The Good Mother 1988

Mark sat in the car as it slowly rolled through the brightly lit streets of Cambridge at midday. The sun's rays reflected off the windows and the paving stones, casting a bright light all around. A light breeze fluttered his hat, but Mark did not notice. He was dressed in his usual railroad engineer's attire, which he always wore with a slight aristocratic edge. A black jacket and trousers, a white shirt buttoned to the top, and a formal black waistcoat - all this made up his almost theatrical image.

He had his pince-nez on again, his third since arriving in Cambridge. The previous two had been broken in the most unpleasant circumstances, during clashes with people from the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. Mark had been tormented for a long time about whether it was worth spending money on such a thing again, but in the end he decided that money was one thing, and eyesight was another, because without his pince-nez he could not even see the road properly.

He nervously tugged at the end of his tie, trying to concentrate on something that could distract him from his many worries and anxieties. The street he was driving on was busy - people, cars, trucks with goods passing by. Everything seemed normal, but the feeling that something was wrong did not leave him. Questions were racing through his head: what will happen next? How will he cope with the situation he found himself in? Everything that had happened lately seemed like part of some crazy dream from which he could not wake up.

At that moment the car stopped at some building, and Mark, tearing his gaze away from the window, shook himself a little, as if returning to reality. The driver opened the door, and Mark, getting out of the car and paying the taxi driver, headed forward, already habitually adjusting the bag he was carrying in his left hand. With his right he held a black cap, trying to put it on in a hurry as he headed toward the building.

The midday sun was shining brightly on the streets of Cambridge, and the city around him was still pulsing with life, but Mark was preoccupied with his own thoughts. He fidgeted nervously with his tie, feeling his nerves tense with every step he took. He had just left a rather tense meeting, and the atmosphere of Cambridge was not reassuring. He couldn't shake the feeling that the further he went into the city, the more he felt the pressure.

Crossing the threshold of the building, he stopped in the lobby, straightened up and tried to pull himself together. He quickly tried on his cap, but did not put it on completely - his gait was more confident, but he was clearly in a hurry. There was an elegant atmosphere in the air - aristocratically dressed gentlemen in formal suits and ladies in elegant dresses stood around. They all looked calm, confident, absorbed in conversation and preparation for meetings. Several people were talking, moving towards the stairs, and Mark involuntarily felt how their gaze stopped on him. It was an unpleasant feeling when you suddenly become the center of attention in such a crowded, but quiet and noble environment. Nerves played with him, and all this time he did not stop trying to put on his cap, but a nervous movement of his hand led to it accidentally slipping off his head and falling.

The cap hit the floor with a loud click. Mark turned around sharply, trying to hide his irritation and awkwardness, but seeing the reactions of those around him, he realized that the only option was to restrain himself. There were several people standing in the lobby, just at that moment when he ran into the very man he had long expected to run into - a stern aristocrat with an expression on his face that clearly assessed what had happened. All eyes were glued to his awkwardness, and Mark's face instantly turned red with embarrassment. He leaned over, feeling how these seconds seemed like an eternity, and with effort picked up his cap, trying not to make unnecessary movements.

The eyes of the others continued to follow him closely, and he quickly, in order not to give these glances a reason for further observation, stood up and, without stopping for a second, shrank into himself. He took his cap in his hands and continued up the stairs without raising his head. He felt completely uneasy, and each step was difficult, as if his movement was slowed down, and the internal tension only increased due to awkwardness.

Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to himself, Mark made another attempt to climb to the second floor, feeling his tension increase with each step. He held his cap in his hands, as if this object could become some kind of talisman for him that would protect him from everything that frightened him in this environment. It seems that he thought that if he held it tighter, he would be able to curb his fears and feel at least some confidence.

But when he was almost at the bottom of the stairs, before he could even comprehend what had happened, he suddenly bumped shoulders with someone, and his fragile composure crumbled. The world around him seemed to freeze, and he cried out in panic, feeling his body lose its support. Instinctively, he leaned against the white railing, trying to grab onto something to keep from falling, but his legs lacked confidence. At that moment, he felt the ground slipping out from under his feet. As if in slow motion, he saw his cap slip from his hand and, after making several circles in the air, fall to the floor.

A crowd immediately gathered around him. The aristocrats, in suits and moustaches, who had been pulled out of their conversations, looked at him as if he were a strange phenomenon, and several ladies with haughty expressions on their faces immediately froze, their gaze pierced by undisguised curiosity. However, there was no sincerity in these glances - rather a cold observation, as if his presence in this place was inappropriate.

