The most truthful one

- "Wrong! 162 to 256" - the sorka pointed out another error. "I don't know about you, but I want to know the solution to this problem!"

She improved her score and continued solving inequalities of the nth degree. She was a near-perfect student. Always prepared, polite, courteous, intelligent, hard-working, ambitious... But for some reason, the sorka called her to the board today. She already had several grades on her answers, probably the most in the entire class. Why was she asked? I didn't know - yet. She had often applied - unsuccessfully. Everyone knew she could do it. Why today? Why on a day when, after a sleepless night before a test, she was sitting at school, sleep-deprived, despite a persistent headache? The problem wasn't difficult. Just yesterday, she would have solved it flawlessly, adding another A to her journal. Meanwhile, she was laboriously trying to solve the problem, often getting tangled up in her answers.

The sorka was clearly nervous. Maybe that was the reason she'd asked her – she wanted to cheer herself up. Everyone had already figured out the solution to the problem; it was a commotion.

"Sit down and let me know when you learn!" she suddenly said, her voice impervious to argument.

"Sorry..." she uttered, her voice pleading and breaking, but the rest of the sentence seemed to remain. She simply lowered her head and slowly approached her desk. She was crying. The girls tried to comfort her, but she only sobbed silently. I'd never particularly cared about grades, but I truly felt sorry for her.

"Thirty-two to the blackboard!" the teacher exclaimed, exasperated.

This time, there were no major problems, at least not with solving the problem. A moment before the end of the proof, footsteps could be heard in the hallway. Someone seemed to be running. It wasn't a loud clatter, but in the almost absolute silence of the room, it almost sounded like a bang. The door flew open. A young girl appeared. She looked very tired. She must have been running for a long time. She leaned back on the first bench, breathing heavily. She was truly beautiful, but her beauty was effectively masked by the fear that etched itself across her beautiful face. She was dressed in jeans and a light blouse. But that wasn't what drew everyone's attention to her. The blouse was torn… She held her side, stemming the slow flow of blood. She stood there for only a second, but it felt like an eternity. A boy rose from his chair…

"Iwa's dead…"

But he fell back, resigned.

"…Pidi…Black…Shower…and Maru too," she practically whispered, catching her breath. "I managed to escape…they'll be here soon…"

He closed his eyes, sitting motionless. Not a single muscle in his face twitched, not a finger moved. He simply sat with his eyes closed, impassively, as if his mind were elsewhere.

Finally, he looked at her.

"You need to be treated," he stood and approached her, walking slowly and purposefully.

"It's just a scratch. We have to run! They'll be here soon," she said in one breath.

"We won't get far if you bleed out! Please mark me absent.

" "Only for this hour?

" "No! For the rest of my life..." he almost articulated after a moment, as if considering his answer.

They left the classroom, leaving her school bag and a huge, red pool of blood on the parquet floor. He put his arm around her neck and lifted her, seeing that every step caused her pain. He hurriedly carried her to the nurse's office.

***

"Could you treat her?"

"Oh my God! What happened?

" "Gunshot wound." Those who did this could be here at any moment, so please hurry," he said with Spartan calm. "Please don't ask for details."

The nurse obediently removed the first aid kit from the lounger and ordered it to be placed on the bed.

"Please disinfect the wound and stop the bleeding. After that, you'll never see us again." She looked at them in surprise.

The doctor found a vial and approached the patient, picking up a new, clean syringe along the way.

"Don't bother with the anesthesia! Time is of the essence, and I won't be able to function normally after the anesthesia. I'd like to live until tomorrow," she said expressively.

The syringe was placed back on the table, and the nurse again pulled something out of the glass cabinet. It was hydrogen peroxide.

"This is going to hurt!" she said, just before pouring it over the wound.

The girl tensed every muscle in her body to the limit, and a bitter grimace of unimaginable pain appeared on her face. But she made no sound. She didn't scream, closing her eyes with all her might and biting her lower lip with her tiny teeth until it bled. Her hands tightened on the paper sheet, which had been luminous white just moments before. He grabbed her hand, wanting to offer even a little relief. After a moment, she took a breath and looked deep into his eyes, thanking him.

The nurse couldn't believe what she saw. Despite the immense pain, the girl hadn't uttered a single sound, and… that gaze, deep, full of gratitude and love… despite her youth, so mature. Without a word, she reached for a tube of some ointment and then bandaged the wound at the level of her lower right ribs. The wound looked terrible, but there was no time to examine it thoroughly and dress it.

"Just a moment. I'll give you a tetanus shot," she said, taking the syringe again and a new vial – let him take one every hour." She handed him a pack of pills, which he automatically slipped into his pocket. She looked at her again in admiration.

He approached her and was about to pick her up…

"Relax, I'll manage," she said, sitting down. He embraced her and helped her up.

"Thank you, and goodbye.

