Hell, p.4
Hell, page 4
Tat sighed and remained silent, effectively ending the conversation. Was there another girl inside her? The person she might’ve become given love and an environment in which to thrive? Was this pathetic, downtrodden creature truly all she could ever hope to be?
Irma collected her dishes, leaving as a short, spectacled doctor with thin, graying hair and thick eyebrows shuffled in.
“Hello Tatiana, I’m Doctor Rheinhardt, how are we feeling?” He spoke good English with a slight eastern European accent.
“I have a headache, and my throat hurts, and I can’t move.” She complained.
“Well, that is to be expected,” he tipped her chin back so he could examine the freshly bruised skin where Yurgis had throttled her. “To be perfectly honest, most of the staff here had resigned themselves to the fact that you would never wake up.”
This casual admission startled her, “Why is that?”
“Well, in my experience it is exceedingly rare for a person in a traumatic brain-injury induced coma to ever recover. You’re an extremely lucky girl. When you arrived here, upon examination, you appeared to display symptoms concordant with one who has been struck by lightning.”
“Lightning?” She asked incredulously.
“The top of your head was burned, as well as the bottoms of your feet, marking the place where the bolt entered your body, and exited into the earth, completing the circuit. The fact that it was raining the day you were brought in lends this hypothesis even more credence. What do you remember?”
“Not much, truly. There was an accident. My horse broke a leg in the mud and papa… murdered him. I remember getting angry, then… nothing, until I awoke here.”
“Well, I guess we may never know what happened to you, so now we must focus on your recovery. The combination of muscle atrophy and massive overload of the nervous system has left your body partially paralyzed, temporarily of course, with a few days of physical therapy, I predict that your motor skills should return virtually unimpaired. Now I am going to run a few basic tests, make sure everything is operating as it should.”
Loosening her hospital gown, he listened to her heart, the cold metal of his stethoscope making her shiver and squeal. He then sat her up and placed it on her back, having her breath deeply. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he turned her so that her legs dangled over the edge of the bed and, using a small pointed hammer, lightly tapped below her knee. Her leg jerked spastically, independent of her control. He then repeated the process with the other leg.
“Your reflexes are working fine, confirming my diagnosis that this paralysis is indeed temporary. We’ll have you up and about in no time.”
Laying her back down, he used a cap-lighter to check the dilation of her pupils as she stared unblinking into the tiny, dancing flame. Producing a syringe, she was forced to turn away as he took a blood sample. The sight of blood, especially her own, always disgusted her.
“Okay, Tatiana, everything appears to be in order. For now, try to sleep, I’ll be back this evening to check up on you. If you need anything, one of our nurses will be making rounds every half hour. Alright?” He smiled, patting her knee reassuringly.
“Thank you Doctor.”
He got up to go, then hesitated, “Oh, one more thing. I am interested in your… condition. Your markings appear to be tattoos, albeit I have never seen any so meticulous yet seemingly meaningless. They also lack all the telltale signs of subcutaneous ink. Your father refused to discuss them, except to say that they were not artificial. With your permission, I’d like to run a few tests…”
She immediately turned away from him, “No.”
The doctor appeared flummoxed, “If this is a naturally occurring condition, it would be the first of its kind ever recorded in the annals of science, you’ve a duty to submit yourself for the betterment of the knowledge of mankind.”
She sighed in exasperation, “I said no!”
“Okay, okay please calm down, I won’t do anything you don’t authorize me to do.” With a scowl of disappointment he shuffled out of the room, stiffly closing the door behind him.
Once he was gone, she tried her best to will her limbs to move, succeeding only in the barest wiggling of her fingers and toes, exhausting herself in the process. Her body had become a prison. To one who had spent her life honing the art of movement and grace, this was overwhelmingly depressing.
