Simon Garrington Goes to Hospital

Another 500-word creative writing challenge – write something based on real-life events. When I visited Minsk almost a decade ago with a student theatre group, I kept track of everything in a leather-bound diary (snarf snarf snarf – what a nerd). The one momentous happening that never reached the pages of my journal was when Simon had to go to a Belarusian hospital, where a burly nurse administered an injection to his rump, for which he was expressly thankful. I used this opportunity to write down Simon’s experience, from the time-damaged memory of his own recount at the time (plus a few embellishments, natch).

Crunch.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”

Clatter.

The sword hit concrete, creating a metallic echo that carried through the resort.

Simon danced around as if on hot coals, panting and sharply inhaling to reduce the pain.

“Are you okay, Gazza?”

Simon saw that he’d interrupted Giovanni and Annabella mid-scene with his distressed yelling and thrashing about. He came to a stop and announced to the troupe,

“I think it’s broken.”

Simon Garrington, drama student and present Servant 2, stood a little away from the rest of the performers, holding his right arm delicately before him with his other, good, arm. The director, Caroline, was usually a deeply sympathetic sort, but on this occasion could only bring herself to utter three disappointed syllables,

“Oh, Gary…”

The company consulted with some of the festival’s higher-ups, who organised for Simon to be driven to a free hospital in the centre of Minsk, with a translator in tow. During the hubbub the remaining actors opted to abandon rehearsals for the day in favour of socialising (see: inhaling litre-cans of cheap Russian piva) with the more promiscuous of the German teams.

Minsk, though littered with ostentatious, looming architecture, and endearingly kind locals, is not actually a nice place to be. The KGB remain in full force, poverty is rife, and the lack of a national pension scheme leaves many unemployed elderly people enduring a sub-freezing existence of destitution and constant harrying from heavy-handed police officers. The last dictatorship in Europe, Belarus is as intimidating as it is beautiful.

And now Simon was being escorted to an infamously inefficacious treatment facility, alone.

The unattended reception desk was at odds with the sporadic distant wailing over which observation was causing more distress in Simon. A minute of wandering, and the translator discovered a matronly nurse. The two spoke, though in hushed Belarusian; the baleful nurse laughed deeply, signalling that they had come to an agreement. She beckoned Simon to follow, and the two walked through an overcrowded ward.

They passed a particularly haggard wailer, whom the nurse quite matter-of-factly smacked in the face. He fell to the ground with a grunt. To her credit, he stopped wailing.

Simon was directed to a side room. They entered and the nurse briefly examined the weight, shape, and tolerance of her patient’s damaged arm. A moment of consideration, then she opened a side-drawer and removed a needle.

The two locked eyes. Simon began to roll up his sleeve. The nurse shook her head slowly, smiled, and gestured her pupils downwards. Simon turned and pointed to his rear. The nurse nodded, failing to hide her delectation with the situation.

Simon bent over and rolled down the top of his joggers. He did not see the needle go in, but he sure felt it.

Knowing only one word of Belarusian, the powerful infiltration of the needle caused him to wince and blurt it out,

“SPASIBA!”

Thank you.

The nurse’s smile disappeared.

What a weirdo, she must have thought.

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