The poet's blue eyes

— Do not interrupt me under any circumstances and do not ask stupid questions until I finish. Is that clear?

* * *

The first thing that catches the eye are the scraped knees. Then the abrasions and scratches on the hands, broken nails, a bruise on the shoulder, swollen cracked lips, and dark circles under the eyes. And the gaze. A gaze full of pain, guilt, and pleading for forgiveness. On the slender neck, a blue vein throbs like a little hammer.

Everything is clear without words. My heart clenched, and my fists tightened. Until the knuckles turned white. "Bastards, scum! I'll find them, I'll dig them out from under the ground."

— How... how did this happen? — I ask loudly, and then catch myself:

God, what am I doing, this is not allowed! — Sorry, sorry, I won't shout. Tell me, where...

— In the western wing of the park. The road runs near the fence there.

"Damn! That's it. The highway is about five meters from the fence, how could I..."

— What did you... how did you... — I stammer. I can't manage to control my agitation. Thoughts are racing. Surges of compassion mix with flashes of anger.

— There's a clearing and a gazebo there. Lots of flowers, pleasant smells. No one goes there, and I like to watch the cars passing by.

"... passing cars..."

— How many of them were there?

— Three. Two were waiting in an open red car, and one came up to the fence and called me. He was very polite. And he had the blue eyes of a poet.

In horror, I cover my face with my hands so as not to see those blue eyes before me. But it seems they are looking straight into my heart.

I must continue.

— What happened next? — I ask.

— He said he knew all about me and would help me climb over the fence if I wanted to taste the free wind in their car.

"... taste the free wind..."

I clench my teeth, but, having restrained a flash of rage, I ask as impassively as possible:

— And then?

— We drove to a white stone house with columns, near the forest. He led me inside along a path of red granite slabs, and cheerfully shouted to the other two to come in in about thirty minutes. They laughed... I did too.

Everything inside me froze. Somewhere far away outside the window, a siren wailed mournfully. Red granite slabs, a white house near the forest, antique columns...

— And in that house...

— He sat me in a comfortable plush armchair and gave me lemonade with ice. The room had emerald curtains, music was playing softly...

My head is barely holding on my shoulders. Emerald, insanely beautiful curtains... twelve credits per meter...

The broken lips and faltering little voice carefully enunciate:

Lаst thing I rеmеmbеr, I wаs,

Running fоr thе dооr,

I hаd tо find thе pаssаgе bаck,

Tо thе plаcе I wаs bеfоrе,

`Rеlаx, ` sаid thе night mаn,

Wе аrе prоgrаmmеd tо rеcеivе,

Yоu cаn chеck оut аny timе yоu likе,

But yоu cаn nеvеr lеаvе.

(And the last thing I remember

Is running for the exit to that door

That would allow me to return back

To the world once known, forbidden now

"Don't rush," the Gatekeeper remarked,

We are conditioned to receive,

The payment can be deferred

But you know — you cannot leave!") *

— Enough! — I can't bear it. — How did he... behave during this time

— He sat on the floor near my feet and started stroking them. He told me he had been watching me for a long time. That he loved me very much. Then he said not to be afraid, that it wouldn't hurt, maybe just a little, and at first, but then I would learn to endure. At that, he took my feet in his palms and wanted to kiss them, but I'm afraid of being ticklish... And his lips are hot.

"... lips are hot."

— Half an hour passed and those two came in? — I involuntarily raise my voice.

— ... yes. Everything changed. And he changed... He didn't say he loved me anymore.

I know all too well what happened next and, vainly swallowing the lump stuck in my throat, I ask the final question:

— And... later, when... — my damned voice betrays me with a tremble — when there was pain. Did you like it again? Did it arouse you?

— ...

* * *

— We'll need a description, madam... — the investigator speaks up from his corner. He couldn't hold back after all, despite all my warnings. The impatience of a hunting dog.

I signal to the paramedic. He throws a checkered blanket over the boy's shoulders and leads him away. I follow with a tender, loving gaze the touching snow-white tuft of hair on the top of his head.

— No description is needed, — I tell the investigator. — And there will be no case. Herman is incompetent and, unfortunately, merely mentally ill. He won't be believed. Especially with such a diagnosis.

— But you, other people? — the investigator asks, bewildered.

— The head doctor of the psychiatric hospital, as well as its staff, are interested parties. There are no other witnesses. The boy was found near the admissions department. In court, it will all fall apart for lack of evidence, — I utter the basic truths bitterly and wearily. — Bruises and abrasions?... He got them during his escape, during his time outside the hospital walls.

The investigator is a strong-willed man; he silently and gloomily packs his notes into a folder. Looking at his stony face, I make a decision.

— Do you have children?

— Yes, two, a boy and a girl.

I like how he says it. With infinite love and a tremor in his voice.

Such people stop at nothing. Such people go all the way.

— Do you want to know who that... person is, the one who tortured the child? You can do something outside of the official investigation, can't you? — I ask hopefully.

He freezes, looks piercingly at me for several long moments, and nods his head almost imperceptibly.

I have made my choice. I turn the framed photograph on my desk towards him.

For a few seconds, he looks incredulously and attentively at the noble male face with blue eyes in the color photo. He shifts his gaze to me, a dawning realization in his eyes.

— My former patient and current husband, — I nod.

He casts a hunted look at the door through which Herman was led away. He understood. Pity and disgust rage on his face. The investigator begins to silently back towards the door, his back to me. I don't care about his attitude towards me; the main thing is he will undoubtedly do what he must.

I walk to the open window and watch for a long time as the paramedic slowly leads the boy with the amazingly beautiful face, my face... and the blue eyes of a poet. And also, I unbearably want to quickly take off this damn bra that rubs against the scars on my back and my heart!

* — the author's poetic translation.