" "Goodbye." They left. These people seemed strange, somehow… as if truly human, even though they didn't express their feelings… or thoughts. Simply keeping them to themselves, like someone with nothing else left, even though they perfectly understood each other's feelings. They were silent, savoring every moment together. Lost in the current of their own thoughts, their own thoughts, their autobiographical winks and sighs. They knew. A lifelong escape awaited them, from a letter stuffed with monotonous numbers—death reeking between the lines.

***

She let him lead her. She still felt intense pain, though it was much weaker than the one… from the office. They passed classroom after classroom. There were still a few minutes until the bell, so the hallway was empty. They reached the stairs and slowly descended them to the bottom. They both knew it would be best to exit through the back exit, so that's where they headed. Finally, they left the school.

But it was too late. Several black Mercedes were parked a few meters from the door.

They went back inside. They ran. There was a bang. Faster! Another, another… Faster! She slipped from his grasp. Two steps further, he stopped and turned around. She was lying on her stomach. So beautiful, her hair streaming. Like an angel accidentally flung from the stars. She lay on her stomach, her head slightly tilted to the right. Her hands clenched into fists. She looked as if she were about to jump up and resume her flight. Her right hand slowly opened… it was too late. A small spot appeared on the back of her head, darkening possessively against the backdrop of her beautiful, long, luminously light blond hair, which fell freely over her shoulders. Gradually, this spot covered larger and larger areas of her lovely head, as if wanting to possess her all to itself. She was dead!

Panic flashed across his face. He ran to her. His legs gave way. Several people from nearby rooms leaned out to see what was causing the noise. They quickly hid. Only one remained – a keen observer – hidden around the corner.

But he, ignoring everything, picked her up, placed her on his lap, and hugged her. A tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another, another, and another… He stared into her large, blue eyes – with enlarged pupils, open a little wider than usual. He pressed her tightly to him, wetting her already worn blouse. After a moment, he kissed her passionately. Her lips were still warm, but for the first time, she didn't respond. His face became impassive again, only his eyes betraying fear. But what was he truly afraid of?

Until then, he hadn't even noticed that a dozen people in dark suits had surrounded them. He stood up and looked deeply into each of their eyes. He slowly and proudly approached one of them, who seemed to be the boss.

"Why?" he asked in a calm, if slightly trembling voice.

"Where were you last night, around 10:30?

" "We saw a few people getting into a car and driving away quickly. But is that a reason to kill?… Is that a good enough reason to kill eight people?

" "Did you see their faces?

" "Yes!"

"Then tell me!

" He turned and pointed at her.

"Guess what I'll tell you about this – you loser. She ran here to warn me, even though she was wounded." A pause. "Why did you kill them? I need to know!" he said excitedly.

"They were running away, so they were guilty!" came the reply.

"Or they simply didn't know if they were being chased by yesterday's pursuers or by their pursuers. What did they do to deserve death?"

"They stole a very important painting..." he didn't finish, because the boy's expression seemed to change from one of regret and fear to one of contempt. He stepped closer to him, still gazing deeply into his eyes. Like two titans fighting in an eternal war of desires, divided by the outdated ideals of the Star Wars universe. They stood motionless, as if sizing each other up. Suddenly, the boy struck him with all his might. When the man straightened up, he looked deeply into his eyes again.

"I really loved her!" he said after a moment, calmly again, maintaining eye contact. "There are far too many desperate people in the world!" he emphasized, and slowly aimed his gun at his heart.

"Shoot!" he said with an impassive face.

"Shoot!" he repeated after a moment. "If you have the courage! Desperate people."

A shot rang out. It took the boy a few seconds to sink to the dance floor – the eternal arena of dancers. He lay in an unnatural position, but as he fell, as if with the last of his strength, he guided his hand towards her smooth palm. They lay there, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes. They lay motionless, petrified, dead. Sisyphus's bone scythe had reached them. Three people were already rolling the Tartarus boulder monotonously up the hill. They had raised the peak themselves, leaving the bundle at its foot. They had lost hope, believing only in each other. This was the end… or perhaps someone would once again bury the low, trampled, four-times-blown peak…

This was the end of their earthly existence. Yet, their souls, tangled in an inextricable knot, fly away to the "Station of Eternal Happiness." Only now are they truly powerful, truly rich, truly happy. They possess what few have ever possessed. They understood what few have grasped. They have everything they desire, everything they covet, everything they want. No one will disturb their peace, no one will threaten them, nothing will separate them. They will always be together, tangled in a Gordian knot of emotions. Alex had long since died, had stepped down from the pedestal of fate, and would never separate them again.

No one dared to move. Everyone was frozen in awe of their love, loyalty, and character. They wondered what each of them would have done in her place, or in his.

Would they be a hero of their own conscience or its victim? A victor or a loser.

"Well, that's the end of the mission," one of the men in suits said after a long moment.

"Yes... that's the end!" came the reply.