Mark couldn't help but notice how his world began to distort smoothly through his pince-nez glasses. The faces of everyone around him began to blur and become ghostly, their expressions becoming distorted, sinister, as if they were not people but the faces of the devil himself, holding him in a trap. Ladies, men, old people - all these faces began to melt into a faceless mass, and for Mark, watching them became unbearable. They were not just observers. They were judges, pointing fingers at him.

He noticed an old man with gray hair and a dark suit come closer and start talking. But there was no point in listening to him. Mark couldn't hear a single word. There was a terrible hum in his head, as if the sounds were multiplying, overlapping each other, as if there were too many voices and they were merging into one deafening cacophony. Everything around him was eclipsed by this noise, and he felt his consciousness losing control.

Suddenly, something strange and disturbing happened, as if reality had begun to lose its outlines. First, the light on the stairs, as if by magic, went out, and pitch darkness fell around him. Mark fidgeted in panic, trying to turn his head to see at least something in this impenetrable darkness. He strained his eyes, but did not see a single silhouette, not the slightest movement. The silence around him became more and more oppressive, as if absorbing everything that had just happened. An internal noise grew in his head, as a response to this invisible threat, filling his consciousness with anxiety and growing panic.

But suddenly, a column of bright purple and red lights burst from the ceiling. The light was so intense and unnatural that for a moment Mark felt as if he had entered some fantastic scene, where everything that was happening was just a figment of his nightmarish thoughts. These lights painted everything around in unhealthy shades, and in their light everything seemed so unreal that Mark barely had time to understand what was happening. He closed his eyes in blindness, but before he could look away, he saw a figure in this unusual light.

At the bottom of the stairs, standing there, was Jordan Thurlow. His snow-white suit, including his cap, stood out in this unusual light, which seemed almost magical. He was like the embodiment of something supernatural. Thurlow stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking straight at Mark. His face was slightly raised, his eyes were closed, and his expression was at one point reminiscent of prayerful ecstasy. He did not move, his body remained motionless, as if he were part of this strange and disturbing light.

Mark froze. He didn't know what it was, but something about the way Thurlow looked at him made him feel like he was in another world. A world where everything was normal, but at the same time there was a feeling of something wrong and monstrous in the air. And no matter how hard he tried to control himself, this feeling of despair, like something inevitable, would not leave him.

Jordan Thurlow stood as if in a trance in the glow of those purple and red lights, and his body began to move with astonishing grace, like a preacher standing before his congregation. He raised both hands to the ceiling, his face filled not only with determination but with something holy, so that it began to look like a real ritual. His eyes, closed in a moment of silent prayer, seemed filled with an inner ecstasy, as if he heard unknown voices guiding him.

Then his eyes opened and his voice, rich and loud, echoed through the empty staircase, which sounded like a temple space. He spoke words filled with confidence and ominous solemnity:

"Brothers and sisters, let us offer a prayer to the Lord our Savior!" His voice seemed to rise up, stretching out like a cry. "For The Final Conflict is coming, a fierce battle that will determine the future of our world!"

With each word, his hands began to wave in the air more and more violently, as if he were trying to recreate the great act of power that was supposed to change everything. His fists clenched and he shook them as if he held fate itself in his hands, emphasizing the importance of each word he spoke.

At the last words, his hands made a bright, almost threatening gesture, and his gaze was directed straight at Mark, as if he were part of this final battle that Jordan spoke of.

"The police, as always, turn a blind eye to the enemies of democracy!" he continued, sharply pointing his finger at Mark. "They don't see what we see! They only weave empty rumors and pass laws that only prevent America from dropping an atomic bomb on Soviet Russia, this country inhabited by bloodsuckers whose rebellious speeches poison the virgin minds of our children and youth!"

Jordan seemed to spit out the words like poison, his eyes burning with a fire of confidence and sacrifice, as if he was speaking not only for himself, but for all those who he believed understood the true threat.

"Only we," he continued, his voice sounding with majesty, "only we can save democracy from the red threat and lead all of America forward, into the bright future of capitalist utopia!"

He paused, as if giving his words time to dissolve into the air, to penetrate the hearts and minds of those who could hear him. The silence that followed his speech was heavy, almost unbearable. It pressed upon Mark, and he, standing in the light, as if lost in that original darkness, felt each word of Thurlow's words penetrate his consciousness, burning him like hot coals.

