A man plays violin under a spotlight. An orchestra breathes behind him. His face is concentrated, full of life the kind of face worth studying. Then his vision blurs. He falls.
Pressure at sixty. Get the mask on him. The paramedics move fast, the gurney rattling down the corridor, and there is noise and motion and the particular urgency of people who have not yet decided if someone is worth saving.
Then the ceiling changes. Whiter. Quieter.
He opens his eyes and there is a woman sitting in the half-dark near the door, backlit by the exit, watching him. She has been watching him for some time.
Where am I, he asks.
You were operated on, she says.
He doesn't remember anything. She stands and walks toward him. That is because you were under anesthesia, she says, and her voice is the calmest thing in the room.
He is so tired. Confused. He asks what happened.
She adjusts the IV bags beside his bed. Her hands move without hesitation.
You suffered an aneurysm. The surgeon inserted a small metal coil to save your life.
He tries to move. The catheter hurts and he groans. She stops him and adjusts it with the same unhurried precision.
He asks why this happened.
The doctors are trying to find out. They don't know yet. It could be stress.
By accident she pinches him. An awkward sound escapes his throat, and they look at each other in the half-dark, and something passes between them that has no clinical name.
When I looked into those eyes for the first time, I felt something I had never felt before.
He asks again, dazed, what happened.
I'm sorry, she says. You just made a funny noise.
I'm a musician. I make a lot of noises.
Sure you do.
You're looking at me like you're trying to decode me.
That's my job.
No it isn't. That's the doctor's job.
She says nothing.
I'm sorry. No. I didn't mean it like that. If it makes you feel better... you're the best nurse I've ever had.
Anesthesia makes us say strange things, she says. And she moves the bed closer to the light.
And when I looked into those eyes for the last time, I felt the greatest emotion of my life.
Early morning. A woman stands beside his bed reviewing files. She is his doctor. She is also, unfortunately, his sister.
You're my doctor? What are the odds?
Not great, she says. And it's not exactly allowed, so shut up or you'll get someone worse who won't hesitate to give you the worst-tasting pills.
I thought that would be you.
It seems your files aren't yours. Must have been an error from the previous hospital. We'll run some tests once we sort this out.
Through the open door he watches a nurse being reprimanded by a staff member... head bowed, words blurred, only the shape of humiliation visible, the universal posture of someone deciding whether to disappear.
Nurse!, says his sister. Come here.
She enters.
Fill out these forms with the patient's information. The exam reports will be ready next week. They're already signed. Just fill in the rest.
The nurse takes the papers and moves toward the door.
I'm leaving, his sister says. Work was my only place free of the annoying squeal of your violin.
The doctor leaves. He looks at the nurse.
Oh, my sister... she loves me. That was a joke. I hope.
The nurse fills out the forms in silence. He stares at her face... cold, or something that looks like cold from a distance. He reaches for the violin near his bed. He begins to play.
She erases part of the form. She changes the date of the exam from 2002 to 2003. Her handwriting is very neat.
Want to hear something with rhythm?
It's pizzicato.
But no pizza though.
He plays the violin, plucking the strings like a guitar. She watches him.
You're awfully quiet. Is working with patients going well for you?
You said I was the best nurse you'd ever had.
Did I say that? Well... I didn't lie. You're the only one I've ever had, actually. I've never had surgery before.
I never wanted to be a nurse, she says. I wanted to go into research. But I never could.
Why not? You could figure out what's wrong with me.
He plays and hurts himself slightly, wincing.
She looks at him and smirks slightly. Something small moves across her face.
A doll, sitting in a dark void, illuminated in silence.
His sister wheels him to a nursing home.
There is almost no one there, which is either peaceful or lonely depending on who you ask.
He looks up when she enters the room.
Oh. It's you. The nurse.
Please let me get you settled in bed, she says.
She prepares the bed. She inserts the catheter. He groans.
I've heard some people can do it without feeling it.
They're lying. It's a deep insertion into the dermis. It always hurts.
Yes, but I know pain well. I'm a musician. It's practically the same thing.
Was your dream job being a musician or a masochist?
