gates were closed.
Again, the TV in the living room shows multi-colored stripes, the cat is looking at the cabinet door, although there is no reason for this. The house used to have no such neglected appearance, but people lived in the city. I leave the hallway, open the door and go out into the street.
The city is dead, ghosts walk when the sun rises at noon. And in the house there is order, calmness, but the mustiness is the same as in the other person.
Mikhail Bulgakov wrote the words in the book “The Master and Margarita”: “Pay attention to the profile in the moonlight - the cat climbed into the moonlight and still wanted to talk, but they asked to shut up, and, answering:“ Ready to be silent. I’ll be a silent hallucination, ”he said nothing.”
Although I often walk around the night space, letting the wind blow through my jacket. So sorry for myself, the rain pours in five days, according to the schedule. I continue to be saddened and recall the past.
Igor Huberman is the kind of person who typed a lot of thoughts.

For example, this one: “Call late at night, friends, do not be afraid to interfere and wake you up; the hour is terribly near when it is impossible and nowhere to call..." And that is also true.