FRIEND, DO YOU WANT TO DIE?

The day had been overcast since morning, and there was no indication that the rest of the day would be more conducive to walking. But that didn't matter to him. He liked days like these when it rained, and the streets seemed deserted and deserted. He could walk freely then, without being subjected to the foolish comments of others. He laboriously pushed his cart, which held his entire life's possessions. This unusual piece of luggage squeaked softly with his uneven steps, the only pleasant sound he understood.

He didn't know where he would end up today or where he would end up today. It didn't really matter, though. He hoped he would finally find what he was looking for, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

It was deserted and quiet, despite the approaching noon. That was the way this neighborhood was when acid rain fell; no one wanted to risk their health unnecessarily. That feeling was gone now, and it didn't really matter whether he got sick or not. He also hoped he wouldn't collapse at some point. They would take him to the hospital and recondition him. And he didn't want that anymore. He didn't want to fight for a life that no longer mattered to him.

"Hey, friend, do you want to die?" a voice said above him.

He turned and saw a silver car. Two young officers were watching him intently. One of them held a microphone, waiting for his response.

"Not today," he replied quietly, but his voice reached them. They waved and continued on their way. He was alone again, and he could continue laboriously pushing his wheelchair. One word would be enough to end his suffering. The question of whether he wanted to die today mattered. If he agreed, they would take him to the hospital and grant him one more wish. They would spare him the last 24 hours of his life. He could ask for anything, as long as he signed a certain paper and wanted to die. Maybe he did, but not like this. A person's death should have some special ceremony, one he hadn't even imagined. But it should be something unique and special. It's ridiculous, he thought. To die in a special way, one that would speak volumes only to himself. It was probably true what they said about people like him. About death-seekers who wouldn't die until they found it. He was made of steel, immune to acid rain and accidents. He had once been hit by a bus full of cheerful company. The driver didn't even notice he'd hit something. He was thrown several meters, and his cart shattered into pieces. He was unharmed and picked himself up a moment later, as if he'd merely slipped on the wet sidewalk. The police weren't the only ones searching for people like him. There were others, more menacing, and they didn't wait long for an answer. Many made a living by finding people who wanted to die, which is why they didn't often appear on the streets. Because they summoned the searchers, and they aroused fear in the people.

So he continued walking, the rain falling more and more insistently. He just wanted to reach the end of the street, where, in a small bend, lay the entrance to the sewers. There he decided to spend the rest of the day.

"Friend, do you want to die?" he heard the question again. This time he was a little frightened. It definitely wasn't the police. He turned and saw a fat man in a long nylon coat and a wide black hat. He held a pistol in his hand and was aiming it at him. He didn't have many chances left, and not much time. Maybe a few seconds before the other man pulled the trigger. He looked like a hunter, a professional. They knew where to shoot so he wouldn't actually die, but would instead fall, paralyzed by the loss of impulses to his brain. He had the words on his lips when, somewhere to the side, someone spoke.

"Leave him alone, he won't die like that!"

He saw an old woman leaning against the wall of a building, a cigarette in her mouth. Despite the cold and rain, she wore only a long shirt. The man aimed the gun at her and asked.

"Friend, do you want to die?

" "Yes, do your duty," the woman replied.

Then he fired. The woman fell, or rather sat down, but her expression didn't change. A precise shot to the right nerve fibers rendered her a living corpse. Her brain was working, but none of her muscles or senses were. All was saved, standing rooted to the wet pavement, unable to move.

A moment later, out of nowhere, several thugs appeared and grabbed the woman. He didn't even look at her closely. Who was she that she had so surely given her life for him? And why shouldn't he die this way? If not this way, then how?

He stood there for a long moment, unable to move. No one had ever sacrificed their own life for him. Especially not in such a strange and incomprehensible way. He now resented himself for leaving the sewer and showing himself to people. Daylight wasn't a good advisor for such decisions. Perhaps he had already matured and truly wanted to die. Had his subconscious given him thoughts of the moment of his final end?

He now felt a great distaste in his heart, and he couldn't forgive himself for what had happened. He couldn't forgive himself because he was of such little value. He was a nobody, and for someone who was a nobody, surely you wouldn't sacrifice your life in such a way? Death-seekers, as he undoubtedly was, didn't do it that way. They either didn't stick their noses out of their holes, or they said without a murmur or a second thought that they wanted to die. Even to hunters who offered nothing for an ordinary, sometimes battered life. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He had already cried all his tears in his life, he felt it, even though he couldn't remember anything. He didn't know who he was or what he was doing in this world. Someone had once told him he was a death-seeker and that he would die because that was his destiny. But then, that was the destiny of every man, everyone who, like him, didn't want to live. Who was he, and why wasn't he allowed to say that saving word?

"Friend, do you want to die?" he heard the same words for the third time that day. In a narrow side street he hadn't noticed before, he saw another woman. She stood shrouded in a gray cloak, obscuring her appearance. This time, however, he didn't hesitate to say anything.

"Yes! I want to die!

" "Then come with me. You will die as you deserve," she said, turning and walking away down the street.

He left the cart and followed her. Wherever she led him, she was his Mistress. He belonged to her now—from the moment he had given his consent. And nothing could change that.