Cold hands

“What if I’m not the savior?” the pale young man on the television screen murmured, his voice slipping into the room like a draft. “What if I’m the villain?”

“That’s not true! I don’t believe you!” his future girlfriend protested.

At that very moment, a crash came from the kitchen — a pot hitting the floor — followed by Pierre’s irritated exclamation. It was his turn to cook tonight.

Marie sighed and paused the film. Her friend had insisted she watch Twilight: “So what if it’s old? The guy in it is incredible. Compassionate, attentive, unusual. You’ll love him.”

At dinner, seated in their snug kitchen, Marie said:

“I don’t understand why everyone praises this film. How can anyone fall in love with a vampire? The way he looks at her every time — smacking his lips — like… like she’s a hamburger!”

“Well,” Pierre drawled, “they’re trying to teach us inclusivity.”

“Inclusivity toward whom? Vampires are evil. They’re dead. And they’re portrayed as if they’re better than humans in every way. No one even mentions that getting close to them comes at a cost.”

Pierre only shrugged.

That conversation had already faded when, a week later, Marie checked into the Clinic of the Most Holy Blood.

She expected to stay only until evening after a routine procedure, then go home to recover. Instead, she woke up in intensive care after two days in a coma. The doctor informed her matter-of-factly, that she had contracted a severe infection during the procedure. Now she would require prolonged treatment, strong painkillers and antibiotics, and regular dressing of a deep wound.

After that, Marie was moved to a shared ward.

There, there was no such thing as rest. Patients and staff moved constantly, voices rising and falling, footsteps threading through the air without pause. Marie could not sleep. She tried to comprehend her new state: a young, vigorous woman who had walked into the hospital on her own feet had become someone confined to a bed. Her requests to be moved to a quieter room went unanswered; the nurses passed her by as though carried along by a current of their own.

But the worst was yet to come.

Few could find her veins on the first attempt. The punctures from IV lines became inflamed. Her arms were covered in bruises and tiny wounds, and she refused to let them use her legs.

That night, sleep would not come again.

Her entire body ached, and she did not have the strength to turn. After wedging a pillow under her back, Marie fell still and tried to relax.

The ward lay in darkness. Only a distant light from another wing brushed the ceiling above the curtain around her bed. Someone snored. Near her ear, the infusion pump hummed and beeped, counting the drops out, one by one. From the half-open door came muffled voices.

Nothing in her body seemed willing to rest.

Worst of all was the pain in her arm, rigid with the IV needle. The fever seemed to be rising again. The skin around the puncture burned and throbbed.

The night stretched, viscous and endless.

Marie began to cry.

The tears came for a long time, until, suddenly, behind her, she heard a quiet voice — soft, sympathetic:

“Poor girl… Does it hurt very much?”

Marie turned her head sharply.

She could have sworn no one had entered behind the curtain. Yet by the morphine pump stood a blurred figure in white.

“Very,” Marie sobbed. “My arm hurts so much.”

“Shall I call the doctor for you? She’ll place the IV quickly. Without pain.”

“Yes, please… please, let her come!”

The nurse dissolved, as if she had never quite been there. In her place stood a pale being.

A small elderly woman in a loose white robe, she resembled a nocturnal moth. Cold fingers touched Marie’s arm — swiftly, gently. The crinkle of packaging. The faint click of a catheter.

A light prick.

The needle, tipped with a bead of blood, already lay on the bedside table. The IV line was in the other arm. The pain receded.

For the first time in days, Marie fell asleep.

She was awakened by the morning round.

The nurses came to take her temperature and blood pressure. One of them, pulling out the cuff, asked who had replaced the IV line during the night.

“The doctor came,” Marie said, smiling with relief. “She did everything so deftly I didn’t feel a thing.”

The nurses exchanged a glance.

“Is something wrong?” Marie asked, uneasy. “I was crying last night, and the night nurse offered to call her.”

The nurse who had taken her blood pressure silently placed the cuff back on the trolley. The other picked up the empty catheter packaging and said:

“Don’t worry. Morphine sometimes has side effects.”

Marie fell into thought.

Perhaps it really had been a hallucination.

Or perhaps not.

Even if it was morphine, someone had helped her.

Either she was losing her mind, or the nurses were hiding something, and something here was not right.

“Her hands were like ice,” Marie later told her husband, “but for the first time I felt that someone actually cared. The day staff behave as if I don’t exist.”

After that night, she improved.

She began to eat with appetite, even spoke with her neighbors. But after a few days, the puncture site inflamed again, and the pain returned.

“Excuse me, my arm hurts badly. Could you replace the IV?” she asked a nurse distributing medication.

“I’ll come later,” the nurse tossed over her shoulder, without even looking.

An hour passed. Then another.

Lunch was served and cleared away.

Another nurse entered.

Marie repeated her request.

“What do you expect? We have many patients, and everyone is in pain!” the nurse snapped.

Evening came.

No one came to her.

The ward quieted. The television was turned off. One by one, the others visited the bathroom and lay down. The lights went out.

Shadows moved across the ceiling. Somewhere far away, a highway murmured.

Marie lay still, helpless, forgotten.

“And these people call themselves human?” she wept bitterly.

When the others fell asleep, she fixed her gaze ahead and whispered:

“I’m in so much pain. Please… help me.”

“Tonight, we will visit the doctor ourselves,” came the familiar voice.

Someone pushed at the head of her bed. Another pulled from the foot.

Marie was carried through the cold corridors.

The white ceiling slid away, replaced by the dull gray of an elevator. Then the rattling descent. Then the basement.

Doors opened.

She found herself in an empty pre-operative room.

They were waiting for her.

This time, it was a young woman.

Cold, slender fingers moved across Marie’s skin. Cotton, alcohol, syringe, adhesive appearing as if summoned.

The syringe filled instantly with blood.

The steel needle lay aside.

The IV flowed again, precise as a clock.

It would have taken anyone else several minutes.

Marie found herself staring at her rescuer.

A beautiful blonde. Thin. Almost translucent.

Her fitted white coat clung to her like a wedding dress.

“Thank you… you’re a miracle,” Marie whispered.

The blonde, half-turned on her stool, smiled.

Something small and too sharp to be a tooth caught the light between her lips.

Marie went numb with terror.