Hospital 301

 Hospital 301, darling, is not the kind of place where a man would be admitted in order to sit back and watch a wild strip show while receiving a complimentary blowjob. I was wheeled in there by the ambulance doctors, not for entertainment or pleasure but due to severe pneumonia and atrial fibrillation. My old heart raced too fast, skipping beats, making me suffer from simply being alive.

 My only concern was karma otherwise I would have ended it all long before then. I believed that taking such a drastic step would lead to negative repercussions in a life to come. The fear of suffering in the future life kept me tied to this one although the quiet voice from within told me that it was only temporary and sooner or later I would have to decide for myself which day should be my last. They say that it is only the promise of death that makes life worth living. It was the way it was for me for most of my life so the thought of death kept me going, yeah, even within the sterile confines of Hospital 301.

 Now you may wonder if the medics in my country are as competent as those in yours, whenever it comes to putting a man back on his feet again. I wish I could satisfy your curiosity fully, but I can only assert with certainty that the professionals in hospitals like the 301, both men and women, stand out as highly trained military medics, dedicated to their craft and everyday work.

 There I was, for the first time ever, drifting into sleep beneath a steady flow of oxygen, evoking nostalgic memories of lazy summer mornings spent on the sunlit beach when youth and freedom were one and life wasn't worth living without love. A dream unfolded, transporting me to a mysterious island, which I intuitively recognized as the Isle of Lost Kittens — a beautiful land filled with healthy, well-nourished and frisky animals.
 
 The last thing I saw in that dream was a pair of tear-filled eyes I thought were yours. "Why weep, my love, when all the little ones around here are fine?” - I asked, only to hear a gentle voice say: “These tears come from happiness, my dearest”.

 Ah, darling! Even after all those years, I still held you close in my heart as my devoted wife, patiently waiting for mе. Your memory remained my guiding star.
 
 Countless times before they brought me in the hospital I had desperately fled from myself, seeking an encounter with death, hoping to meet it halfway. But here in the vast expanse of Russia, where fierce, icy winds weave around frozen birch trees, whispering ancient tales of tyranny and revolution, I found myself confronting nothing but fear and pain. Here, the weight of existence was suffocating. I longed for release, for cleansing the past. So, I made my way to the river, seeking redemption. There, I hoped to wash away the memory of the other, to cleanse my hands from the evidence of his crime.

 Several hours later, I stood knee-deep in the water, completely motionless, gazing up at the starry sky and listening to a seemingly familiar song playing somewhere in the dark distance. If only I had known you at that enchanted moment, I would have wanted you near me...  The scene was just nothing without you.

 Then, as I walked aimlessly through the water, for half an hour, perhaps, I struck upon a deserted fishing line and discerned the trail of an extinguished campfire upon the sandy bank. I came out of the water and stepped on a small, dead fish.

 I don't enjoy fishing but still there were times in my young life when I went on fishing trips with friends. Whatever we caught was either taken home, released, or used as essential ingredients for a soup we prepared on the spot. We would never throw a single fish away like that.
 
 - Holy fuck! - my father's angry voice exclaimed from the night sky - What a pointless death! Who, if not a bunch of pathological perverts, could have caused this inhabitant of the river to die of suffocation? In a sick society where freedom often means license to destroy rather than protect wicked things occur with alarming frequency. Dogfuckers! Freedom is just too much for them to handle.
 
 My father had worked on large fishing trawlers, and he was the chief trawl-master, the man responsible for the catch. There were times when the vessel and the crew stayed at sea for half a year on end. He could never be happy about wasting fish.

 Although a chill ran down my spine, caused by the sheer unexpectedness of it all, Dad's words felt like a welcome from the past.

 I looked up, searching the night sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of my father
but the night remained silent, the stars unmoved by his language. Only the echo of his voice, so close and dear, lingered above me.

 - Huh, well, OK, Dad, - said I, - Wretched be the hand which committed this act of violence and left the body here to rot!

 - Amen, - uttered his fading voice. In that moment, I understood: his anger was not just about one senseless act but about an entire system that allowed such atrocities to flourish unchecked.

 As I stood there beneath the scattering of sparkling stars, some of which perhaps representing other lives ruined, I felt a wave of determination rise within me. My father’s voice had been more than just a familiar sound; right at that moment it became a battle cry against human brutality as it had before. Good men must challenge those who treat freedom as their playground while egnoring its consequences on innocent lives.

 - Dad, I was forgetting. Life's got me going completely numb...

 And so I vowed then and there: no longer would I turn a blind eye to injustice or stand idle in the face of it. For every creature lost to senseless violence deserved remembrance; every act against nature demanded resistance.
 
 I dug a shallow hole in the sand with my bare feet and buried the remains in it... Rest in peace, little thing. You were not the last one I buried.

 So things used to be like this until you came along, darling... I saw my salvation in you and lived with that idea for four years, just as long as we were married. But you came and went, and here I am alone again. No, I don't blame you, it was my fault, I know  —  I should have known better. However, as time goes by, I don't care anymore. Now you've become someone I talk to in my dreams...  in order to remain sane.

 You might not know this, my darling, but in Russia, the main dish for supper, whether in a barracks or a prison cell, is always one: fried fish. This is not just a coincidence, but a calculated strategy. The guys are stuck in a cage today, and tommorow they’re out there fighting for their country, already accustomed to eating a particular type of food every night. Fish is believed to be an important source of protein and phosphorus which helps keep the brain from atrophying, but duty and punishment are so close together that it can sometimes be difficult to tell them apart.

 I often thought about what it would be like to share a main dish like that with you. Its plainness might remind us of the unadorned beauty of the Isle of Lost Kittens. It would be right to call all the little ones over here because they like eating fish so much.

 We would sit facing each other, on a broken tree trunk, next to the field kitchen, where the red glow of the village burning under the setting sun would play on the side profiles of our faces. The air would be clean enough to breathe as the wind would carry away every cloud of smoke towards the western horizon. The kittens would gather around us, their mouths and whiskers smeared with fish oil, their joyful meows creating a peculiar contrast to the sounds of distant weapon fire.

 Can you fathom the meaning behind these words, my darling? Your dearest is in the army now, yeah, looking for death in combat, living in a reality I wish I could escape. Death doesn't always come easy, even on the battlefield. This oppressive truth weighs heavily upon my heart. Remember that song Yellow and Blue which I penned in optimistic times? Well, perhaps you better forget. No reason to sing it anymore, cast it aside, let it go. It now seems a distant memory and means nothing as the grim specter of chaos looms over all. Ukraine, caught in the merciless grip of war, doesn’t stand a chance, its fate is sealed, hope is dwindling for its defenders, all their struggles seem futile despite their efforts. They’re fighting tooth and nail, but victory feels like a distant dream and remains elusive.

 How I curse these hard times which came at the evil will of Mr. Putin! Damn him and his cruelty. Damn his apologists hanging around us, damn this relentless conflict, damn the toll it takes, damn the suffering, damn the destruction and damn everything else — what a fucked up world we’re living in!




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