Claws of Mercy

Ruslan woke up in bed, covered with a thin blanket. The first sensation was the needle of a syringe frozen in his skin. The nurse’s manicured hands were giving him an injection. Fingernails covered in red nail polish were pulling back the plunger. The syringe seemed to fill with blood.

Apparently he wasn’t being injected with a dose of anesthetic, but blood was being drawn from his vein for analysis. Ruslan lifted his head from the pillow and thought he was dreaming. Next to his bunk was that mysterious brunette in a nurse’s uniform. She appeared even more beautiful up close. Her face was as pale as a ghost’s. Her black eyeliner and eyelashes seemed painted on. Her lips, thickly painted with scarlet lipstick, somehow reminded hime of beautiful vampires rising from their coffins at night. It was night, by the way. The blinds on the hospital windows were raised, and the moon was visible behind them.

“Don’t move!” The beauty warned.

Ruslan noticed her shapely breasts heaving under her uniform and thought that it would be a pleasure to be treated under her supervision. Just think of it! He was glad he’d come to the hospital because she was here. He used to be scared as hell of hospitals, syringes and various surgical instruments. And now there’s a crazy thought in his head that he’ll be pleased even if a stranger cuts him open alive for the sake of experimentation.

“That’s it!” She removed the syringe, which had no blood in it.

He couldn’t have been dreaming, could he? Or did he hit his head too hard when he fell?

“I was going to give you a medicine dropper, but I can see you’re coming around. You just need to get some rest.”

The beauty’s voice flowed like music. Ruslan could barely make out the words. In any case, he didn’t understand much about medical terms. More than listening, he liked to look at the nurse. She was as graceful as a model and more beautiful than all the superstars put together. What stars, she was more beautiful than the Olympic goddesses! There was something Asian about her features. One of his classmates often said that Asian women were the most beautiful. Ruslan hadn’t shared his opinion before, but now it was as if he had fallen in love.

“You remind me of a fox demon,” Ruslan said, remembering some of the doramas he had watched in his student days.

The beauty took no offense.

“Call me Tamara.”

“Tamara?” Ruslan was surprised to hear a typical Russian name. He was ready to hear something exotic.

“And the last name?”

“Just Tamara,” she smiled. The nametag on her uniform was blank.

“I’m Ruslan.”

“I know.”

“How is it?”

“I had to fill out your admission form. Your friend brought you and your papers.”

“He is my colleague,” Ruslan corrected.

“Colleagues are usually friends.”

“It is not always,” Ruslan remembered the sullen construction workers from the oligarch’s lands. You couldn’t get a friendly word out of them. But they were all his colleagues. Well, at least employees. After all, they worked on the construction of the mansion in the same team. And now he’s in the hospital.

“How are you feeling?” Tamara touched his forehead, checking his temperature. He liked her touch. It’s the same when the night touches you. Tamara’s hand was cold and smooth as marble.

“I feel strange,” Ruslan admitted to her, “as if I were already dead.

He wouldn’t say that to a doctor. Tamara didn’t panic. She studied the patient with her eyes, not with her instruments.

“Would you like to listen to my heart or take a cardiogram?” Ruslan joked.

“No,” Tamara answered seriously. “You’re healthy. You’ll be discharged in three days.”

“Healthy people don’t go to hospital. And why do you speak about three days?”

“No one stays longer than three days.”

“This hospital is magic!”

Tamara waved her black mascara eyelashes to hide her eyes for a moment. It made it seem like she was hiding something.

“Do they heal all the sick here in three days?” Ruslan kept up with her.

Tamara sat down on a low stool next to the bunk and made a sign to keep quiet.

“You need to rest.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Shall I give you sleeping pills?”

“No need. I’ve always fallen asleep just fine on my own without any sleeping pills.”

“Then you’re not a nervous person. It’s hard for anyone who’s stressed out at work to fall asleep. Many people in these parts suffered from insomnia, because life here was hard, you had to overexert yourself, and then came eternal sleep.”

It was as if Tamara was composing a local legend for a tourist. With a voice as beautiful as hers, you have to be a singer. When she speaks, it feels like a nightingale trill is wafting through the air.

“I hope this hospital isn’t private?” Ruslan noticed only now that he was alone in the room, as if he were in a suite. It was too luxurious for a hospital. The room has a floor clock in a walnut case, a table with a porcelain set, and even some kind of painting on the wall.

“It is private, of course.”

“I hope my employer pays for my stay.”

Why shouldn’t Vereskovsky pay for his architect’s three-day stay in a fancy hospital? The oligarchs have a lot of money. It will be bad if the employer is greedy and doesn’t want to bear the cost of the accident.

“He won’t have to pay. It’s a charitable institution,” Tamara explained. “The hospital is for anyone who needs emergency care and is out of our reach.”

“Is it for you? You mean for the hospital staff?”

Tamara nodded silently.

“And the treatment is free?”

“They won’t charge you for it,” Tamara replied streamlined. “But you’ll have to take blood for analysis.”

“I don’t like to pay with blood.”

“It’s for the good of science.”

“And you like to joke!”

