Chapter XLVII

The Weight of Dictaduria

Adria had only visited Castro Health, M.D., once before. She couldn't recall its exact location, but she was confident it wouldn't be difficult to find; asking around seemed like her best bet. 'La corner' store sprang to mind. Residents around that area often frequented it for basic supplies, albeit at a higher cost than in Negativus.

Descending a few streets and turning left, Adria navigated through blocks in deplorable condition. The further she moved from Dicterium, the more dilapidated the surroundings became, a stark contrast to the opulence of the luxurious sectors, which were hours away by surface travel.

Five minutes later, she stood in front of La corner, a place she had entered at least three times a week for the past six months; it was the nearest store to her block.

“It's about furkan time! Are you ready to pay the forty gatvits you owe me? The sentinels were here last week for taxes, and I barely scraped by,” declared the fifty-year-old looking owner, sitting on a bench and smoking a cigarette. He owned the mini-mart.

“Oh, my soul! I forgot, Perlio. Here you go,” Adria replied, pretending amnesia, retrieving a bag of gatvits from her purse and handed over the exact amount plus an additional five. “For taxes and interest. Clear accounts make long lasting friends.”

“Cheers to that,” Perlio responded, raising a beer he had retrieved from behind his seat. “What can I do for you today, Zaraz?”

“Do you know where Castro Health is?”

“The butchery? Yeah, it's between sections QL and QM.”

“How is the place nowadays? I haven’t visited in years,” she inquired.

“I wouldn’t know. But every furkano looking to rob me certainly does,” he boasted of his notorious reputation. Perlio was a seasoned businessman, rumored to have killed his own family, earning him a lifelong sentence in Sectum.

“Great, thanks, Perlio,” Adria said, turning to leave.

“Aren't you forgetting something, dear? An enhancer perhaps...” he called out after her.

Realizing she had left hers back at the block and wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon, she paused and turned back. Perlio rose, approached the counter, and handed her a yellow pill.

“Ninety gatvits, right?”

“For you, eighty-eight!” He was pleased to see more money coming in.

“Thank you!” Adria took his card out, she didn’t want to use more cash, grabbed two bottles of water from a small fridge, picked a few cleaning rags from a box, and headed for the exit.

“Tread lightly and give Bitlan my regards!” The man said as he offered a card reader with a keyboard to register the purchase.

“Will do,” she replied, pausing for a moment to pay, placing the worn out card next to the devise, her thoughts flooding back with a pang of pain.

Outside, the sun, obscured by yellow clouds, blinded her momentarily; she pulled up her coat's hood, covering her eyes as she stored her purchases in her graphene bag.

The Q sections were not far; her skills in blending with the shadows kicked in by instinct, even as her mind wandered elsewhere – to Bitlan, Raxae, Markus, Bostan, Drunia, Corven, the gevurah, Zanda, Negativus, Gorbat, the umbras, Sunken Port and memories of running, jumping, fighting, and healing. She thought of blood, concrete, the ocean, dust, a branch, rage and her destroyed shoulder. An empty block, a letter, and the scent of vanilla haunted her.

By the time she arrived at Castro Health, M.D., Adria had managed to organize her thoughts without being overwhelmed. She recognized the need to adapt to the changing reality. Her routine had been altered, and with it, the status quo of Dictaduria. Something was coming to an end, an undeniable sensation.

The concrete building, standing four stories high, was illuminated to signify its purpose to the Dictadurians. Adria entered through the Emergency Room, accessible to all, old and packed. Inside, the cramped space buzzed with activity, lit by stark white lights. She counted twenty healers, clad in black uniforms, as dozens of people in overalls occupied beds, walked or sat around the ER.

Approaching a desk, Adria sought the attention of a healer. “Hello,” she greeted.

Lifting her head, the healer, adorned with thick glasses and large pupils, scrutinized Adria. A badge with the name 'Viltina' was pinned to her chest.