Pff. You tell me... was yours being a nurse?
She gives him a long look. She stands and moves toward the door.
Wait. No. I didn't mean it like that.
She pauses at the threshold.
I'll bring you food in an hour.
She leaves. He looks at the window.
Idiot, he says, to himself.
He eats soup. She sits beside him.
So... what do you think it is?
Your condition? The doctors think it's high blood pressure. But hypertension at your age is very rare.
She pauses.
I think it's something else.
Why so sure?
Because I know for certain the doctors don't know where to look.
A researcher, of course. Feel free to investigate. Prove them wrong.
How long do your performances last?
Three, four hours sometimes.
Lupus? No, it's never lupus. A form of dysautonomia? Autonomic? A syndrome? Marfan?
Do your joints ever slip? Do they feel loose?
No, I wouldn't say that. Maybe normal, right?
He knocks his hand against the desk and drops the bowl. It hits the floor.
Not like that, she says. No.
I'm sorry.
I'll clean it up. But only if you cooperate.
The window shows orange light. Sunset, or something like it.
She photographs him. She writes in her notebook. She turns on a small bedside lamp. The room is faintly lit in the new dark.
Why are you documenting me so much?
It's necessary to diagnose you.
Why do you bother? You could go rest. I'm not a VIP.
You're a very interesting case, she says. Like a puzzle.
But if you want puzzles there are plenty online. Even in the newspaper.
But I want to solve yours.
The silence between them thickens. Neither looks at the other.
You're one in a million nurses, he says.
Am I still your best nurse?
There's something calming about your determination.
I don't dislike treating you.
You like treating me?
You're one in a million patients.
They share a quiet look. Then they both turn away at the same moment, her fists resting on her knees.
Thank you, he says.
Her sister's office. She is exhausted. The clock reads one thirty.
She reviews the exam files. The submission date reads 2003. Her face goes still. She notices the smudge of an erased pencil mark.
She picks up the phone.
Get me the administrator.
When the nurse arrives the guards are already watching her with fury.
Get out of here. Now.
What? What? Why?
Pale hands appear somewhere in the dark. They reach toward a doll.
She is removed immediately. No protest... only the motion, the corridor, the door.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
That stupid nurse ruined all the medical requests.
WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? SHE DID NOTHING WRONG.
She changed your exams.
IT WAS A MISTAKE. WE ALL MAKE THEM. STOP BEING SO BRUTAL AND CRUEL. TELL HER TO COME BACK.
Listen to me. I am your caretaker, and this nonsense happens every time I leave you alone.
OH YEAH? HERE I AM... WHY DON'T YOU FIGURE OUT WHICH PARTS OF ME HURT? OR WHAT ITCHES? EVERY DAY IT COSTS ME MORE JUST TO WAKE UP.
Are you an idiot? I scheduled your tests to find that out.
And how long will that take? Tell me.
Two months. Maybe more.
He goes quiet.
I could be dead by then, for all you know. You have no idea how much time I have left. At least she is working hard to find out what's rotting me.
You shut up and let me talk.
A man in a suit enters. Old. Severe. His sister turns instantly and a confident expression replaces whatever was there before.
Yes, Inspector, this is the patient's room. We've already removed the problematic nurse. I'm handling the matter completely.
The nurse will be dismissed?
I'll make sure her record is fully vetted so we can press legal charges against her.
Very well. You don't need me. I'll show myself out.
The inspector turns to leave, halfway through the door, and something resolves in the man lying in the bed.
THIS DOCTOR IS MY SISTER!
The inspector turns. His sister turns, startled.
What did he say?
WE'RE TWINS. SEPTEMBER 13, 1978!
She claps her hand over his mouth.
SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH.
He bites her. Hard.
She slaps him. Everyone erupts. A guard takes her by the arm and escorts her out. He watches her go, face red and swollen, with something past contempt.
You never took care of me, he says as the door closes. And you never will.
Outside. She waits at a bus stop with her bag, just at the open gate of the facility. The trees are yellow and full and the wind is pulling leaves down in slow arcs. He appears with his cane, slow, barely breathing.
