My Language is My Enemy
The suture on my chest broke on the third day after the beginning of the crisis, and only then did my idiopathic temperature at last begin to fall. The doctors sighed with relief: thank God the heart is clear and the infection is superficial, so we won't lose the lad, we'll be able to pull him through...
Without delay I was transferred to the dressing ward, where they started to pull out the rotted threads, and there were more than enough of them: during the operation they sewed the suture on the sternum in three layers, tying each surgical suture with knots. Now they were pulling them out of my chest one by one, like veins.
From the dressing ward, to my great distress, I did not land back in my own apartments, the trolley was wheeled straight to the ‘rotteds’ wa
