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I save Polina for last. My hand shakes at the thought of sharing her imperfectly. My only consolation is my knowing that words undeniably fail to capture the essence of anything at all, let alone a creature like Polina. Consequently, if I ever meet her again in a different place I could blame my shortcomings on Russian vocabulary and not on my inattentiveness to her details. So here I go:
There is no doubt in my mind that if I hadn’t met Polina here in this desolate place, I would have met her one night, years from now moving gracefully across the antique black and white TV on the main floor. She would have been Belarus’ leading lady, captivating the love and lust of every man in Eastern Europe and setting a hopeless bar to which every woman and girl would hold herself. Similarly, there is no doubt that I still would have become addicted to her, falling every bit in love as I did here while sitting next to her fading body.
Let me make this perfectly clear: Polina was objectively beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful because I was a revolting invalid whose desperation for companionship dictated that he reduce his standards of beauty to a level that was practical for obtaining such companionship. Even as Polina lay pale, emaciated, and on the verge of death, she would have won any pageant in the world.
With this clarification, I can go on to tell you what she looked like:
She had long brown hair besieged with curls and ringlets persisting in the face of her ongoing struggle — a struggle that forced her to abandon nearly all modes of regular feminine hygiene. Her skin was a perfect tender porcelain with rosy undertones. Yet, she had a simple, modest beauty mark on her right cheek, which made her face real. The structure of her face was exotic. Each turn and curve was slightly exaggerated, giving her face an instant edge over every other feminine face in the world, while intimidating the breath out of me every time I laid eyes on it. Her body was long and slender, yet adorable little breasts bloomed from her chest and would trace the contours of her respiration right up until her last breath. Reader, do you see what we are dealing with?
IV
My favorite past time is to act catatonic and eavesdrop on conversations amongst nurses and doctors. This feigned obliviousness disarms the adults into lengthy streams of uncensored talk — it’s the only way I can get accurate news and information regarding the asylum or the outside world. Anything they speak directly to us or around us is either nonsensical baby talk or lies crafted for the purpose of making things appear better than they really are.
Perhaps the most important piece of information I have gleaned from these conversations is that children here fall into two categories: six-monthers and three-monthers. This is because medications here at the asylum are prescribed either in six- or three-month supplies. For the vast majority of us, six-month supplies are prescribed, since they are cheaper and require fewer prescriptions. We are, of course, the six-monthers. However, when a doctor deems that there is little chance that a child will make it more than a couple months, one final three-month supply is ordered.
In a place where nothing ever changes, even morbid change is entertaining. Thus, one of my favorite activities is guessing three-monthers before med day. One of the few things I pride myself on is how good I am at this game. In fact, until a week ago I had correctly called every new three-monther over the last 30 months. And the only reason I ruined my streak was because I was in a most airtight state of denial. In other words, I could not see what I knew to be true, because what was true was too hard to accept.
About Scott Stambach
