M is expecting me somewhere in another hospital. It passed 6 months. He could not feel his legs. He dreams that he runs. He dreams he’s flying. M accustomed not to tell anyone anything. He prefers to remain silent. He is not talking over 6 months. His mother complains 6 months. His father no longer looks in the eye. M does not have anything to say without seeming pathetic or strident. He never was pathetic. Even this whole thing "you will do well" is tiring. M does not have anything. He’s just very tired.
Now they have moved to chronicles. He makes gymnastics. At first I found it interesting idea. He hopes that specialists will make him move. " kinetotherapy " comes from the movement, the movement therapy. Surely that means. Perhaps they know how to do this. They are "physiotherapists". The legs will hear. Undoubtedly this will be. And mother will stop wailing. His father will look again in the eye. He leaves the mountain with his friends. It sure will not take long.
6 months and none of this has not happened. The legs did not listen at all. And there are these wounds with strange names: bedsores. An ugly word. Sounds scary. I mean it's just to scare him. Some have names nasty stuff. The pus is flowing from M, but he feels nothing. In fact many things flow from it. His body is foreign. It was fine when he felt like a stone. Now he is an enemy. It needs tubes, catheters, all sorts of things, a wheelchair, help. Especially helpful and many sterile dressings. Permanent smells like iodine and urine. It's not his body. Is the Waiting. How? Nobody knows. "Dottore, you know all things. Tell me how long is this mess. " Dottore has kind eyes and always joking with M. He’s the doctor's lounge. He's my father. He’s my good father who comes home in tears.
Dottore/The doctor told him to go back to school. The life goes on. Stupid stuff. "I mean, life goes on, but I DO NOT!" Is what M dare to call out to the doctor's lounge. "Not. That's it. "But let's see how it is with this life that we do not know how or why, go ahead. For what? M feels that the truth snatched his soul and took his air. In fact, he does not feel anything. These drugs have no heart. Fever is good. Death is hot, hot, simmering quietly dying in M, while he hallucinates with boulders coming to crush him. Run out of their way, but they follow him growing, giant rumbled deafening. Invariably he wakes up sweaty, disappointed. There are a variety of lust into a nightmare. There he feels even horror. He Runs. He lives really in a nightmare.
I killed a cherry - enjoy my new work. In the end of the series you will understand the title. It took a long time finish this story so you can enjoy! I wait your thoughts!