Worse than that, the thought of what her father would do to her when he returned terrified her to no end; that was the true reason she’d refused the doctor’s offer. Yurgis made it clear to her from an early age that she was never to allow any kind of medical examination. In fact, this was the first time she’d ever been in a proper hospital, and she had no desire to make things worse for herself than they already were…
Alone with her thoughts, unable to stop obsessing about what she’d done, all she’d lost. The whole troupe, dead… how could that be? The girl who had never hurt anyone, now responsible for the deaths of over forty people; men, women and children. Yurgis had to be lying. Yet, even if he wasn’t, in the depths of her heart she couldn’t bring herself to feel much sympathy for them. For those who knew her torment and stood idly by for years while she suffered…
It wasn’t until thoughts of Mikel that the wave of guilt both sought and feared crested over the bulwark of her apathy. Kind, handsome Mikel, gone forever. If only she’d run away with him, everything might be different, everyone might still be alive. Strange that one decision could have such diametrically opposed consequences. The thing that bothered her most was why her father hadn’t died? He was as close as the others and, in truth, the only one she wished death upon.
Her mirror, books, clothes, the hand-carved chest which was all she had of her mother, all the little treasures that in her mind defined her as a person, were gone. Most of all, she missed her little music box with the beautiful melody in which she could lose herself for a few fleeting moments. All those objects. All that tied her to that reality of hatred and sorrow, had ceased to exist except in her mind. The life she knew was dead. That life she’d felt powerless to change had, in one cataclysmic moment, been unequivocally altered; if not by her conscious will, then at least by her own subconscious intent.
The idea that she contained such power began to thrill her. Growing up consumed by the fantastic worlds of Merlin, Baba Yaga and countless other wizards and sorceresses, lusting after the arcane power they commanded; so often imagining discovering such power within herself. Of course, she knew that those were merely stories. Though, what else could this be? He’d even referred to it as her evil bitch magic.
The ability to kill with a thought… if it could be harnessed, controlled, she would no longer be a helpless victim. She could retake the reins of her destiny. These thoughts sparked a willful determination that her father would never harm her again.
The day ended with the application of leeches to her body. Doctor Rheinhardt claimed it was to drain off diseased humors, but Tat wasn’t so sure. One thing she was sure about was that it was one of the most traumatic experiences she’d ever endured. She would’ve suffered her father’s touch a thousand times rather than go through this.
The tiny creatures, growing fat off her blood, disgusted her to the point she had to fight to keep her first meal down. If she could’ve moved, she’d have ripped them off and stomped them to a pulp. They made her think of the worm-like lines in her dream of the Falcon-god, being unable to resist as they burrowed into her body.
The leeches were removed by a nurse wielding long tongs. Fattened parasites placed in sterile jars to await the next patient victim. Tat was fed another bowl of watery cabbage soup and allowed to drift off to sleep.
Sometime in the night her door abruptly opened, a group of orderlies wheeling a gurney into the room. The man upon it, if indeed it was a man for the entire form was shrouded in filthy bandages, groaned softly. She’d come across people like this before, huddled in dingy alleyways, and immediately assumed the worst.
Leper.
The man was transferred to the opposite bed, curtain drawn. Several minutes later an unfamiliar physician entered, and what he was carrying sent chills down her spine…
It was a hacksaw.
When he saw that she was awake he approached her, speaking softly in what she assumed was Polish.
“Przepraszam za to, że to pilne, że będzie tu tylko na dzisiaj, znajdziemy dla niego miejsce w godzinach porannych.”
Leaving her mystified, he disappeared behind the partition as several oil lamps sparked to life, casting long, imposing shadows upon the fabric which separated them. She strained her ears to make out any of what was said, but it was all a garbled mish-mash of random sounds to her.
“Infekcja jest zaawansowana…”
“Że nogi będą musiały spaść…”
“Włóż to do ust, żeby nie ugryzł się w język…”
“Nie ma lekarstwa, nie wiem, dlaczego przeszkadza…”
“Wiesz kim są jego rodzice…”
Then came a sickening, scraping sound as the sharp teeth of the saw bit into flesh and bone, accompanied by a cry of ultimate suffering and mortal anguish. An errant artery spurted blood before being sutured shut.