“You appear to be in good health. How may I assist you?”

Adria handed over the letter from inside her coat, which Viltina snatched and read right away. In less than fifteen seconds, she had digested its contents, stood up, and approached Adria with a look of apprehension.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Please, come with me. I'll take you to Mr. Ancaris,” Viltina said, taking a clipboard from the wall and signaling to another healer. “Dreidel, could you cover for me? I'll be back shortly.”

Reality hit Adria harder than expected, making it difficult for her to maintain composure.

A short, skinny man nodded and took Viltina's place at the desk.

Exiting the Emergency Room, they traversed a green mosaic hallway lined with doors, heading towards one at the end. Next to it, an elevator and a staircase awaited.

“I need to stretch my legs,” Viltina declared, opting for the stairs, prompting Adria to follow.

As they descended, the nurse reviewed the information on the clipboard. “He was brought in six hours ago. It seems like a stroke, but the autopsy will confirm. We should have a definitive diagnosis by tomorrow. Given his age and medical history, it’s a likely scenario.”

Adria felt a pang of fault in her stomach as they reached another hallway, this one colder, the silence oppressive.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“So, this is where we end up if we die?” she murmured.

“If you die within Dictaduria, yes. Each country in Sectum has its process. But you won’t have to concern yourself with this once you return to Malkuth. Grieve, but move forward. Don’t get stuck here. Remember, he lived a long life. Over three hundred years is significant, especially here in Sectum,” Viltina advised as she opened the third door on the right and stepped inside.

Hesitating for a moment, Adria followed, filled with a mix of emotions.

"Come, this door can’t stay open forever, we must keep the temperature steady. People are dying upstairs, and we're short on staff, the world keeps moving," Viltina complained, her frustration evident.

Adria had envisioned a room strewn with bodies; she was mistaken. Instead, she encountered a vast expanse bathed in dark blue, the space segmented by hundreds of square, metallic doors.

"Ancaris, Bitlan... Big name, huh?" Viltina attempted to make conversation.

"Like any other," Adria replied, evading the topic.

"He should be nearby. Let me see..." Viltina scanned the labels above the one-by-one meter doors, matching the number on her clipboard to the rows. "Yes, right there. AN/Ñ,AO row."

From a central row of silver rolling beds in the autopsy room, Viltina retrieved a wheeled platform with a ladder, positioning it with care next to the wall. The setup elevated her to the third row of doors, situated two meters above the ground.

She unlocked one, sliding out a metallic plate, folded a polymer cover and then descended the ladder.

“I’ll give you a moment,” she said before departing.

Alone now, Adria inhaled deeply, and sought tranquility. Climbing onto the platform, she gazed down at the still form below her. There lay Bitlan, in eternal slumber, before his granddaughter, decomposing had stopped thanks to the cooling facility.

It was him, without a doubt. His usual color had faded; his pallid skin rendered him nearly surreal, akin to a wax figure. Struggling to contain her grief, Adria's tears flowed as she clasped Bitlan’s hand, ice-cold and lifeless, skinny. He was truly gone.

“I’m...” she started, her voice faltering, “I’m sorry…” Tears choked her words. “I’m sorry I didn’t hug you one last time, for my stubbornness and not listening to you. They always have the upper hand, don’t they?” she whispered into his ear, leaning onto his side, hoping somehow, somewhere in his grandfather’s individual multidimensionality, he could hear. “Thank you for making my life in Imperia and Dictaduria bearable, more fun than it should’ve been, for rescuing me and caring for me better than my own father…”

He seemed to be at peace, a perception that made an assurance grow within Adria that, if anything, there was a chance Bitlan had reunited with the love of his life in the eternal lands.

“Thank you for your wisdom and teachings, even for the furkan trainings in Negativus.” She laughed reminiscent of the rigorous routines he had made her endure through years. “I'll treasure our time together in this cursed world and take it to the next life, take my word on that. Bit, I will never forget you. I love you. You were the best unexpected wonder of this forsaken lands. Thank you for being who you were despite the centuries dividing us, for your honesty, protection and guidance, thank you, thank you.”