Returning to the car, the commander pondered intensely: "What made him make such a decision? Why did he sign and almost single-handedly execute the sentence? He could have said what he knew and left! Why didn't he? Or maybe he was lying... No! Those eyes... Why did he prefer to die than..."

Inheritance

They no longer wanted to sit in the kennel,

Falling in the illusion of sin.

Overwhelmed by the passion of love,

They died at the hands of the present.

Why did they die so proudly,

Still kneeling by their holy coffin?

Smothered by hellfire ,

They defied mortals.

Eternal outcasts of society,

Furious messengers of martyrdom?

They couldn't bear the onslaught of money

, The only Spartans of honor;

In the fields of human fallowness,

They knew the bitter taste of stubbornness!

They criticized the works of sin,

To the sounds of universal laughter.

Like a love story worthy of the devil,

It didn't end in bastardy.

Seeking a happy ending,

They didn't see the beautiful sun.

Their holy, organic work

Was supposed to cure humanity's hangover.

But it didn't work out, it didn't work out,

They still had little money.

Every shepherd will surely say:

"No! It's not worth it."

The world is ruled by fame and power,

everyone only indulges themselves.

Long-term plans were said:

We will not yield to spontaneity!

Yet freedom appeared

, and no harmony prevailed!

A state of eternal harmony did not arrive –

Thoughts perished in agony!

And such a herd arrived,

They care about money, not people!

What counts is fame, power, cash,

When neither father nor belt are felt.

This is the end of their torment;

Alexander the Great is gone.

A little was said, revealed,

Royal sins were not betrayed.

Much was spent and passed over in silence,

Misguided respect was confessed!

Money, money, money was still desired,

Unconditional obedience was demanded.

Bankruptcy is a deniable fact

. Here is another piece of ill-fated evidence.

Another unique fate,

And a fatal coincidence of circumstances.

The sanctity of life is proof of death,

of an unfinished existence.

They came and went,

They were constantly being born.

Their lie, their request, their promise,

But judgment is like a gun.

These words will flow across the soil,

Because they will never reach you.

They flow, still flowing far and wide,

You don't want to – you won't understand, you know it well.

You don't think about that amoeba anymore,

Still scraping your snout across the soil!

You act like a female praying mantis,

Unhearing the marching intestines beside you.

Why? Your belly keeps growing wider!

You don't want to – you won't understand, you know it well.

It's too late for

this value, it's already the decline of dignity.

You have a tragic excess of humor

Over the eternal price of honor.

The final twilight of morality,

a parasite of the poor man's trust.

No one gave you a bank loan;

he sold everything he could.

He gave his possessions to the richer,

always refused alms.

He loudly praised a beautiful mind,

yet refused criticism.

Memories, moral values,

How unique in the world.

This coercive tactic is common,

with a twilight effect.

I bring rather bad news –

a follower of hip-hop.

Not rich, yet poor,

who will never see Etna again.

And a trip to the Cherry Blossoms

might be a dream during the holidays.

Morality is the only weapon,

the desperados will quickly catch up with him.

They will trample him, shoot him, tarnish him,

because they love only lies.

He screams louder, ever louder,

They quietly, ever more joyfully.

The world, great, beautiful, the magnificent world,

Like the Titanic—not quite whole anymore.

They praised him to the skies,

Though now he's stripped of his glory.

He speaks the truth, he babbles well;

Why did he fall? Perhaps you know.

Oh, glorious fate, torn apart

by money and war, dragging battering rams.

After all, he was supposed to heal our wounds,

But he himself is being torn apart!

Going against the current of languid water,

Like a dirty tourist trail.

Truth, like Baudelaire's poems,

Which no one wants to read today.

He never wrote on tracing paper.

But he thinks, he still speaks. He will take up this fight

and lose, he will copy through the water,

So he no longer laments the water.

He did not renounce his word

Because of the truth, because he sought the truth!

He spoke because he thought and knew.

What he didn't believe—he didn't say.

He didn't say, "Sorry, I forgot."

He could have said, "I didn't give up"!

And the platoon fired in regret,

But no one changed their mind.

He was dying and dying in his cell.

Who would dare support him?

No one, no one, no one anymore—everyone is afraid

that this wound won't heal.

Intolerance—a high price,

when the object of respect changes.

Truth be told—the support of others

is completely unnecessary at the outset.

These questions are rhetorical,

not coincidences, but beautiful ones.

He mumbled something here and said something there:

Put it in order, and you will know.

Otherwise, laziness is spreading everywhere.

The end of the world! And what will it be?

A Romeo and Juliet

or still child's play? Today, no one will understand

embalmed mummies and hieroglyphs. This is a testament to difficult thought, not to such a pernicious ideology. You'll say I'm a whiner, s

o I'll scream: "Hypocrisy rules here!" "To be, or to have," you might ask. Do you want it? After all, you are, so only to have! Are you seeking oblivion in your money? So write a testament of conscience! Is this the face of your possessions? So write a testament of conscience... Do you take happiness so casually? So write a testament... of conscience.