"You should be ashamed of yourself. Talking about a dying man like that!"
I attempt to restrain myself. But that makes me even more thirsty. I must drink. I just must.
"You can talk. It is easier to have a noble conscience than a human body."
I arrange a compromise with myself. I will move my hand very slowly in the direction of the glass. Like in the night exercise, when you have to crawl toward someone in order to stick a knife between his neck and his shoulder. If he wakes up, I will stop moving as if I were frozen.
I listen. His breathing is still grating like a broken saw. Is he really asleep? I move my hand very slowly in the direction of the glass. Thirty centimeters to go. Then twenty. Just about there ...
Suddenly he moves his lips, his eyes are open. He doesn’t say a word. Only his lips are moving. Like a fish on the fishmonger’s slab. He has seen my hand. He is awake.
Too late. There is no going back. I grab the glass and bring it to my mouth. I spill some on my shirt. Who cares?
I throw it back in great big gulps and replace the glass. Bubbles rise in the container hanging above my head. Ah, what a pleasure to feel the cold water in my stomach, even if it only lasts a moment.
He is staring at me. His lips are still moving. They look blue to me. But perhaps it is just the dim lighting.
Oh God! He might at least say something. He can shout until the walls shake. But he should stop these awful movements and stop looking at me!
What can I do? I can’t stand this accusing look. Does he want to punish me? Or is he trying to drive me mad? Is it my fault? I didn’t send you off to war. Can you hear me? I didn’t tell anybody to torture you like this in your last hours. As far as I am concerned you can drink a whole bucket of water and then die happy.
Light footsteps. Rachel comes into the room with two syringes in her hand.
* * *
This is how, at the end of days, the Messiah will look: with Rachel’s face, pretty and pinkish, he will wear a white coat with old,