Control is a prayer that reality does not hear.
Genre: Existential drama / minimalist prose / psychological thriller
Rating: 18+
Arcana: I — The Magician
Fear: Powerlessness
Fear formula: "If I calculate everything correctly, the catastrophe won't happen"
When he arrived first, death had not yet entered the operating theatre.
Today he arrived first. But something was already out of place — before they had even begun.
The theatre was cold only until the moment people entered it.
Then the cold became workable.
Then — familiar.
Then — invisible.
Sometimes he thought the room remembered those who had made mistakes inside it.
He never checked.
He washed his hands.
For a long time.
As though it still changed something.
The foam ran down his wrists, and he watched it more carefully than his own breathing.
07:12.
The number did not move.
But everything else was moving too fast.
— We begin, — someone said.
He did not answer.
He never answered what had already been decided without him.
The cold of the metal beneath his gloves was the only thing that raised no doubts.
The first ten minutes always felt manageable.
He loved those ten minutes.
In them, it still seemed that the world obeyed a sequence of actions.
Instrument. Incision. Control. Rhythm.
As though life were a system rather than an event.
Then the system began to lose its footing.
At first — almost imperceptibly.
Readings.
Thin lines on the monitor.
Small deviations. The kind you could ignore, if you didn't breathe.
He did not look away.
He tightened his control.
The gloves stuck to his palms. He didn't notice.
— One more minute, — he said.
And realised he had not said it to the patient.
The minutes did not agree.
For a moment he lost track of which of them was breathing — he or the patient.
Then it passed.
He became more precise.
Then faster.
Then harder.
It always happens in the same order.
When the order stopped working — he became it himself.
— Pressure dropping.
He already knew that.
But knowledge was no longer helping.
He couldn't see the people around him.
Only functions.
Only actions not yet completed.
Then came the moment that has no name in any operating protocol.
Because after it, protocols are no longer needed.
He had done everything.
It wasn't enough.
The monitor held a flat line. The body beneath the sheet had not yet had time to grow cold.
The silence did not arrive at once.
First, sound remained.
The monitor.
Too steady.
Too honest.
07:13.
07:14.
He stood the way people stand when they have not yet decided what to do with what has happened.
But have already understood that nothing can be corrected.
He did not leave immediately.
First he washed his hands again.
Even though they were already clean.
It had nothing to do with cleanliness.
The water felt heavier than usual, as if something remained in it that would not wash away.
The corridor was longer than usual.
The silence in it was such that footsteps made no sound against the walls.
The silence smelled of chlorine and someone else's morning.
She was standing by the wall.
The one whose hands always ended up holding whatever had not been used.
She held a clamp.
Held it as though it were the only thing still worth holding.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
Sometimes a conversation happens between people with no words in it — only the understanding that words would not help.
He was almost certain she had already known everything before the operation began.
Then she left.
He remained alone for a minute longer than was necessary.
That minute was not recorded anywhere.
The clock in the corridor kept running.
Too steadily.
Too calmly.
A red bird sat outside the window.
Not inside.
Not outside.
On the boundary where no one usually looks.
It simply was.
Then it turned its head.
And flew away.
The monitor went dark last of all.
Beyond the window only the sky remained — dark, without a single source of light except those that had not yet come on.
Somewhere in another city, an old pocket watch showed 07:15.
Time was still moving.
Today he arrived first. But something was already out of place — before they had even begun.
The theatre was cold only until the moment people entered it.
Then the cold became workable.
Then — familiar.
Then — invisible.
Sometimes he thought the room remembered those who had made mistakes inside it.
He never checked.
He washed his hands.
For a long time.
As though it still changed something.
The foam ran down his wrists, and he watched it more carefully than his own breathing.
07:12.
The number did not move.
But everything else was moving too fast.
— We begin, — someone said.
He did not answer.
He never answered what had already been decided without him.
The cold of the metal beneath his gloves was the only thing that raised no doubts.
The first ten minutes always felt manageable.
He loved those ten minutes.
In them, it still seemed that the world obeyed a sequence of actions.
Instrument. Incision. Control. Rhythm.
As though life were a system rather than an event.
Then the system began to lose its footing.
At first — almost imperceptibly.
Readings.
Thin lines on the monitor.
Small deviations. The kind you could ignore, if you didn't breathe.
He did not look away.
He tightened his control.
The gloves stuck to his palms. He didn't notice.
— One more minute, — he said.
And realised he had not said it to the patient.
The minutes did not agree.
For a moment he lost track of which of them was breathing — he or the patient.
Then it passed.
He became more precise.
Then faster.
Then harder.
It always happens in the same order.
When the order stopped working — he became it himself.
— Pressure dropping.
He already knew that.
But knowledge was no longer helping.
He couldn't see the people around him.
Only functions.
Only actions not yet completed.
Then came the moment that has no name in any operating protocol.
Because after it, protocols are no longer needed.
He had done everything.
It wasn't enough.
The monitor held a flat line. The body beneath the sheet had not yet had time to grow cold.
The silence did not arrive at once.
First, sound remained.
The monitor.
Too steady.
Too honest.
07:13.
07:14.
He stood the way people stand when they have not yet decided what to do with what has happened.
But have already understood that nothing can be corrected.
He did not leave immediately.
First he washed his hands again.
Even though they were already clean.
It had nothing to do with cleanliness.
The water felt heavier than usual, as if something remained in it that would not wash away.
The corridor was longer than usual.
The silence in it was such that footsteps made no sound against the walls.
The silence smelled of chlorine and someone else's morning.
She was standing by the wall.
The one whose hands always ended up holding whatever had not been used.
She held a clamp.
Held it as though it were the only thing still worth holding.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
Sometimes a conversation happens between people with no words in it — only the understanding that words would not help.
He was almost certain she had already known everything before the operation began.
Then she left.
He remained alone for a minute longer than was necessary.
That minute was not recorded anywhere.
The clock in the corridor kept running.
Too steadily.
Too calmly.
A red bird sat outside the window.
Not inside.
Not outside.
On the boundary where no one usually looks.
It simply was.
Then it turned its head.
And flew away.
The monitor went dark last of all.
Beyond the window only the sky remained — dark, without a single source of light except those that had not yet come on.
Somewhere in another city, an old pocket watch showed 07:15.
Time was still moving.