Wild Bastard

7

Marina

The next day, I wake up around noon and head to the hospice.

Once a week, I visit the patients. Today, I'm also bringing Mrs. Field a long-awaited book from the library.

She's an elderly woman with an incurable diagnosis.

She never had time for books—spent her whole life working in a factory, barely earning enough to support her family.

Now, with nothing left but time, she finds comfort in the love stories I read 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 invited me to help care for people who have almost nothing left of life.

I agreed.

Not because I'm some saint.

But because I know better than anyone what it feels like to be unwanted.

That feeling—the abandonment—has never left me.

Maybe that's why I need this.

Why I want to spend time with these people.

Reading to them. Playing chess. Just listening to their stories.

Stories filled with joy, loss, regrets.

They share their lives with a kind of reverence, and most importantly—they wait for me.

When I see the joy in their deep-wrinkled eyes, I feel something light wrap around me.

Like an airy cocoon.

Like, for once, I matter to someone.

That feeling—knowing I help—keeps me from slipping into the dark pit that's always lurking, ready to drag me down.

Last year, I tried to get into medical college.

Failed. Miserably.

Balancing work and studying for entrance exams is impossible when you have to teach yourself everything from scratch.

The education we got growing up?

Barely enough to write a sentence without mistakes.

I spend half the day chatting with Mrs. Field.

But the second I step outside, I check my phone—

Seven missed calls from Lana.

Wow.

She never calls more than once. If I don't pick up, she just waits for me to call back.

The sting beneath the bandage on my leg reminds me of last night's forced walk, courtesy of that asshole.

I stretch it out and dial her back.

She picks up immediately.

"Marina!"

"Yeah? What's up?"

"I've been sitting in front of your apartment for two hours. When are you coming home?"

I try to read her voice.

She doesn't sound like she's been crying.

"I'm heading to work now. Just meet me at the bar."

A bus turns the corner, and I speed up.

If I miss it, I'll have to wait another thirty minutes for the next one.