Moscow, NO.14 Hospital-affiliated nursing ho.
Yarebin, as usual, leaned on a cane and slowly walked to a shaded corridor, then sat down next to a pillar he liked.
Since getting an artificial hip joint, Yarebin rarely walked, but he enjoyed the morning sun and air.
As always, Yarebin sat in the corridor, looking at the environnt he had lived in for five years. Everything was familiar, everything was decaying and rotting with no return. Yarebin realized he truly hated this place, everything here reminded him that he was dying.
In Russia, healthcare is free. Hospital No.14 is one of the best hospitals in Moscow, and its affiliated nursing ho is one of the best as well. However, like other public hospitals, it isn’t really the best. Free services can’t be top-notch; the equipnt here is outdated, and the quality of doctors is declining each year because good doctors have moved to better-paying private hospitals. But what does it matter? Yarebin had already decided not to undergo any more surgeries or let those doctors roughly jab needles into him.
When people get old, they should just die when it’s ti, rather than forcibly continue living. Life should have quality; this is Yarebin’s belief. So, when he caught a cold last winter, he refused treatnt, although the official governnt would pay for all necessary dical treatnt. Yarebin no longer wanted it.
Yet he survived, and this made Yarebin regretful. He wanted to die if he couldn’t live with quality. But the people at the nursing ho didn’t want him to die, because as long as he lived, the nursing ho would receive a fixed grant.
Yarebin rested his hands on the cane, staring absent-mindedly at a shadow in the sun. Finally, with footsteps approaching, Yarebin saw the person he was waiting for.
A thirty-sothing caregiver, a woman whose expression was always stern, as if everyone owed her a lot of money.
Yarebin rembered she wasn’t like this when she first ca. She was polite and loved to smile, but after dealing with so many elderly for so long, she had the sa expression as the other caregivers. Though she wouldn’t speak out of turn or be rude, she no longer smiled.
"Today’s newspaper."
Yarebin reached out for his newspaper, and the caregiver imdiately turned and left, not saying a word, leaving him no chance to chat, like about the nice weather.
Smiling, Yarebin put the cane aside and opened the rolled-up newspaper.
His eyesight wasn’t poor yet, which Yarebin was quite satisfied with. It was one of the few advantages he had left.
By habit, he opened the newspaper and directly turned to the advertisents. It had been Yarebin’s habit for over twenty years, although other old n thought his love for reading ads was foolish.
Carefully scanning the entire page, Yarebin’s gaze paused. He forcefully smoothed the curled newspaper, squinting closer. When he confird he didn’t misread it, the na of the farm was correct. The na was that na, a na with initials KGB, a na they had once agreed upon.
Yarebin had thought he would never see that advertisent in his lifeti, but he saw it.
After rubbing his eyes and confirming he hadn’t misread, Yarebin put down the newspaper, breathed deeply, and sat brooding motionlessly for half an hour before standing up.
With one hand taking the newspaper and the other holding the cane, Yarebin started walking toward the office of the nursing ho director.
Yarebin felt as if he’d suddenly beco twenty years younger.
He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response, then directly addressed the surprised director behind the desk: "Give a phone, I need to make a call."
"There’s no phone for you to use here! Get out!"
Yarebin thought for a mont with his head lowered, then looked up, softly saying to the director: "You know, since the first day I arrived, I’ve wanted to beat the hell out of you, you son of a bitch. Now, I just want to snap your neck."
The director froze montarily, then stood up, angrily saying to Yarebin: "Get out! Old fart!"
Yarebin walked up, smiling: "You should respect , really you should. I don’t like being scolded, I hate your fake smile when welcoming inspectors, and I detest your arrogance in front of us old folks. Most importantly, you shouldn’t be skimming our als."
The director was in his forties, burly, and looked fierce when he wore a stern face.
"Get the hell out..."
With a snap, the cane viciously struck the director’s nose. Yarebin spun around, using his hip-replaced leg for support. The cane spun in his hand like a T-shaped cane, and with the added montum from spinning, Yarebin swung the cane back, heavily striking the director’s leg.
The sound of bone breaking echoed from the director’s neck, but he made no sound. The first strike had knocked him unconscious, and the second rely broke his neck before he fell.
Yarebin didn’t use the landline on the desk. Smiling, he walked around the office desk and pulled a cellphone from the director’s jacket pocket. He then sat in the director’s chair and said to the limp body at his feet: "Sorry, I only know how to kill, and you really shouldn’t have been skimping on our food."
Once again spreading out the newspaper, Yarebin dialed the number on it, holding his breath. After hearing a voice on the other end, he almost wanted to hang up but, after looking at the ceiling, he finally spoke slowly in a deep voice: "This is Yarebin."
After hearing the other party excitedly say sothing, Yarebin softly responded: "But I’m eighty-four years old now."
Finally, a satisfied smile appeared on Yarebin’s face. He then hung up the phone, put the director’s cellphone in his own pocket, and rolled up the newspaper.
Standing up from the chair, Yarebin addressed the lifeless director at his feet: "Farewell, you son of a bitch."
With a smile on his face, Yarebin slowly walked to the door. As he pressed the ball lock and closed the door, he glanced back, paused briefly, and disdainfully said: "You made many mistakes, but the worst was skimping on the elderly’s food money for your own pocket. Most importantly, you shouldn’t have skimped on a Black Demon’s food, idiot!"
Yarebin gently closed the door and muttered to himself: "I should wear my favorite hat before leaving, yes, put on that hat, and wear that suit."
After speaking, Yarebin seed to realize sothing and then smiled wryly, muttering to himself: "It shows my age, rambling so much!"
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