Pavel opened his eyes, the coldness of the air stinging against his bruised cheeks. As he blinked away the remnants of sleep and confusion, he caught sight of Pooh's Papa gently applying some kind of soothing cream to his battered skin.
It was a strangely intimate moment, and for a brief second, Pavel felt almost comforted. The cold cream provided a counterbalance to the heat of his anguish, easing the throbbing pain from where Pooh had slapped him. In that moment, he realized his cheeks should have been swollen and discolored, but miraculously, they felt a little better.
The chaos of the previous hours played like a film in his mind, blurry yet vivid. Pavel's heart raced at the remembrance of his emotions—overwhelming sadness mixed with an undercurrent of anger and helplessness.
He squinted at Pooh's Papa, Porsche, and Uncle Peat, all looking down at him with expressions of worry tinged with a hint of pity. Their eyes said it all: they understood his pain, but there was little they could do to alleviate it.
Feeling utterly drained, both physically and emotionally, Pavel attempted to sit up, his body betraying him as exhaustion wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. Just as he faltered, Uncle Peat was there, a steady hand guiding him back to an upright position on the bed, easing him away from the precipice of falling back into despair.
"Do you feel better, Son? Are you hungry? Shall I bring you anything?" Papa asked, concern lining his voice as he studied Pavel's defeated expression.
The questions lingered in the air, a stark reminder that although they were trapped by the same unfortunate circumstances, they still felt a weight of care for him.
In that moment, a swell of emotions cracked through Pavel. Here they were, all prisoners in their own right to these oppressive husbands, and yet they were trying to tend to him, trying to offer comfort and a sense of normalcy in what felt like an utterly chaotic existence.
It was a juxtaposition that almost made him want to laugh, but he quickly quelled the impulse. He understood that behind their tenderness lay their own feelings of helplessness, mirroring his own.
"Pavel, Son! Do you want anything?" Porsche asked again, more urgency creeping into his tone. Pavel's heart ached at the genuine concern, but his emotions were too tangled for a simple answer.
Finally, without thinking, he blurted out, "Divorce! I want a divorce from your son!"
The outburst hung in the air, charged with frustration and desperation. To his surprise, Porsche didn't recoil or look shocked. Instead, he looked down dejectedly. It was as if they were ensnared in an invisible web of expectations, bound by feelings they could neither articulate nor escape.
Porsche's shoulders sagged slightly as he exchanged a knowing glance with Uncle Peat. They remained silent, each understanding the futility of the sentiment Pavel had expressed.
They knew that was one request they could never fulfill, trapped by their compulsions and the chains their husbands had latched onto them. The air thickened with unspoken words, as both men reflected on their shared plight and the shadows of their own suppressed desires.
"I will bring you a soup, dear..." Porsche finally said, rising from his seat, his head bowed as he exited the room.
