Everything changed when my hearing sharpened. In the endless stretches of solitude, I sought to avoid sinking back into the sticky quagmire of my subconscious, so I began to listen—truly listen. I trained myself to pick out individual sounds from the cacophony of echoes, to isolate them as if untangling threads from a tightly wound skein. I didn't know if it was even possible, but for someone with all the time in the world, there could be no better occupation.
Learning to distinguish voices was almost impossible. They merged into a white noise, a tide of hundreds of echoes that refused to yield a single, coherent word. Yet even in failure, I gained something: I realized the voices were not constant. Sometimes, above the towering hospital, the din faded. Night had fallen. The staff dispersed, conversations ceased, and the patients retreated to their rooms, slipping into oblivion until morning.
I began to anticipate the night. It became my time of exploration, my window into the world of precise, concentrated sound. Footsteps, initially indistinct, grew sharper, and soon I could imagine the owners: some shuffled wearily, others tapped their heels to the rhythm of the tile in the stairwell. The chaos of sound gradually shaped itself into order.
As my hearing refined, so did my sense of smell. On ordinary evenings, as darkness draped the ward, I would settle onto the couch, back pressed against the cold concrete, listening. Then, a new sound emerged—one that cut through the thick veil of ordinary noise with surgical clarity. It was a swift, precise tearing, a confident movement through some unseen barrier. A rhythmic drip followed, each drop louder than the last. I closed my eyes, tracing the sound, and detected a raspy, uneven breath. Instantly, an image formed in my mind: an elderly man, face marked with age spots and coarse stubble, seated on a cold shower floor three floors above, legs spread, back against the wall, hand extended. Dark, viscous liquid gleamed across his skin in the moonlight.
My attention was drawn irresistibly to it, as though some hidden force demanded I notice. And then I smelled it—a sweetish, metallic tang that called to me.
I rose from the couch as if compelled. The door yielded to my hand, swinging off its hinges with a satisfying crash, bouncing off the wall and leaving a deep dent, spider-webbed with cracks. I was not surprised. All thought, all caution, had vanished. My mind focused solely on the blood above, and I moved with instinctive precision, tracing the corridors I had memorized by sound, knowing every turn, every staircase, every door.
By the time I reached the third floor, the hallway lay in shadow, deserted. Only the steady, heavy breathing of sleeping patients leaked through the closed doors. The rhythmic drip had stopped. I crossed the floor, finding the shower, and pushed it open.
The scene mirrored my imagination. The old man sat against the wall, legs apart, head drooping, eyes closed. A fragrant pool of blood pooled around his severed hand, its scent sharp, almost sweet, stinging my throat. Thoughts fled; only desire remained. I imagined taking his hand, pressing my lips to the wound, savoring the aroma. The blood carried memory and longing—it transported me to distant, joyful days: to a loving home, to people I had lost.
I tasted it. The liquid filled my mouth, vivid and alive, and when it was gone, I wanted more. I imagined visiting others, following the trail of hearts calling me, urging me to release the treasure hidden in each vein. Freedom flowed through blood, and I sought it with a blind, irresistible hunger.
Reality and imagination blurred. By the end of that night, I had walked the entire floor, moving from room to room. At first, I was careful, precise, almost gentle. But by the last, caution abandoned me entirely, replaced by a raw, animal instinct.
When it was over, satisfaction came in a hollow, sickening wave. My legs barely obeyed, weighed down by the poison of what I had consumed. Was this what a vampire felt? I wiped my mouth, glancing up at a mirror. My hair was tangled, matted; my features sharper, harsher; dark shadows framed my eyes. For a moment, I almost surrendered to sleep—but then I noticed the calendar on the wall. Ordinary, unremarkable, yet the month and year were sharply marked.
A scream erupted from my chest, rattling walls and floor alike. If I could, I would have torn this hospital to its foundations. And Dr. Smirnov… I would have dragged him from the earth with my own hands.
Seventeen years of solitude. Seventeen years as a test subject.