The next morning, I woke exhausted, my body heavy with the weight of yesterday's revelations. I tried, in every way I could, to shove the memory aside, letting my thoughts settle like dust after a storm. I needed clarity, a calm mind to replay everything that had been said, to consult with Doctor Smirnov, to understand exactly what risks I was willing—or unwilling—to take.
It was a relief to trade the dull, sterile walls of the hospital ward for the familiar comfort of home. Kostya had kept the apartment clean in my absence, but I knew the truth: he barely slept here. From the clinic, he went straight to the hospital to check on me, and he never forgot to bring food.
The smell of hospital meals made my stomach turn. It was hard to pinpoint the cause—was it the bland, regulated recipes or my over-sensitive senses? My heightened perception sometimes betrayed me in absurd ways. I could identify the scent of laundry detergent clinging to Kostya's turtleneck as he stepped out of the car in the parking lot, even while I was three floors up, in a room facing the inner courtyard. Luckily, these heightened perceptions were rare, but when they struck, they struck fully.
Not only did my father visit often, but classmates came as well—thanks to Stas. Doctor Smirnov, together with Kostya, had convinced me that after signs of lycanthropy appeared, I needed to interact with people in calm, controlled settings. The private hospital room was perfect for that. Sometimes I felt—and saw—differently, as if some invisible filter adjusted my senses. My vision would widen, making objects appear slightly three-dimensional, colors more vivid or strangely altered. The effect was disorienting. I would look at a raincoat I was certain had been a bright, sunny yellow—and it would look orange. I hated orange.
After school, my classmates would arrive, usually escorted by Stas, who kept his watchful eye on me more than the room itself. I didn't mind—on the contrary. By the end of the week, Smirnov had begun to feel like part of the furniture. He rarely spoke, simply observing from the same chair he had claimed on his first visit.
Most often, it was Dasha and Tanya. Rostova was still dating Stas, I gathered, and things between them seemed smooth and effortless. Tanya never mentioned arguments, though perhaps half the reason was that Stas was almost always present. The girls shared school gossip I barely remembered, as my mind was too fogged by the strange cocktail of medications Smirnov prescribed to maintain my health. I was barely able to focus. Nothing sparked strong emotion; even tales of the Halloween party seemed distant, shadows of memories from another life.
As I suspected, the injections were to blame. Smirnov had offered them to help control the wolf inside me—long, unpronounceable names that now seemed insignificant compared to the challenge of living in this new reality. Likely sedatives, or something similar. He never reported the results or explained how they might ease my transformation while proving that the vampire's poison had no effect. If Kostya discussed my condition with Vladimir, it happened outside the ward. After Galina's story, I couldn't trust Smirnov fully, and I avoided him. The last thing I wanted was to become another experiment.
Occasionally, they drew my blood to monitor my changes, to ensure the course wasn't doing more harm than good.
Before discharge, Kostya arranged a leave of absence. At first, the news brought relief—but I wasn't ready to be alone in four walls, unaware of what I might become. Slowly, in familiar surroundings, emotions returned. And with them came new irritants for my heightened senses. The scented candles, thoughtfully placed in nearly every corner since September, assaulted me immediately when Kostya opened the apartment door. I couldn't hide my reaction. Hands pressed over nose and mouth, I muttered through the barrier, trying to explain the assault of smells, then led a rescue mission to gather the offending jars and deposit them in the outdoor bin. Only after opening windows throughout the apartment did I finally step over the threshold.
Kostya, surprisingly, didn't press the issue. He remained calm, and for that, I was quietly grateful. I didn't know how long I could maintain the illusion that my sensory episodes were rare. Perhaps if I convinced my father, I could convince myself.
The lavender bed linens looked richer than I remembered, a deep purple that felt comforting. Sitting on the bed, I examined the ceiling. My sharper vision revealed countless scratches and uneven patches that had once seemed invisible on the smooth white surface. I found myself counting them, noting every imperfection, absorbed in the meticulous observation until my senses gradually returned to their usual state, my mind struggling to reconcile the difference between old perception and new.