Wild Bastard by Ella Savitskaya (book suggestions .txt) 📕

Marina

The next day I wake up around noon and go to the hospice. About once a week I  visit patients, and today I also present Mrs. Field with a little joy in the form of a long-awaited book from the library.

An elderly woman with an incurable diagnosis had never read, having spent her life working in a factory and earning barely enough money to provide for her family. Now, faced with the inevitable, she has no choice but to delight herself with the love stories I read aloud to her.

A year ago I met a girl named Felicia on the street. She turned out to be a volunteer at the city hospice and offered me to help those people who have almost nothing left of life. I agreed. First of all, because I know better than anyone what it means to be needless. The feeling of abandonment has never left me, and that is probably why I have a great desire to spend time with these people, to read to them, play chess, or just listen to their stories about their lives. They are experienced, filled with happy moments or, on the contrary, with sadness. They always share their experiences with awe and, most importantly, they wait for me. When I see in their framed by deep wrinkles eyes, the joy of our regular meetings, I am warmed by some kind of airy cocoon. It is the feeling that I am helping someone keeps me from sliding into a deep pit, into the vortex of which I am sometimes inevitably drawn with terrible force.

Last year I tried to go to medical college, but I failed miserably. It is difficult to combine work and preparation for entrance exams, especially when you try to study on your own, without anyone else's help. And the knowledge that we were given was enough only to write texts almost without mistakes.

We chat with Mrs. Field for half a day, but as soon as I leave the building I find seven missed calls from Lana. Wow. The girl usually calls once, and if I don't have a chance to answer, she waits until I call back.

The pain under the bandage on my leg reminds me of that jerk's forced night walk. I straighten it out and dial Lana.

"Marina!" The little one answers almost immediately.

"Yes, Lana? What's up?"

"I've been sitting on the stairs in front of your apartment for about two hours, when will you be home?"

I try to understand from her voice whether she's crying or not, but she doesn't seem to be. More like anxious.

"I'm going to work now, come to the bar," The bus comes around the corner, and I speed up.

Transport comes here strictly on schedule. If I'm late, I'll have to wait another half hour for the next one, or to trample the pavement in the direction of the center. But my legs won't survive another walk.

"Okay, I'll just go home and change."

After hanging up, I run to the bus, and forty minutes later I get off at my stop.

The bar is not very crowded at this time. Mostly the crowd pulls in after seven and closer to night. It's hard for me to understand why they open it at eleven in the morning. In the daytime the place doesn't have such a large flow of customers, but we have to work practically all day and night. It's good that we work in shifts with the girls. Tonight it's my turn again. I prefer to work at night, though. During the day you could climb the walls from boredom, and the evenings can be diluted with work and meaningless chitchat with visitors. I don't always come across hardened alcoholics, sometimes the guys are very adequate.

"Hi, Kate" I greet the bartender I'm supposed to replace now.

"Hi, Marina!"

We high-five each other, and I notice in my side-eye that there are only three customers in the bar.

A couple eating burgers and a lonely man with a half-liter glass of beer and a plate of chips in front of him. My stomach groans, reminding me that all I threw into it today was a cheap pie from the market and a couple of chocolates slipped to me for tea by Aya, a young nurse at the hospice.

"Listen, Kate, can you wait for five minutes? I'll get something to eat, or my insides will start digesting themselves."

After receiving a smile in response and a blessing to quench my appetite, I leave for the kitchen.

"Oooh, who do I see" Brady, the local cook, the kind Carlson, as we call him, says, "Did the princess come for her half of the grain? "

The big guy calls me Thumbelina because of my short stature and, as he himself says, bony build. But I am not offended. Sometimes I'm surprised I don't make my bones jingle when I walk.

"That's right" I smile back, grateful to him for the fact that he always feeds me for free in secret from Mrs. Blanchard. "I'm afraid I won't make it to the end of the day without your half-grain!"

The man in the white culinary cap chuckles, satisfied with the compliment, and takes a pre-made burger out of the fridge. He heats it up in the microwave and puts my gastronomic orgasm in front of me. Not that it tastes as good as the one he just cooked, but I'm not particularly picky.

I sink my teeth into the bun with the cutlet, and I can't hold back a moan of pleasure.

"Brady, you should be awarded a Michelin star!" I say in all seriousness, without stopping to chew, and get a loud laugh in response.

"A burger award, Rinnah?"

"The best burger ever!"

He looks at me with a warmth I'm not used to, so with a little embarrassment, I bury myself in my plate and gulp down a few bites of the deliciousness. I drink a cup of coffee and, after patting the man on the shoulder in gratitude, I wash my hands and head out into the hall.

"Done, Kate, thank you. The batteries are charged, and I'm ready to work."

Kate is just putting two glasses of beer on the bar to a couple of guys, who apparently just walked up, and after handing me the cash register with the keys, she flies out the door, tinkling a bell on the wall.