Tamara smiled back with just her lips.

“I haven’t seen a charitable institution in a long time. No one treats without a medical policy or insurance. I didn’t bring my policy with me when I went to the construction site.”

“We don’t give out bulletins, but we do help you get better.”

“Now you’re not a nurse, you’re a nun who helps out between prayers.”

“There really was a convent in the left wing.”

For some reason Ruslan felt sick at the thought. Where there are monasteries, there are burials. The presence of a monastery nearby indicated that many people had gone straight to the other side of the world from this hospital.

Tamara guessed his thoughts and explained:

“Centuries ago, cholera epidemics and war casualties were treated here. The monastery and the hospital were built at the same time on the donation of the prince, who owned the surrounding lands and thousands of serfs.”

And now the same lands belong to an oligarch! Almost nothing changes over time, except the names. There was one feudal lord, now there’s another.

“Don’t tell me that you also do plastic surgery for free,” Ruslan remembered the oligarch’s wife, who was concerned about her appearance.

“If people need it,” Tamara nodded, “but if it’s not absolutely necessary, a monetary contribution is welcome. However, it is not obligatory.”

“You’re crazy!”

“We just want to help.”

Ruslan thought it was strange that Tamara didn’t specify who exactly she wanted to help: people or someone else. Maybe she was a foreigner and could hardly speak Russian? No, it didn’t sound like that. Her speech is no accent, but the meaning of her words is strange.

The picture in the ornate gilded frame on the wall was also strange. Ruslan looked at it for a long time, but he couldn’t understand what it depicted. It was a complete mess! Pyramids, angels, corpses, clawed hands reaching out of the sand, and some creatures stuck in layers of earth. Such a mix of eras and symbols reminded him of Salvador Dali’s museum.

“I don’t like surrealism,” Ruslan admitted.

“You just don’t understand it,” Tamara glanced at the painting. “Surrealism has a cipher in it, like a rambling dream. Everything that seems abstract actually hints at something complex.”

“It takes a very clever head to understand and decipher it all.”

“And your head is sick,” Tamara teased.

“I just bumped my head. It’ll feel a little sore and then it’ll go away.”

Ruslan felt something like a bump on the back of his head.

“Lie still!” Tamara told him to lie still.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. It seemed as if an iron robot was treading the floor, not a human being. Was it the doctor?

Tamara shuddered.

“I’ll be right back!” She promised, jumping up from her stool.

“But… wait!” Ruslan wanted to stop her, but he couldn’t get up from the bunk. And the heels of the nurse’s shoes were already clacking in the corridor. She even forgot to close the door of the room. She was in such a hurry. The doctor didn’t even call her. Where was she rushing off to? Who can understand these women? One minute they’re flirting with you, the next they’re running away from you like a monster!

Speaking of monsters! Ruslan noticed an ugly shadow in the corridor. He couldn’t see much from his bunk. He should have propped himself up on his elbows to get a closer look, but he didn’t have the strength. Tamara must have sedated him in time. Sleep was intolerable. Ruslan fell asleep.

Locked up

In the corridor at the receptionist’s desk, a television was on. On the screen there was a glimpse of some creepy and beautiful footage of some kind of battle, in which winged creatures were participating. Probably they were angels. Beautiful voices were saying something incomprehensible. They sounded like music. Ruslan watched what was happening through the slit of the opened door of the ward. Curious, who opened the door? Had Tamara not closed it when she left? Or had someone else visited him while he lay unconscious? His room was the last one in the hallway. It was worth opening the door and you could watch everything that was going on in the reception, but his head ached so much that forced espionage was not pleasant. Soon Ruslan’s eyelids began to droop. Consciousness fell into darkness.

Was he dreaming? Or was it a fragment from a movie that repeated itself in his dream? There are dreams with a repetition of events experienced in reality. This is when the brain of a tired person could not relax and shut down for a good rest. Then a person dreams that he is still working or sitting at school. But can a watched movie be repeated in a dream?

In a dream, Ruslan could walk and even participate in the events. A beautiful woman, whom he had already seen a glimpse of on TV, led him to the locked doors. The beauty was wearing a scarlet cape, something like a Japanese kimono embroidered with dragons. Or was it a robe? Keys jingled in her hands. Something rustled beneath the cape, as if the fabric were hiding wings.

“His head is in there! You can talk to him. But don’t get too close,” she instructed in the tone of a mentor. “I saved the head long ago, but it still breathes fire. Stay away from his lips. If he doesn’t like your question, he’ll burn you. If you don’t offend him in any way, he will foretell your future.”

“Whose head is it?”

“It is Michael’s. His winged body is gone, but I kept his head.”

“You locked it up?” Ruslan was surprised.

“He held me prisoner for centuries, and now I’m holding him. Karma is karma. In every next life, the rapist will become a victim himself,” the beauty’s tone became instructive.

On a pedestal in the gloomy room there was the blond head of an angel. It was alive. Ruslan shuddered. He had seen such a face on frescoes in temples, and now he saw it on the severed head.

The beauty was tearing strands from the blond head and weaving them into something. Under each torn strand, the wounds bled. The hair was torn off with nothing but skin and blood.