Mark couldn't take his eyes off Jordan, and after what felt like an eternity, Thurlow spoke again. His voice was louder and fuller, filled with power and passion, as if he were trying to inspire everyone present at a defining moment in their lives. Every movement he made was deliberate, almost theatrical, as if he were re-enacting a ritual rather than simply speaking words. He put all his will, all his determination, into these words, as if they were weapons with which he could break down barriers and change the world.

"Let's unite, brothers and sisters!" he cried, shaking his fists in fury. "Let's cleanse America of communists, socialists, Marxists and atheists! Let our faith be our sword and our will our shield! We must save our country!"

At his last words, Mark suddenly saw something completely inexplicable behind Jordan - huge wings, snow-white and bright, which seemed to burst out of the light penetrating through the door that opened behind him. They spread out majestically, like an archangel, and in their light Jordan looked almost supernatural, like a heavenly messenger descending to earth.

Mark froze, unable to tear his eyes away from this spectacle, which seemed to knock him out of reality. He felt how the boundaries between nightmare and reality were blurring, and everything around him was turning into a blinding and frightening illusion. Everything that was happening seemed unbearably sinister. Jordan, however, continued his speech, not noticing how this strange aura that he created, influencing those around him, had an increasing effect on Mark.

"Death to all enemies of democracy!" he roared, his voice no longer sounding human, but somehow distorted, wild. "Death to those who dare to destroy the greatness of America! Death to those who stand in the way of the righteous path of capitalism!"

His words became more and more frenzied, and each new word became like a spell, a blow that pierced the consciousness. At some point, as if by an invisible signal, all these aristocrats, who seemed so noble, began to repeat one word in chorus. Their voices merged in a single impulse, and this word, repeated over and over again, like a shot, pierced everything around.

"Death! Death! Death!" they screamed, their voices becoming more and more distorted, as if they were the product of evil itself.

It wasn't just a scream. It was a mantra they repeated, each time putting more energy, more evil, more hatred into it. Their faces distorted, their eyes burned with fire, and the very air around them became saturated with some unimaginable viscous atmosphere, full of threat and fear. Mark felt himself being overcome by horror, and the words that were heard around him seemed to penetrate his soul, with each repetition they burned him from the inside.

As the chorus of the word "death" filled his mind, and the terrifying sounds and visions merged into an unbearable cacophony, Mark lost consciousness, but soon woke up with the feeling that reality had blurred again, slipping away into an unreachable abyss. There were no sounds around, no bright light - only a dim, blurry light that came through the slightly open window. He tried to move, but his body was too heavy, as if he was chained to the bed. His head was splitting with pain, and his whole body felt as if after a long fall, when it tries to return to familiar reality, but cannot find support.

He looked down - his body was covered with a light blanket, as if nothing had happened. It was strange to feel such emptiness, as if everything that had happened was a nightmare, and he had simply woken up, not remembering anything. Somewhere nearby, the floors creaked, and the air was filled with the smell of medicine and disinfectant. But this did not bring relief - on the contrary, the feeling of imminent death was too fresh.

His head ached, and he turned it slowly, as if searching for something familiar. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her-a young woman in a white robe, sitting next to his bed. He could only notice her by the way her figure moved smoothly in the dim light. She seemed to be dissolved in this semi-darkness, like a part of this strange, alien environment.

She sat in the chair, her figure not rising, but Mark could feel her presence, like a calming but insistent element that suddenly pulled him out of the viscous, foggy darkness he was in. She did not move, her face was hidden in shadow, but her hands were relaxed, and Mark could see her finger nervously hooking the corner of the sheet.

Time passed slowly, and every moment in this room seemed too long. The silence was overwhelming. Mark tried to understand what had happened, but his thoughts were jumbled like an old, forgotten film strip. He could not piece together the events that had led him here, and he was left with nothing but a feeling of cold and unease that seemed to penetrate his soul. He lay there, unable to move, frozen.

Nearby, in the shadows, a woman moved silently, but her movements did not seem ordinary, as if she were part of something greater and more important that was happening right now. She did not speak, her hands slid across the bed and over the sheets, gathering only shadows on themselves. Mark tried to concentrate, but even this simple figure made him feel even more lost.

The hours dragged on endlessly, like a long dream, until finally the silence in the ward was broken by the soft voice of a nurse, which sounded as if from afar, at first unnoticeable, and then becoming more and more obvious:

"Hello," she said, with a slight bow of her head. "My name is Asia, and I work here."