Panic washed over her, the feeling she was going to be ill. A spike of adrenaline wound her nerves tight, heart hammering in her chest. Desperately needing to get away, she focused all her strength toward the simple task of sitting up. Despite a herculean effort, she barely made it halfway before collapsing back to the bed, hyperventilating. In the end all she could do was lie there, listening in horror, as the gory scene played out.
Hours later she still couldn’t sleep, even though the leper was snoring contentedly under heavy sedation. She felt dirty, as she always did, in the wake of her attack. Her traumatic upbringing had damaged her in some intangible way, certain situations could set her off in fits of extreme distress. Recently, it seemed to be getting worse; sometimes it was so bad she believed death was upon her...
The door softly creaked open and Irma entered on her nightly rounds. Dressed all in white and carrying a candle, she appeared as a ghostly apparition in the gloomy room. She was surprised to find her patient awake.
“Are you okay Tatiana?” She whispered, tucking in her sheets.
“No! I’m alone and scared and there’s a leper in here and I think they cut off his legs…” Agitated, nearly in tears, weakly pawing at the nurse’s smock. Irma kneeled at her bedside, gently stroking her hair.
“Shhhh, Shhhh, everything is alright. Oh you poor thing, wait here, I’ll get you something to help you sleep.”
She exited the room, returning after several minutes with a syringe. Demonstrating practiced skill, she located a vein under her markings and punctured the skin, slowly depressing the plunger...
Instant, unimaginable pleasure. Concentrated sunlight flowing through her veins.
“What is this?” She asked dreamily.
“A little morphine to make you sleep and take away any pain,” she finished administering the drug, swabbing alcohol over the spot. “Not a word of this to the doctor now.”
“Thank… you… Irmmm…”
Tat was floating on a cloud, intense euphoria coming over her, deadening the perception of her surroundings. All her earlier anxiety melted away into deep relaxation. This was incredible. Never before had she felt anything like this, never knew such a feeling was even possible. And in this moment, she never wanted to feel anything else ever again. Warm and comfortable and safe and tired, like she could sleep forever…
She jerked awake with a slight spasm, the last remnants of the morphine still tingling throughout her body; she definitely needed more of that. Coming back to reality was like putting on a wet coat of weary depression. Drab, grey light illuminated the ugly room, rain pattering against leaden windows.
Testing her muscles, she found she could open and close her hands with relatively little trouble, though couldn’t quite lift her arms yet. This infuriated her because of the persistent itch on her nose.
“Dzień dobry.”
Tat froze, she hadn’t noticed the Leper was still in the room. Turning her head, she saw him sitting in a wheelchair, looking forlornly out the window. His left leg ended in a bandaged stump just below the knee, a bloody patch barely seeping through the snow-white gauze.
The stigma against lepers was even worse than that of gypsies; they were cursed by God, and she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Remaining silent, she looked away, hoping he would leave her alone.
“Czy mówisz po polsku?”
Still she held her tongue.
“Parlez-vous français?”
She recognized that, it was French.
“Sind Sie Deutscher?”
German? She realized then that he was cycling through languages, trying to find out which one she spoke. He began to intrigue her. In her experience, lepers were dirty, unlearned, transients.
“России, возможно?”
This was getting ridiculous, how many languages did he speak? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? she had no desire to talk to him…
“Do you speak English, perhaps?”
Out of reflex she turned to look at him.
“Ahh, you understood that. So you are English then. You’re a long way away from home; quite beautiful as well.”
Again she turned away from him.
“Oh, I understand, leper, outcast, unclean. You think you are too good to talk to me, that my illness makes me less of a person, or maybe even that I’m cursed by God or some such nonsense.” He wheeled his chair over to her bed, the fetid stink of decay accompanying him. She turned to look him in the face, he obviously had no nose under his bandages. His eyes however were fierce and intelligent, full of life and vigor. He confidently met her gaze and his confrontational demeanor softened.
