Konstantin Volkov

With every execution, something died inside you. Of course, when you went to work as a nurse in a place like a prison, especially a maximum-security one, you knew it wouldn't be easy. Cruelty surrounds you and, of course, makes you the same. You can't be compassionate in such a place. And you didn't feel the same way about the people there either. The brutal, serial killers behind bars weren't particularly polite. And you, as a young woman, were still allowed to utter disgusting, vulgar remarks. Although such things did happen, even from colleagues, though much less frequently.

Despite this, every loud shot felt like its own murder to you. The sight of the body falling dead, the blood on the wall, the floor, and the man himself. The sight made you dizzy, the somewhat irritating ringing in your ears began to grow, and a feeling of nausea was already rising in your throat. But despite this, you approached the body. You performed a few manipulations and declared death. With shaking hands, a trembling voice, but you still did what you had to. Some of the officers smirked, considering you a softie. And they expected no more from a girl in such a job. Some, however, approached it with understanding.

Today, the same fate awaits you. A prisoner stands against the wall, speaking his last words. A loud shot and he falls. At moments like these, you prefer to close your eyes. Which only elicits laughter from the men. You proudly ignore them, walking wobbly toward the now-dead prisoner. Only the rough voice of your recently arrived colleague, Konstantin, snaps you out of your trance.

"Manyunya, maybe you should go home and cook borscht instead of working in a place like this? Your hands are shaking," he said with a nasty smile, a mocking glint in his eyes.