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Veronika decides to die :: Coelho Paulo
Страница: 18 из 115If she wanted to get out of there, she would have to grab the nurse and overpower her in order to get the key, but she was too weak for that.
“Is this a prison?” she asked the nurse, who had stopped reading and was now watching her every movement.
“No, it’s a mental hospital.”
“But I’m not crazy.”
The woman laughed.
“That’s what they all say.”
“All right then, I am crazy, but what does that mean?”
The woman told Veronika not to stay too long on her feet, and sent her back to her bed.
“What does it mean to be crazy?” insisted Veronika.
“Ask the doctor tomorrow. But go to sleep now, otherwise I’ll have to give you a sedative, whether you want it or not.”
Veronika obeyed. On her way back she heard someone whispering from one of the beds:
“Don’t you know what it means to be crazy?”
For a moment she considered ignoring the voice: She didn’t want to make friends, to develop a social circle, to create allies for a great mass revolt. She had only one fixed idea: death. If she really couldn’t escape, she would find some way to kill herself right there, as soon as possible.
But the woman asked her the same question she had asked the nurse.
“Don’t you know what it means to be crazy?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Zedka. Go to your bed. Then, when the nurse thinks you’re asleep, crawl back over here.”
Veronika returned to her bed and waited for the nurse to resume her reading. What did it mean to be crazy? She hadn’t the slightest idea, because the word was used in a completely anarchic way. People would say, for example, that certain sportsmen were crazy because they wanted to break records, or that artists were crazy because they led such strange, insecure lives, different from the lives of normal people. Then there were the thinly clad people walking the streets of Ljubljana in winter, whom Veronika had often seen pushing supermarket trolleys full of plastic bags and rags and proclaiming the end of the world.
She didn’t feel sleepy. According to the doctor, she had slept for almost a week, too long for someone who was used to living without great emotions but with rigid timetables for rest.
What did it mean to be crazy? Perhaps she should ask one of the lunatics.
Veronika crouched down, pulled the needle out of her arm and went over to Zedka’s bed, trying to ignore her churning stomach. She didn’t know if the feeling of nausea came from her weakened heart or the effort she was making to move.
“Is this a prison?” she asked the nurse, who had stopped reading and was now watching her every movement.
“No, it’s a mental hospital.”
“But I’m not crazy.”
The woman laughed.
“That’s what they all say.”
“All right then, I am crazy, but what does that mean?”
The woman told Veronika not to stay too long on her feet, and sent her back to her bed.
“What does it mean to be crazy?” insisted Veronika.
“Ask the doctor tomorrow. But go to sleep now, otherwise I’ll have to give you a sedative, whether you want it or not.”
Veronika obeyed. On her way back she heard someone whispering from one of the beds:
“Don’t you know what it means to be crazy?”
For a moment she considered ignoring the voice: She didn’t want to make friends, to develop a social circle, to create allies for a great mass revolt. She had only one fixed idea: death. If she really couldn’t escape, she would find some way to kill herself right there, as soon as possible.
But the woman asked her the same question she had asked the nurse.
“Don’t you know what it means to be crazy?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Zedka. Go to your bed. Then, when the nurse thinks you’re asleep, crawl back over here.”
Veronika returned to her bed and waited for the nurse to resume her reading. What did it mean to be crazy? She hadn’t the slightest idea, because the word was used in a completely anarchic way. People would say, for example, that certain sportsmen were crazy because they wanted to break records, or that artists were crazy because they led such strange, insecure lives, different from the lives of normal people. Then there were the thinly clad people walking the streets of Ljubljana in winter, whom Veronika had often seen pushing supermarket trolleys full of plastic bags and rags and proclaiming the end of the world.
She didn’t feel sleepy. According to the doctor, she had slept for almost a week, too long for someone who was used to living without great emotions but with rigid timetables for rest.
What did it mean to be crazy? Perhaps she should ask one of the lunatics.
Veronika crouched down, pulled the needle out of her arm and went over to Zedka’s bed, trying to ignore her churning stomach. She didn’t know if the feeling of nausea came from her weakened heart or the effort she was making to move.