What are you doing? How did you get here?
I'm sorry. But she won't do that again. I swear.
How did you slip out?
I've been good at that since I was a kid. I used to escape from my sister all the time.
Why won't you listen to her? She's your doctor and your family.
Because I know her. I know how impulsive and cruel she can be. And I know she overreacted with you.
He breathes with difficulty. The cane bears most of his weight.
My sister has my files. She studied medicine. She's known me since I was a baby. But I know perfectly well that she doesn't care.
He looks at her.
If this illness, and this broken body, consume me... would you care enough to cure me?
They're legally obligated to cure you, she says. Even if they fail.
Yes. But you ... would you do it, even if it were illegal?
I see it, he says. I see it in your eyes. In the way you take care of me.
The wind moves through and leaves sweep along the pavement between them.
Even if you don't cure me, he says. Even if I die.
I like that you care. His eyes begin to shut.
What is going on?
He collapses. Black veins spread beneath his skin like ink dropped in water.
Back in his room. She keeps him faintly conscious with light slaps to his face, precise and without ceremony. He surfaces, just barely.
Your veins are black. I can't find the right one.
She tries one arm. Then the other. He groans. He grabs her hand to stop her and she leans close to his face.
You're not finding my vein.
You have to tell me if it hurts.
Her expression is concentrated, nearly still, and something crosses her face when it hurts... something almost imperceptible and almost pleased. One final strike and the IV flows and she smiles.
UGHGH, IT'S HORRIBLE.
I know, she says. But I can't let you die.
He looks at her, soaked in sweat. She passes her hand over his head and strokes his hair.
So will you stay?
His sister enters and sees the puncture marks.
What's going on?
His veins are blackening. He collapsed.
A portable ultrasound. Get me one.
Why? He doesn't need...
Just do it.
She leaves. Resigned.
The doctor sits beside him.
I'm asking you kindly. Please. Leave here.
Why do you have to be so annoying? No.
Please. You're my brother. Something isn't right here.
You can't know what's right. You couldn't know before and you can't know now. If anyone should leave, it's you.
She draws his blood in silence, her face apathetic and faintly disgusted.
If something goes wrong... and you'll know immediately... don't hesitate for even a second to make noise.
The nurse arrives. The doctor hides the vial behind her back.
Good, she says. He doesn't need it after all.
She leaves.
Supply room. She opens a locker and takes out old books. She pauses, noticing a small doll peeking from her bag. She closes the locker.
She pins a photograph to a large board... there are notes and photographs already scattered across it, differential diagnoses taking shape in her handwriting. She reads. The doctor appears in the doorway.
Why did you tamper with his exam?
What are you talking about?
DON'T TAKE ME FOR AN IDIOT. It's your job. Either you can't do simple paperwork or you're defying me on purpose.
The nurse stays silent.
Pale hands in the dark, closer now, almost at the doll.
I seem to have forgotten that you despise every second of being a nurse. Did you know I studied psychology before medicine? I was fascinated by non-pathological personalities. Narcissism. Machiavellianism. Psychopathy.
She picks up one of the nurse's books. The pale hands grip the doll's wrist.
They're portrayed as masterminds. Brilliant intellectuals. But in reality they're nothing but cold, self-absorbed, manipulative fools.
Why are you telling me this?
Because they're too stupid to hide it from me. If you don't resign tomorrow I will destroy you.
The pale hands tighten.
She sets the book on the table.
And you will never practice medicine again.
She leaves.
The board fills with images and notes. A container changes labels. Somewhere else, the doctor tears open a sealed envelope and reads:
Total Leukocytes. Result: 0.4. Units: x10³/µL. Reference values: 4.0 to 11.0. Indicator: LOW.
Segmented Neutrophils. CRITICAL.
Total Leukocytes. LOW.
Platelets. CRITICAL.
How, she says. How is he still alive.
A scream.
The monitor sounds. His face mirrors the rhythm going wrong inside him. She moves fast, removes everything, disconnects him, takes the adenosine and injects it.
No.
DON'T YOU DARE PASS OUT ON ME.
