Someone is destined to die a coward, someone a hero, someone a nobody. As it turned out, I was destined to become a victim of my inner altruist, who did not ask questions for a second and did not hesitate — only forced the body to work at the limit of its capabilities, to rush forward and push the little girl in front of me in huge headphones away from imminent death. A moment later, a huge gelding, whose owner has clearly assigned anatomical details to the speed limit, knocks me down.
In the distance I hear a hum, in which I recognize the beating of my heart. The world around me slowed down. My thoughts are pure and calm. I should be screaming and writhing in hellish pain, but instead I'm... I'm in pain. I know that. I am aware of it, but I don't feel it. Before my eyes, with increasing speed, images from my life flash by, even those that I have long forgotten. Or even those that you shouldn't even remember. Infancy, the mother's caring voice. For the first time in my memory, albeit with joy, but a father who shed a tear, who carefully held in his hands his greatest achievement, which he put even above the hero's star. Early childhood, games on the playground, the first fight, after which my father finally began to give me a punch. A school history teacher who infected me with a love for his subject. Dad is a military gunner, who ignited a fire in me that only a soldier or his son can understand. Constant moving, every two or three years a new school. A long-awaited apartment in the property in the Moscow region for years of service. The birth of a little sister. The first true love, graduation, a hot night, going to the army, a letter from her: "I can't wait." Demob, a quarrel with my father, who insisted on continuing his service and entering a military university, but I chose what I was sick with — history. Admission to the Faculty of History, acquaintance with Father Dmitry, who encouraged me to join their patriotic club, where half of the members are young priests and deacons, and the second: a team of students and adult "uncles" — veterans from law enforcement agencies. We were engaged in everything from paintball and airsoft to historical fencing, as well as search missions to find the remains of those who died during the Great Patriotic War (The name of the Second World War among Russians). Fascinating hikes, theological and historical debates around the campfire in the forest. Failures on the personal front, which I quickly forgot about, a part-time job as a school history teacher... my first teacher would have laughed if he had found out.
Finally, the kaleidoscope of memories fades. I don't regret anything. I lived honestly, did not lie to myself and did not know such a sin as cowardice. But, one way or another, it will all be over soon, because I'm just a pile of broken bones that is now flying over the car that hit her. With blurred eyes, I see the approaching gray asphalt. Soon.
— Be patient a little ... — I mentally say either to myself, or to the God.
Note: I am not the author of this story, it is . This is a translation