Adria wept freely, fearing her grip might damage his fragile hand she released it and gently caressed his face one last time, she took another deep breath, loosened her hold, and planted a tearful kiss on his forehead before turning away for the final time.

Stepping down from the platform, she felt irreversibly altered.

Outside, Viltina reappeared as Adria emerged offering a number of tissues. Taking her place, Adria waited as the nurse returned inside.

The metallic door bore the sign ‘Autopsy Auditorium’. In its reflection, Adria saw her own gray eyes staring back, red and tearful, for a moment it seemed a shadow was nearing from the left side. Viltina came out, braking the short trance.

“Alright. I need to ask some standard questions, and just to warn you, a sentinel will visit you later this week,” Viltina said, stepping back into the corridor and heading towards the staircase.

Adria bristled at the thought. “What do you want to know?”

“Was Mr. Ancaris an alcoholic?” Viltina asked, her tone direct as they ascended the hospital’s framework.

“No. He drank, but not enough to be considered an alcoholic, social,” Adria recalled their shared moments over drinks both at home, Lux and even Imperia.

“Drug addict?” the interrogation continued.

“Does cannabis count?”

“Not particularly. How often did he smoke?”

Adria chuckled at the thought. “The usual for a three-hundred-year-old man in Dictaduria. We’ve had a rough time lately.”

“What do you mean? Please, be specific,” Viltina pressed, a standard request there.

Though Adria didn’t know Viltina well, she responded, “He’s been ill a few times this year, he was attacked months ago and it’s been downhill since then with recovery and treatments. There was a landslide near our street a few weeks ago; it left us on edge...” They barely slept, haunted by the fear of another disaster.

“That figures. We treated at least half of the survivors. A horrific event. Did Mr. Ancaris have any particular illnesses?” Viltina was solely interested in the medical details.

“His heart had weakened and his body condition lost much strength since the attack. He suffered from anemia and a couple of ribs healing badly. He had improved a lot in the past few months... he even cooked dinner yesterday.” Adria felt a fresh wave of tears. The thought that Bitlan dying without her noticing, especially after their final conversation, tormented her.

“Are you his only relative here in Sectum?” Viltina continued her probing.

“Yes,” Adria replied, feeling as if Bitlan was her only kin in the entire world.

“You’ll receive a check for five thousand gatvits from President Copernus in a few weeks,” Viltina mentioned, her voice flat, accustomed to such routines.

“Is that what they tell you to say?” Adria questioned, alluding to the regime’s influence.

“Yes, they support families in their time of need.”

“And how much do I owe? It feels like there’s a catch.”

“Sixteen thousand gatvits. We’ll discuss your payment options shortly,” Viltina said, her discomfort apparent in sharing such news.

Great, Adria thought, a discount on a furkan scam. Copernus's governance was notorious for bleeding Dictadurians dry.

They ascended back to the ER, crossing the bustling O.R. hallway.

“Thank you for allowing me that time alone with him,” Adria said, her gratitude genuine.

“Don’t mention it. I understand your grief. My brother passed away when I was younger. The only way through is forward. With time, you’ll learn to cope,” Viltina offered her wisdom with a maternal touch.

“I believe you. It’s just... it hurts so much,” Adria confessed, grappling with an indescribable sorrow growing like a void inside.

“It’s a wound that never truly heals but serves to teach us. Consider it a long-term lesson. Understanding will come with time. May I suggest something?” Viltina’s empathetic approach was genuinely comforting. “Altering your routine after such a loss can provide a welcome distraction, switch jobs, exercise routine, anything that could take your mind away.”

As they reached the reception desk, Adria and Viltina started with the paperwork where they settled a small portion of her debt and outlined a payment plan for the rest of her time in Dictaduria.

****

That's it for Chapter XLVII!

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