She kisses him, holding his neck tightly to move his head. He wakes, overwhelmed and drenched in sweat. She holds him. The doctor enters.
What's happening?
He had a tachycardia episode.
The doctor moves toward the bed, tries to examine her brother.
Could I have died?
The doctor's face goes unreadable. She begins to walk out.
The supply room. The doctor tears through it alone, photographs and notes scattering to the floor.
I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING SOMETHING.
She peels off the first sticker. Stops.
What is this.
She peels off another.
Vinorelbine.
That's why he was getting worse. The black veins. She poisoned him with chemotherapy. He's my brother. He goes to the hospital immediately. YOU'LL ROT FOR THIS. GUARDS.
She moves toward the door. The nurse stands with her head bowed.
You can't take him from me. You can't tear my heart out.
The hands rip the doll's head off.
The nurse strikes her from behind with an IV cable.
A young girl watches with a faint smile of astonishment.
A young nurse watches with a faint smile of astonishment. And blood dripped on her face.
She stands over the body in the doorway, panting, covered in blood. The doctor bleeds on the floor.
It's hEDS. He always had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. How could you not know?
She almost sounds curious.
You never paid attention. You never read the books. Not his tests. You never stayed with him. You never even knew it existed. I know what hurts him and what doesn't. What kills him and what doesn't. I should have been where you were never worthy of standing.
She turns off the lights. She closes the door.
The doctor watches from the floor in the dark.
She moves through the hallway quickly, head down, paranoid, avoiding all contact. She reaches his room and begins disconnecting him.
They've moved him. We have to go to another facility.
He sees the bruises. The blood dripping from her. He doesn't move.
Put that down.
We have to go.
Why are you bleeding?
She hesitates.
I won't move until you...
She steps back. A syringe in her hand. She injects him.
He looks at his thigh. He reads the label on the vial on the counter.
Pancuronium.
Was that poison? Are you going to kill me? Fear escaping profusely on his voice.
No. No, of course not. With nervous pauses.
I would never kill you. It's just a neuromuscular blocker.
He stands up from the bed.
In three to five minutes you won't be able to control your fine motor movements. Then the larger ones. First the fingers stop working. Then the legs. Then the whole body.
I'll have to carry you out of here.
He stares at her. Then he shoves her toward the door.
One minute passes.
A violin string snaps.
He tries to open the door. His fingers can't grip it. She grabs him from behind and drags him back inside. He slaps her, or tries to.
Two minutes pass.
More strings snap.
She tries to hold his arms. He throws both arms against the window. The glass shatters. Rain and wind pour in.
Three minutes pass.
All the strings snap.
He can no longer crawl. Only his eyes move. Breathing is difficult. She notices and runs to him. She climbs on top of him and presses his chest to help him breathe, places the bag-valve mask over his face.
You'll be fine. You'll be fine.
She trembles.
I've got you.
Only desperation in his eyes. She pants and breathes hard.
Something comes into focus.
Aaah.
Fear and agony in his face.
She watches him with wonder, as if time has stopped for her alone.
aahaaa.
She picks up a scalpel.
She cuts his hand. Slowly.
He closes his eyes against the pain.
I love it when you make those noises. That crease you make... hmmpf.
She grabs his face with violence and kisses him passionately while the cuts move up his arm, from the hand to the shoulder.
Do you want to beg me to let you go?
You're inexplicable. God damn you.
YOU CAN'T LEAVE. I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE. ONLY I CAN CURE YOU. YOU. MINE.
The door bursts open.
The doctor, barely standing, using everything she has left. Guards behind her.
The nurse falls slowly.
Blood? Perforation?
Blood from her mouth.
Exsanguination. Hemoptysis.
The guards raise their weapons. Smoke.
Ballistics. Hypoxic.
She lies beside him, drowning in blood, an expression of shock settling over her face. Neither of them can move.
They say you hurt the ones you love.
She bleeds out beside him. She looks at him.
I hope that works the other way around too.
They look into each other's eyes.
The doll lies on the floor in the same position as the man, splattered with blood.
My...
Two dolls on the floor. The same position. The same stillness.
...Plaything.