Inoculation

In the brackish water, he saw the reflection of a temple. As he looked up, the temple was there, in all its decaying splendour.

The man laid in a hospital bed.

Tubes went to and from machines on either side of the bed, almost blocking the view on the sides of the room. The man was over ninety, but he had stopped keeping track of time. Every day was the same as the first, immobilized by old age and illness in that bed, but made healthy by drugs just enough so that the flesh on his back did not rot into sores and his heart continued to beat. In the prison of his emaciated body, his mind was still alert, despite the torpor of his existence.

Every day was the same as the first, except for Sunday, when the man came to visit him. That was his goal, to stay alive for his weekly visit. In the monotony of those six days, the old man had no escape other than memories, even though he knew that he paid for each trip in his mind by exchanging boredom for pain and fear. But even this time, lulled by the noise of every machine that measured heartbeats and breaths and that pulsated fluids in him, he abandoned himself to them and once again, he remembered how it all began.

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