In the subdued light of the nurse’s station, illuminated faintly by a dim lamp, sat Ekaterina Sokolova — slender, her eyes ablaze and her blonde hair disheveled. An open book rested on her lap — Chekhov — providing solace, a temporary escape from harsh reality.
Her days were devoted to studies at the medical college, nights to working as a ward attendant, and these rare moments of quiet became her treasured refuge. Reading was not merely a pastime; it was her survival tool, keeping a fragment of her soul intact amid buckets of refuse and patient clean-ups.
Suddenly, a sharp, annoyed voice pierced the silence. Startled, Katya’s book vanished as she raised her eyes to face Pavel Igorevich, the ward chief. He appeared silently, like a predator awaiting to catch someone faltering. Short, with thinning hair and a perpetually irritated expression, he held her book between two fingers as if it were filth.
“Chekhov? How quaint — inspired by the classics. But Sokolova, you’re not in an aristocrat’s parlor; this is a hospital. You’re here to work, not to daydream. Do you think we pay you to fantasize?”
Katya rose deliberately, fear absent, replaced by a familiar, simmering resentment accumulated over years.
“First, the wage barely covers bread. Second, I’ve completed all my duties. Wards are clean; patients are attended. Am I not entitled to a break?”
His voice escalated. “So you question your superior? One more word, and you’ll be out faster than you’ll remember!”
The nurse’s station door opened unexpectedly. Sveta, Katya’s friend and colleague, appeared. Seeing the scene, she immediately comprehended the tension.
“Katya, urgent in ward six! An old man’s condition worsened and requires help!” She grabbed Katya’s arm, leading her away, adding a saccharine apology, “Sorry, Pavel Igorevich, we’ll fix this promptly!”
Once distant, Sveta sighed, whispering, “Katya, you’re crazy. Why confront him? He’ll crush you. You know he’ll do anything to retain power. Please, just stay silent!”
Katya responded softly but firmly, “I cannot stay silent when I witness cruelty —he isn’t a doctor, he’s a jailer.”
“Your words won’t change anything and will only worsen your situation. Be wise, I beg you.”
The word “wise” hung heavy in the air. Katya bitterly smiled. For her, that concept had long lost meaning. Since age fifteen, she lived by necessity’s harsh law — to act, risk, and fight. Closing her eyes, she momentarily escaped the hospital corridor. Childhood memories emerged vividly.
Sunlight flooded the family living room, her father’s strong, confident laughter echoing. He lifted her, presenting a porcelain doll symbolizing love and stability — a seemingly eternal world.
But one evening shattered that world. Her father was assaulted in the stairwell — not for robbery, but as a warning from competitors. Though doctors saved his life, spinal injuries left him disabled, transforming a joyful man into an embittered soul who unleashed pain on loved ones.
Her mother, Maria Petrovna, succumbed to the ordeal. After her husband’s death, a nervous breakdown struck her, labeled by doctors as exhaustion and stress. Fifteen-year-old Katya was left alone. She sold the doll and valuables to afford medicines, then began working first as a cleaner, then as a ward attendant.
Witnessing patient suffering, doctor indifference, and the devaluation of human life, she pledged to become a true healer — one who listens, sees, and never turns away. Not like Pavel Igorevich. These memories formed her shield and weapon, preventing her from breaking.
“The weight of past suffering spurred her determination to bring dignity back to the medical profession.”
Near two in the morning, as the hospital slumbered, Katya dozed with her book. Suddenly, noises from the reception jolted her awake. She rushed over.
A man sat on a couch—ragged clothes, grimy face, matted hair stained with dirt. The odor of sweat and alcohol clung to him. Clutching his right side, blood seeped through his fingers.
“What happened?” Katya asked, approaching.
“Stabbed,” he rasped. “For an empty wallet.”
Pavel Igorevich emerged, drawn by the commotion. Disdain glazed his gaze as he appraised the man.
“Who do we have here? Some hobo off the streets?”
The duty nurse interjected, “He has a knife wound. Requires immediate surgery.”
The chief did not step closer. After a glance, he shook his head.
“Should I clean up after such as this? He’s filthy, drunk, undocumented, uninsured. Who pays for this? I refuse to dirty the operating room for a bum.”
A young nurse protested, “He could die!”
Pavel Igorevich sneered coldly.
“Let him. Natural selection. These folks choose their fate. Call the police. I won’t waste resources on scum.”
Turning abruptly, he left. The staff froze. The man groaned, paled, and lost consciousness. Time slipped away.
Suddenly, a realization snapped in Katya’s mind — too familiar. Her father. The long ambulance wait. The indifferent doctor sipping tea. That thought ignited an inner blaze. Fear and warnings evaporated, leaving only righteous fury.
Holding a clean enamel chamber pot—normally for hygiene—now feeling like a heavy weapon, Katya moved swiftly towards the ward chief’s office. Sveta cried out, “Katya, stop! Think of your mother!”
Unheeding, Katya entered without knocking. Pavel Igorevich was flipping through a journal at his desk.
“You’re no doctor!” she yelled sharply, making him flinch, nearly dropping the magazine. “You swore the Hippocratic oath: to aid anyone in distress regardless of wealth or dirt! You’re a murderer through neglect!”
