Finally, he turned off the screen, turned to me, and sighed heavily.
— Yana, correct?
I nodded.
— Yana, I have seen thousands of spines in my practice. Hernias, protrusions, pinched nerves, consequences of injuries, congenital pathologies, tumors. Well, — he paused, looking me straight in the eye, — your husband has a spine that a flight school cadet would envy. He is absolutely, clinically healthy. Not a single pathology that could cause chronic pain. Not one at all.
The air left my lungs. I sat there and looked at him, not understanding anything. It was as if he were speaking a foreign language.
— But how? The pain, the diagnosis, the doctor…
— What doctor told you all this? — he asked gently.
— Arkady Lvovich, I don’t remember his last name.
Alexey Kirillovich walked over to the desk and sat across from me. He took the lab results from the folder.
— And this, — he twirled the form in his hands, — is complete nonsense. Half of the indicators here are made up, and the ones that are real are within the normal range for a healthy thirty-year-old man. Any first-year medical student would tell you this is rubbish. You’re being scammed, young lady.
He said it calmly, without judgment. But for me, those words sounded like a death sentence. The hair on my head literally stood on end, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on my back. “Scammed”—one word that nullified six months of my life. My sleepless nights, my three jobs, my fear, my love and pity. It was all built on a lie, a cynical, monstrous lie.
— And the medicine?
— “Neurostabil,” — I whispered with my lips alone.
— I just did a quick search in the database, — he turned his computer monitor towards me. — There is no such drug registered in the country’s list of medicines, but there is a dietary supplement with the same name. Its production is questionable, sold through one-page websites on the internet. It’s positioned as a miracle cure for all diseases. A classic fraudulent scheme. It costs, I assume, a fabulous amount of money.
I nodded silently, unable to utter a word. Only one thought pounded in my head. He wasn’t just lying. He was making me work to the bone to buy him vitamins at the price of gold. He watched me kill myself and continued to play his part. He and his accomplice—the doctor.
— Yana, are you alright? — Alexey Kirillovich asked with concern.
I looked up at him. There were no tears. Everything inside had burned to ash. Only coldness remained. An icy, ringing emptiness that gradually began to fill with a quiet, calculated rage.
— Yes, — my voice was firm. — I am now. Thank you. Thank you so much.
I stood up, took the folder with the “astronaut’s” diagnosis, and left the office. I knew what to do.
The world around me had changed. The colors were brighter, the sounds sharper. I walked down the street but saw neither people nor cars. There was an absolute, crystal clarity in my head. The fear, the doubts, the pity were gone. Only one thing remained. A cold, steel-like intention.
I didn’t go home. I headed to a large 24-hour pharmacy. White shelves, neat rows of boxes, the quiet hum of refrigerators. Everything here was subject to order and logic. That’s exactly what I was lacking right now. I went to the digestive aids section. My gaze slid over the names until it stopped on one. The largest package, the strongest action, the fastest possible effect.
— Miss, could I have this one, please.
I pointed a finger at the glass. The pharmacist, a young girl in a white coat, handed me the box with a smile. At that moment, my phone rang. “My Love” flashed on the screen. The irony! I answered the call.
— Yanochka, where are you? — His voice was weak, pitiful, perfectly acted. — I feel so bad. The attack after you left was terrible. I thought I was going to die. Are you mad at me about the pizza? I’m sorry, I was wrong, I snapped. Just come back soon.
I looked at the box in my hand. On it was written: “Powerful laxative effect within 30-60 minutes”…
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