“Or is that it at all? Maybe you’re hiding something. A deep guilt or shame over something you’ve done. I have seen enough sadness in my time to recognize it anywhere, and I see it painfully etched all over your face.” He reached out a hand and grabbed her wrist, turning it over, revealing her scars. In a flash of fury she snatched her hand away from him and clutched it to her bosom.
“Don’t ever touch me!” She shouted, struggling to rise, desperately needing to get away. Managing to prop herself up on one arm, she tottered precariously before overbalancing and falling from her bed, striking hard the cold tile floor face-first. Both unable and unwilling to rise, she remained there, faintly sobbing.
“I know how you must feel, the weight of the world is far too much for such slender shoulders. You feel as though there’s nothing left to live for, life is unending misery. You’d rather take your chances with the great beyond.” He wheeled his chair around to the other side of the bed where she lay.
“You know nothing about me!” She shot back. Pitifully writhing on the floor in an attempt to climb back to the warm confines of her bed.
“True, nothing concrete, though I am not without my wits and can deduce several things that have a high probability of truth. Firstly, the fact you are in this room alone means either you or your parents have money, judging by your age I’d say it was your parents. Since I know most of the legitimately rich families in Europe, and none of them can claim to possess a child of your rare appearance, I am guessing they came by this money illegitimately.
“Secondly, the bruises on your neck appear to be from a strong, male pair of hands. That, coupled with the scars on your wrists and an aversion to being touched, leads me to believe you were physically or sexually abused, most likely by your father, or an uncle.
“Thirdly, and this is purely conjecture on my part, the fact that you speak English so far away from any Anglican country. And, pardon me for saying, your frankly freakish appearance, suggests to me that you may have been part of a circus or traveling show. How am I doing so far?”
Somewhere in the middle of his assessment she stopped crying, becoming still, listening in disbelief as he guessed correctly about everything. Who was this man? He had penetrated all of her defenses in seconds, her shame laid bare. There was nothing left to hide, it was liberating, in a way.
Rolling onto her side, so as not to have to look at him, a glint of light on metal behind the wheel of her bed caught her attention. She reached out and retrieved a gold coin. Thick and heavy in her hand, it was a Russian Imperial, worth fifteen rubles. It must have rolled under here when Yurgis dropped all those coins the day before.
“It’s all true.” She whispered.
“Pardon?” The leper smugly inquired.
“It’s all true.” She said again, louder so he could hear.
“Here, let me help you.” He extended a bandaged hand to her. She regarded it disdainfully.
“You can’t spread leprosy by simple contact, it requires contact through blood.” He assured her.
Hesitantly, she reached out and took his hand, hoisted painfully up on shaky knees. She leaned heavily upon him, rolling back onto the bed with a grunt, gratefully sliding under the covers, drawing them up to her chin. She furtively slipped the gold coin under her pillow. This exertion left her trembling and drained of energy.
“Who are you?” She asked warily.
The man chuckled sadly, “Well, once I was Izaak Oginski, professor of logic, doctorate in abnormal psychology, world traveler and one-time prodigal son of a powerful family of royal lineage. Now, I am but a leper, cursed by God, shunned by all save my mother, who paid for me to have this rotten leg removed, thus placing us in common company.”
“How did it happen?”
“Ask me again later if you get the chance. I don’t have much time and I would talk of more important things. Listen, I too considered taking my own life when my illness began to escalate. Then I discovered something that helped me endure, gave me strength to face my fate.” He paused.
“Well, what was it?” Tat asked impatiently.
“No matter how bad you think you have it, there’s someone out there who has it a hundred times worse. Allow me to elucidate. Compared to a normal person you’ve had it pretty rough, abused, forced to act contrary to your nature, exhibited like an exotic animal. Now look at me, at least your limbs aren’t rotting off of your body. Compared to this, your life’s a holiday.” The look in his eyes, needing her to understand, requiring it...