The chief rose slowly, rage twisting his face.
“Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?” he hissed. “Your job is cleaning floors and carrying chamber pots, not reading books or meddling! Get out this instant!”
This was the last straw.
“Carrying chamber pots?” Katya repeated, her voice cold and calm. “Fine. Then allow me to perform my duty.”
Before anyone could react, she overturned the contents—fortunately only chlorine-scented water—onto Pavel Igorevich’s head.
Silence engulfed the room. Drops trickled down his balding temple, wetting his collar. Suddenly, he emitted a strangled, animalistic scream.
“You’re fired! Get out! I will ruin you! Sue you! You won’t forget me!”
He darted out, vanishing toward the restroom. The reception’s frozen atmosphere shifted. Fear dissipated. The head nurse snapped orders:
- “Quick! Retrieve the stretcher!”
- “To the operating room!”
- “The patient needs immediate attention!”
The stagnant wheel of justice finally turned, even if through a rash act.
Silently gathering a few belongings — books, a framed photo, an old backpack — Katya left the hospital. Morning air was cool, but she burned inside. No regrets, only anticipation. The firing was just the beginning. Pavel Igorevich, humiliated and bitter, would likely involve the police, bringing lawsuits, fines, possibly criminal charges.
At home, it was quiet. She entered softly, careful not to wake her mother, who sat shawled by the window.
“Katya, so early… What happened?”
“All’s fine, Mom,” Katya smiled, masking inner turmoil. “We finished early. How are you feeling?”
They chatted about trivial matters: weather, bread, medicine refills. Her heart tightened with worry. The job was hard but steady; now came uncertainty.
Hours later, a policeman arrived — a young lieutenant with tired eyes.
“Ekaterina Sokolova? You need to come to the station. Pavel Igorevich filed a complaint.”
Her mother paled, clutching her chest. Katya recounted the entire episode — the homeless man, the refusal to help, the chamber pot incident. Maria Petrovna listened silently, fear and pain mingled with pride. Afraid for her daughter but convinced Katya acted rightly, as her father would.
The following days were fraught with anxiety. Katya searched for job openings, but without references, prospects dimmed. She awaited summonses, court dates, fearing if anything befell her, her mother would be left alone.
On day three, a call came from Sveta.
“Katya, something odd. Men in suits arrived at the hospital, asking about you and the incident. Pavel Igorevich even gave them your address! Be careful, something’s off!”
Before Katya could respond, the doorbell rang again. Her heart froze. Two suited men stood firm at the threshold.
“Ekaterina Sokolova?”
“Yes… but please not here. My mom is ill; please don’t scare her.”
They exchanged glances.
“We’re not police,” one said gently. “We are Dmitry’s brothers.”
“Dmitry?”
They explained their brother’s story — Dmitry, heir to a large business, had left home without money or papers to prove his independence. His reckless challenge almost cost him his life. The surgery saved him; he was now in intensive care.
“He wishes to see you,” one said. “Could you come down? He can’t walk yet.”
Shaken, Katya nodded, following them out. At the entrance, a black Mercedes awaited. Opening the door revealed the same man — now clean, wearing a cashmere sweater and an expensive watch — looking embarrassed.
“Hello, Ekaterina,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life. If not for you…”
“It wasn’t me — you wanted to live.”
He shook his head. “No, you were the one who didn’t turn away. How can I repay you? Money, education, job — anything.”
Katya looked at him and nervously laughed, feeling relief.
“First, help me avoid being charged with hooliganism.”
He smiled. “Already taken care of. That’s no longer an issue.”
A week later, he arrived with roses and cake, awkward but sincere.
“May I invite you for tea?” he asked.
For the first time in ages, Katya genuinely smiled and stepped aside to let him in.
“Come in.”
Half a year passed, and they married quietly among close friends. A year later, their daughter Olga was born, named in honor of Katya’s grandmother. Life transformed, not magically, but through courage, honesty, and steadfast commitment to principles.
They relocated to a spacious, bright apartment. Katya insisted on no lavish décor, choosing comfort and warmth. Above all, Maria Petrovna’s health improved — supported by top doctors, proper treatments, and relief from stress. Months later, she flourished: laughing, cooking, holding her granddaughter once more.
“True healing encompasses body and soul, family and community.”
Three years later, Katya graduated medical university with honors. Returning to the hospital where she’d once been shamefully expelled, she came not as a ward attendant but as Dr. Ekaterina Sergeevna, invited personally by the chief physician.
On her first day, she encountered Pavel Igorevich in the corridor. He froze, recognition and dread etching his face. He realized she was not only a doctor but the wife of the man whose family could obliterate his influence. His authority and threats crumbled.
Without a word, he turned and headed to his office. An hour later, his resignation letter lay on the chief physician’s desk.
Katya watched him leave rapidly, almost running. She could have stopped him, demanded accountability, made life miserable—but chose not to.
Instead, she silently observed, understanding: sometimes the greatest justice is not revenge but quiet supremacy. Those devoid of compassion have no place in medicine. Best they depart, making way for those who remember each human being’s worth—whether homeless, dirty, or deemed nobody.
Her journey underscored that unwavering integrity and empathy can indeed transform lives and institutions.