Mark turned his head towards her, trying to focus on her face. At first, her features seemed strangely familiar, almost frighteningly familiar. He looked into her eyes, and suddenly a strange sensation arose in his mind - this woman sitting next to him seemed not to be a stranger to him, but someone much closer. For a moment, he even felt that his daughter Molly was standing in front of him, only now not six years old, as she actually was, but twenty. Everything, from the shape of her face to the expression in her eyes, seemed painfully familiar. It was such a vivid sensation that he could hardly hold his breath.

But the sister of mercy, not noticing his concentrated gaze, continued to speak:

"You were unconscious for several hours," her voice was calm and confident, but still carried some anxiety. "Doctor Donowho said you had a seizure. Said it could be related to fatigue and stress."

Mark continued to stare at her, unable to tear his gaze away. It was as if something was drawing him toward her, something incomprehensibly familiar, but he couldn't figure out what it was. And suddenly his mind, which had seemed cloudy before, seemed to clear, and a voice rang out in his ears - familiar, childish, but at the same time so distant. It was Molly.

"Dad, do you hear? They wanted to kill Mom, there in prison... on a walk..." her voice sounded in my head, so clear, as if she was right next to me. "Dad, daddy... Her life now depends only on your choice!"

Mark winced. He suddenly felt like he was in some other reality, not in the hospital. Molly's voice seemed to penetrate his consciousness, as if he was not here but there, in that nightmare he had lived through so many years ago, when his life had been divided into two worlds: one where he was a father, and one where everything was under threat, everything was crumbling like a house of cards.

Sister Asia continued to speak, but her words were lost in the hum that grew louder. Everything around him became something abstract, devoid of clear outlines, and his gaze continued to cling to her face, trying to find some kind of meaning there. In her eyes, he seemed to see everything he could understand at that moment, and at the same time nothing. In her quiet, calm voice, there was a reality that did not exist, and his daughter no longer existed.

"Dad..." Molly whispered in his head again, "it all depends on you..."

Mark closed his eyes sharply, trying to banish that voice, that nightmare. The nurse continued to stare at him, as if she were trying to understand what was going on in his head. She clearly noticed that he looked confused and slightly frightened, but she still continued to speak calmly, with an expression as if she was completely confident that her words would bring relief.

"Doctor Donowho asked me to tell you," she said, almost in a mentor's tone, "that you absolutely must not worry. This is important, do you understand? Worrying now is something that could make you worse."

Mark nodded silently, though her words seemed not to reach him. Still feeling a strange sense of uncertainty, he tried to concentrate, but his thoughts, like a liquid veil, kept slipping away.

And suddenly, as if she were a programmed mannequin, Sister Asia began to say something strange that did not fit the atmosphere of the room at all. Her voice, as before, sounded even and emotionless, but now she was not talking about the treatment, not about his condition. Mark felt his attention involuntarily switch to her words, they sounded as if she had memorized them and was now reproducing them automatically:

"Delia Eucharis, known for its amazing beauty and size, especially its wings, which can reach up to 12 centimeters in span."

Mark struggled to comprehend what was happening. His eyes widened in disbelief as he watched Sister Asia continue to speak as if it were a normal conversation, her eyes never leaving some paper or notes. Her voice was flat and emotionless, and her words sounded like a dry lecture on botany, completely out of place in this situation. To Mark, her words sounded alien, detached from reality.

"What the hell?" flashed through his mind. He couldn't understand what was happening. He was in the hospital after he passed out, but why was this woman talking about butterflies? And why was she talking about it so seriously, as if it was something of great importance?

His thoughts were jumbled. Instead of calming down after the attack, he felt his mind being torn apart by strange and absurd fragments that did not fit together into a coherent picture. Mark looked at Asia's sister, her face remained calm, as if she were a mannequin memorizing some phrases. He tried to find the slightest expression of understanding in her eyes, but their empty gaze only increased his anxiety.

"Some researchers claim that its wings have a light mother-of-pearl coloring and can reflect light so that the butterfly looks like a small, picturesque star," she continued, as if not realizing that her words had no relation to the real situation.

Mark felt his inner world begin to crumble. He tried to connect the dots, to understand what was happening, but every word Sister Asia said became more and more disconnected from reality. He couldn't understand how she kept talking about it, as if it was more important than his own condition, than his life. It was like a bad dream from which he couldn't wake up.

He made an effort to gather his thoughts, but instead everything around him began to blur. His chest tightened. His eyelids fell heavily, and darkness swallowed him. He could not hold onto consciousness, and his body sagged limply, plunging him into unconsciousness.