The Sandman

102

Anders lines up the ampoules of yellow liquid for the injection on the table. Jurek is lying strapped to his bed, watching him with weary eyes.

‘I’ve got no feeling in my fingers,’ he says, trying to free his right hand.

‘You know we have to apply emergency measures sometimes,’ Anders says.

‘The first time we met you looked scared... now you’re looking for fear in my eyes,’ Jurek says.

‘Why do you think that?’ Anders asks.

Jurek takes several breaths, then moistens his mouth and looks Anders in the eye.

‘I can see that you’re preparing three hundred milligrams of Cisordinol, even though you know that’s too much... and that the combination of that with my normal medication is risky.’

‘I’ve reached a different conclusion,’ Anders says, feeling his cheeks blush.

‘Yet you’ll write in my notes that you’ve merely tried fifty milligrams.’

Anders doesn’t reply, just prepares the syringe and makes sure that the needle is completely dry.

‘You know that the intoxication can be fatal,’ Jurek goes on. ‘But I’m strong, so I’ll probably be OK... I’ll scream, I’ll suffer terrible clonic cramps, and I’ll lose consciousness.’

‘There’s always a risk of side effects,’ Anders replies laconically.

‘Pain doesn’t bother me.’

Anders feels his face glowing as he squeezes a couple of drops from the needle. One drop runs down the syringe. It smells a bit like sesame oil.

‘We’ve noticed that the other patients have unsettled you,’ Anders says, without looking at Jurek.

‘You don’t have to make excuses to me,’ Jurek says.

Anders presses the needle into Jurek’s thigh, injects three hundred milligrams of Cisordinol, then waits.

Jurek gasps, his lips quiver and his pupils contract to pinpricks. Saliva dribbles from his mouth, down his cheek and neck.

His body twitches and jerks, then suddenly goes completely rigid, his head straining backwards, his back bowed off the bed, the straps over his body straining.

He remains in that position, without breathing.

The frame of the bed creaks.

Anders is staring at him open-mouthed. He’s having a protracted, unbearable cramp attack.

Suddenly the tonic state ends and Jurek’s body begins to spasm instead. He’s jerking uncontrollably, biting his tongue and emitting guttural roars of pain.

Anders tries to tighten the straps across his body. Jurek’s arms are flailing and pulling so hard that his wrists start to bleed.

He sinks back, whimpering and panting, as all the blood drains from his face.

Anders steps away, and can’t help smiling as he sees tears trickling down Jurek’s cheeks.

‘It’ll soon feel better,’ he lies softly.

‘Not for you,’ Jurek gasps.

‘What did you say?’

‘You’ll just look surprised when I chop your head off and throw it in—’

Jurek is interrupted by a fresh attack of cramps. He screams as his head twists to one side; a fan of veins stand out on his throat as the bones in his neck crack, then his whole body starts to shake again, making the bed rattle.