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The world falls, scatters on splinters around, is showered with black lumps. The earth crumbles under the feet. But you all the same. You know something that is known by nobody around. At you the new world grows inside. So far it absolutely tiny, even you know about it only because your feelings change — the breast is poured, sometimes pulls in the bottom of a stomach, there is a frequent wish for juice and fruit, feels sick from smells... Darling understands. He doesn't feel, but he knows too that in this mad world absorbing itself, you and the fact that in you, it is the last strongholds of an order, tranquility and purity. And he preserves you as can... And the tiny world grows. Every day, every hour, every minute in him something new appears. In a month it already almost a being. It is yet not live, doesn't breathe yet, it has no heart yet, but he already feels everything. More precisely, she. For some reason you are sure that it is the girl. Darling says that to him all the same what floor there will be this little man, this world... And then blood appears. You know, what does it mean. Somewhere it is deep in soul, you knew what so will be. Some people come, ask something, write down something, but you already all the same. You know that there is no tiny world any more that in you more nothing remained, only a clot of dead flesh... White ceiling, yellow walls, talk... Someone speaks, someone asks, someone looks, forcing you every time to rise by an altar where you sit, having widely stretched legs. And there is nothing. Only emptiness...* * * — An abortion in the course... cover... — chilly and quietly the doctor — the tall fair-haired man of average over a year ordered a tummy and strong hands. He departed from a chair and turned away to a window while the very young medical sister in a short dressing gown and green trousers with concentration pottered with brilliant tools on a high table on castors and covered them a doubtful look and color with fabric. — to call Anaesthesiologists? — she asked, having opened packing with gloves and having laid out them over fabric. — Of course — the doctor discontentedly nodded. The medical sister escaped. The doctor sadly looked at me and again turned away. I lie on a chair, and with detachment I watch legs on props in a ceiling. All this as though not with me. This sad and quiet doctor, this skilled, despite the youth, the nurse, these spread-out and prepared brilliant tools which just about will pierce in my flesh will begin to cut to pieces something that I considered the child quite recently... The door opened, and I turned the head towards to entered. It is easy to recognize the doctor — she enters efficiently, having put hands on a breast, in a starched dressing gown with a logo of some medicine, with close-cut colored hair and a dissatisfied look. She is followed by the operational sister — small dry with black hair under "caret" in big glasses, a gauze bandage and a white dressing gown. She passes between a window and a chair, trying not to look, but all the same darts a glance. Probably, everything understands. She has in hands two syringes... — Paid anesthesia or free? Paid hundred... — there begins the learned text the anesthesiologist. I politely smile: — Sorry, and than paid differs from free? — My God, as I was tired! — the doctor utters, looking at me with contempt and hatred. — Kolya to her кетанол, let knows... — also departs to a distant window. My doctor grins, without looking at her. 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