Translated from RU
I wake up in a hospital room. White light, emptiness, silence. On the bedside table lies a piece of paper:
“If you are reading this, you are still asleep.”
I try to get up — my legs feel glued to the bed. In the corner stands an old television without an antenna, and it turns on by itself. On the screen — me, lying in the same room, only my eyes are bandaged.
I scream, “Hey!” but no sound comes out — as if my voice has been turned off.
The screen starts a countdown: 10… 9… 8…
I reach for the nurse call button, but it says: “Do not press.”
The countdown reaches zero — and instead of an explosion, the paper on the table simply changes:
“Your exit was just now.”
I fall asleep again — and wake up in the same room, with the same note.
Only now the television shows another person in the bed.
But it’s me again.
