the most final
concluding work

The hardest to recover from was the shot of sulfur. Normally, it is injected to drunks in the form of punishment, however, the head doctor might have been having some special experimental considerations or certain optimistic hopes. She wanted to do her best, probably. It's also a shot in the rear, with the effect spreading over deep into the bone tissue. 2 days following the injection, the patient treated to it has to drag his leg because of feeling a sharp pain as if your join was finely smashed.

The shot of sulfur broke my will. Dragging the leg, I shuffled to the dining room to eat the lard from the delivery, but when the chmo dispenser shut-in handed me the cellophane packet, it smelled like my briefcase in the sixth grade, when I forgot to eat the ham sandwich at school, and it spent there all winter vacations. I had to throw the rotten lard away…

My relations with the fellow shut-ins were even and correct, as anywhere else, I staunchly stayed an undeclared renegade. Naturally, those derailed out of reach and submerged into the vagaries of their private worlds, did not notice me, while shut-ins capable of thinking, as far as possible, showed certain respect caused by the sympathy and compassion for my exposure to the insulin injections. Only one young guy, Podrez, for some time was fawning over me without any reason but then, in the queue to the dining room, he hit me in the stomach, I couldn't guess why.

2 minutes later, Beltyukov, in the same queue, found some fault with Podrez, pinioned him and kept immobilized. He did not say me anything, not even with his eyes, but there was no need for hinting that Podrez was fixed by him for me to jab the guy into any spot at my discretion. But I did not hit, I feel sorry for the mentally ill, notwithstanding my hurt stomach.

A far more terrible blow dealt me the loss of the book in English. On the white desk in our wardroom, there remained only the copybook with the since long finished translation and the pen stuck in between its pages. I was upset unbearably because the book was borrowed from Zhomnir, who had borrowed it from another teacher at the Department of English – the ever-smiling Nona. But when I, in that terrified state, turned to the head doctor, she, with the indefinite indifference, responded that the book would not go anywhere.

And she was right. 3 days later it was returned to me by a shut-in who collected it from the nutty kidnapper at Wardroom 7, he failed to keep it concealed any longer.

He did not spoil it in any way, and only the backside of the cover bore light touches of a pencil by which he tenderly poured out his adoration, slightly reminiscent of a sketch of the cerebral cortex, or whimsy curls of whirling smoke. It even might have been some formulas of the unknown scientific language from beyond the future, only that I have given up already moving down that road…

The shut-ins were all so very different. At first sight of some of them, you could immediately see they had a yo-yo stream of consciousness if any at all, but with some other, you’d hardly say he's nuts.

In general, there were all kinds of sorts, with quite neighborly types among them, like that brunette fat man. However, one day, lying on the hospital couch in the hall, he confessed to me his murder of someone else and, usually so very cheerful, he grew at once all gloomy. Maybe it was a lie because the murderers were kept at the second unit whose paramedics were brutes accomplished and his confession was simply a day-dream like my bumping Gray off in the stoker-house of VSO-11…

Yes, there happened incurable liars around. One of them, with a fat tattoo of "Kolya" on his hand, without any invitation started convincing me that his name was Peter, and after that, he took an obvious offense at me although I had not expressed any doubts.

As for Tsyba, he amazed me by his erudition enumerating the unsuccessful suicide attempts of Hemingway until he found out that a pistol was the most steadfast means for the purpose. And before that, I listed him among the unmistakable half-nuts…

There was a seemingly normal gaffer, whose queerness you could guess only from his sentimentality, he got devastatingly hurt hearing that we all lived in a madhouse. Always. For life. The madhouse thru and thru, both indoors and outside, no difference.

"Do not say so, at least here it's a mental hospital."

Such a delicate soul…

Or, say, that mujik whom I for a long stretch considered dumb. On the contrary, he was very inquisitive, it's just that he prepared his questions all too carefully. It took him a month before he approached me and, eye to eye, asked about the sorest spot, "And your wife, was she a chaste virgin?"

Firstly, no dumb have such words in their lexicon and, secondly, I hadn't checked her ears, quoting Rabentus.

And the dumb, on hearing that, began to cry. He fell silent again dripping noiseless tears.

A rather gloomy madhouse on the whole…

~ ~ ~