Character: Storyteller

Live in a fairy tale, don't make friends with lies
And be only with true friends.
The more life is a fairy tale not similar
The more, then, the tales it needs.

You know, Vika, I don’t trust our medicine. It treats the effect, not the cause. “The reason is being treated in the church,” she dropped. “I have no strength to treat the cause.” I am sick and old. - Star ?! - exclaimed Vika. “Forty-three years old.” “I am old from another,” he answered calmly. - From constant pain. Pain ages very quickly. A month of such pain goes over five years of life. “But there are people in the clinic.” Also sick. So, those who understand your pain. You drove yourself here as a hermit. - Remember, Vika, not only a hungry man is not a comrade. Even more hungry, the hungry is not a friend. It used to seem to me that it’s easier for the patient to feel sorry for the patient. This is not true. Sick are all selfish. You can’t love people when something hurts you. You must first get rid of the pain. - Well, and friends? Colleagues? He smiled languidly. - What friends can a writer have? Colleagues? Writers are all like sick people. They are envious, selfish and selfish. In addition, my appearance is a pity. And I do not want to be spared. - He grimaced. “I don't want to be buried with touching, teary speeches.” I don’t want, having buried me in the ground, my friends would rush to the wake ... eat and drink. Vika felt irritation in the voice of the writer. “But who will look after you here?” she asked affectionately. - Ms. Yan. - Who? - the woman did not understand. - The dog that met you. Pekingese. I picked her up in a garbage dump, where her, sick and dying, were thrown away by loving owners. I picked her up. Now she serves me. There is no more devoted creature than a dog. Vika felt a reproach in her address and said nothing, believing that the writer was delirious. He spoke of the dog as a woman. “You just ... have suppressed the will,” burst out of her. - You do not want to look at the situation soberly. A quiet cracking laugh rang out in response to this remark. “With regard to will and sobriety, I will tell you a real story,” the writer said. “If you ever meet a talented writer, give him this story.” Let him write a good story. One girl was mistakenly diagnosed with cancer and was declared out of love for her neighbor that she had six months to live. The girl was very strong-willed and sober, and reasoned like this: since such a thing, then you need to make peace with all your loved ones, say goodbye to them, and only then you can go to the coffin. All of us, they say, will sooner or later find ourselves there. She began to say goodbye - literally, theatrically, in Chekhov's way, in a word - in Russian. A beloved young man who never showed his feelings, sobbed on her chest like a child. Everyone cried, prayed, asked her for forgiveness, carried her in her arms, like a child. They, too, said goodbye to her in Russian. This theatrical performance lasted six months. She liked the role of the dying heroine, she fell in love with herself. And suddenly - a call from the hospital! Excuse me, they say, an unfortunate misunderstanding came out. A girl who has cancer has the same name and surname. That girl died, you are absolutely healthy. Live and enjoy life. - The writer broke off and looked out the window, behind which was visible an old dried oak, once struck by lightning. “Do you think she was delighted with her resurrection?” A sober, strong-willed girl. Do you think she rushed to love life? No, dear Vika. It was a Russian girl, Chekhov's. She had already managed to fall in love with her touching, farewell dying, to cherish him. Having never told anyone about her miraculous resurrection, the girl said goodbye to all loved ones and laid hands on herself. “What a horror,” Vika muttered. “That's why I don't trust medicine,” said the writer. - She does not know how to tune a person to life. “Why are you setting yourself up for death?”

What enemies will do to us, while our hearts are hot? Nothing!