The head woke up and breathed fire like a dragon.

Ruslan woke up in horror. He had almost been burned! But there weren’t even any burns left. His skin didn’t burn.

What a horror! Watching a dream like a movie is creepy!

Someone was singing in the hospital corridor. Ruslan was sure that if he got up and went there, he would see a beautiful woman weaving something from the hair of a severed head. There are legends about all sorts of creepy magic spinners who spin magic threads from people’s blood. What if he dreamed of such a spinster?

The girl in the dream was like a goddess. As if she was the only one missing on the pedestal in the unfinished mansion of oligarch Vereskovsky.

The night passed like a fog. A strange, mournful song drifted down the corridor. Ruslan couldn’t make out the words, as if it were sung in a foreign language. But it was definitely Russian. The song was warning him about something.

Ruslan had had a headache since morning. The words of the night song echoed in his ears. He could not make them out. It was strange to hear the words and not understand what they meant.

The blinds on the window were raised. The morning light was streaming into the room. It was a cloudy morning. Probably there will be a thunderstorm soon. Construction sites are chaotic in a thunderstorm. I wonder how the work is going now. According to the pretty nurse, he’ll be back on the site in three days to check it out. Two days to be exact. He slept for one day.

Ruslan wiped his eyes. One light eyelash remained on his finger. Perhaps he should make a wish. Ruslan wished to get out of the hospital as soon as possible.

The window overlooked the stairs leading to the hospital portal. The winged statues were still standing on it, but their postures seemed to have changed slightly. Perhaps it only seemed that way when viewed from a different angle. The marble angels had an ominous look, as if they were angels of death. There must have been a lot of dying in this hospital. The local morgue occupied an entire wing.

Ruslan noticed a familiar haircut. Could it be Valentina Vladimirovna Verbina? She was wearing a strict business suit and no jewelry. She had also washed off her makeup and had somehow become duller all at once. Valentina had a large bag in her hands.

“She had an appointment for a consultation at the plastic surgery department. It’s in that annex!” Tamara suddenly approached from behind and pulled down the blinds. “You should be resting.”

“I was just noticing an acquaintance.”

“I figured as much,” Tamara smiled disarmingly. “Only she didn’t say she wanted to visit you.”

“Does she know I’m here?”

“Everyone knows you’re here.”

“Who is it?”

“Not many people live here. News travels fast.”

Tamara frowned, as if she were hiding something. Tamara had an unhealthy pale complexion, but she was very beautiful. It was a shame that she was only in contact with Ruslan because she had to take care of the patients. If they had met on the street, at a disco, in a bar or in a theater, she would not have noticed him.

Valentina Vladimirovna didn’t even want to visit him. Of course, she was a casual acquaintance, but he was her husband’s architect after all. She could have shown some elementary politeness, since she came to the hospital where he was lying. Or Valentina Vladimirovna is hiding her visit here? After all, plastic surgery is a compromising thing. It’s embarrassing to admit to someone that your beauty is artificial, not innate. And if Valentina Vladimirovna is going to have a face-lift, she doesn’t want to admit it to anyone.

Ruslan wondered how old Valentina Vladimirovna was. She looked about twenty-five to thirty, but looks can be deceiving. Many young women who are too busy at work often look forty, and fifty-year-old models can easily pretend to be minors. It all depends on the living conditions and care of appearance. Rich slackers often look amazing, because they have the opportunity not to be tired at work, vacation at expensive resorts and travel to beauty salons. Women are like flowers, the more fertile the soil in which they grow, the more beautiful they become. But plant a flower on a dusty road far from water and it will wither.

“How old are you?” Ruslan spontaneously asked Tamara.

She was embarrassed for some reason.

“It was an insensitive question.”

“Why is it?”

“The younger I am, the less experience I have.”

Tamara started rummaging through her toolbox and pulled out a vial of pills.

“Just don’t give me sleeping pills.”

“It’ll help you calm down and sleep until the doctor is available. He’s on overload right now. You’ll have to wait.”

“I feel perfectly healthy.”

“The stitches from your wounds will need to come out soon anyway.”

“Did I get stitches?” Ruslan was genuinely surprised. “I don’t remember.”

“You were unconscious when they brought you here.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t hooked up to any machines. Imagine if when I woke up I’d found out I’d been in a coma for years,” Ruslan joked. The joke was ridiculous. Tamara didn’t even smile.

“Time flies by here,” she fluffed the pillow on the bunk.

Nothing was visible under her uniform but her threadbare pantyhose. It would be nice to see at least the edge of her skirt to see what she wore when she wasn’t working. Ruslan tried to imagine Tamara in jeans and a T-shirt or a short summer sundress and couldn’t. But it was not difficult to imagine her in a chic evening dress. Tamara has the appearance of a refined aristocrat. The nurse’s uniform she was wearing seemed temporarily borrowed from someone.

Ruslan would rather believe that Tamara was the daughter of Vereskovsky or some other oligarch than that she was on the hospital staff. Could he be being played? He’d never seen a nurse like her before.

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