Читать книгу Mission 777 Possible - Марина Спроуз - Страница 49

Today, a young priest visited my apartment, sprinkling holy water and drawing symbols on the wallpaper. Nothing helped, it even got worse. I couldn’t sleep at night and didn’t even read the Gospel. Electric shocks tormented me all night; closing my eyes, I only saw graves.

I simply died… I ate only because I had to, my body refused to digest food, and my body was exhausted from endless agony and insomnia, I lost weight.

“It feels like I’m dead…

They buried me, there… a hill behind the garden,

Where the eternal frost is, where they melted the soul,

Burned it, poisoned it with a potion.

I barely breathed, the lilacs bloomed,

I inhaled their aromas and scents;

And in the evenings I walked somewhere,

I walked in the morning, by the clock and thoughts.

I talked to my soul, is it dead?..

Do you hear, where are you? In which direction?

It froze as if inside me,

Give me the number of the soul’s ICU urgently.

I spoke again… the blizzard blew,

Howled, scattered tracks,

Along which I quietly walked again,

To the soul’s ICU, if I have enough strength…”

Evening. My face in the mirror, no… not mine. I see the face of a monster in flames, two bumps or horns on the head; eyes – two bulging spheres burning with a ruthless fire, who is this… The image changes to another face – it’s Jesus, with long hair, I feel Jesus in me, in my body. And again – the Devil – Jesus, flickering like slides in the mirror.

Aznavour – someone’s name echoes in my head, maybe I misheard the sounds. Who is this Aznavour…