Journal Entry 37

July 5th, 1947

The past week has been a blur.  I recall the ceremony committing the boy to the ground not being as terrible as I assumed it would be.  His friends gathered around, somber but not having lost all hope.  I almost believe in their little faces I saw something akin to understanding.  It’s odd how I can think children would understand death, but perhaps somehow, someway, they comprehended that they were saying goodbye when he awoke the previous night.

I apologized for not being able to ‘fix’ him in time, but they were not cross with me.  Their boundless energy continued to flow and though they seemed a bit quieter for a few days, they were not angry.  I am far more upset with myself than they are with me.  It’s strange, but I think I wanted them to hate me, hit me, kick me, and perhaps even spit on me.  The fact that none of this happened, left me feeling almost hollow.

Cyrus was the one that explained we would be taking them somewhere safe.  I still have misgivings about the brothel, but it is what it is.

The children moved there on the third day and I have visited them every day since.  They help out in the kitchen, move refuse from bins out into the alley and aid with linens.  I’m surprised that the adults appear to have such a handle on what were otherwise wild children.  Even the dog obeys to a certain degree.

They get along with the child I aided before and since I am becoming a regular face, I do check-ups on the workers, now.  I listen to coughs, look at rashes, and instruct the adults on proper hygiene after encounters and how to lessen the possibility of getting fevers and infections.

They pay me in bottles of alcohol and in the aiding of the street children.  

I suppose everything has worked out well in the end.  My patient was able to say goodbye and secure a better future for his comrades, and now the brothel has a regular physician.

I am still shaken by the experience, however.  I know it is selfish and stupid, but losing someone is never easy for a doctor.  I mean I speak for myself, but I can’t imagine it being different for others.  I truly want to cure the world of as much disease and suffering as I can.  Maybe that is the reason the things I did during the war haunt me to such a terrible degree.  It doesn’t matter that I was coerced, what matters is that I went against what is dearest to me.

At any rate, every night since the children have been gone I have asked Cyrus to make love to me.  I am not one to actually come out and ask, but lately I have.  I have needed him to touch me and hold me.  I don’t know what I would do if he wasn’t here with me right now.  Actually, I would probably just drink myself to death, so maybe I do know.

He is not just my lover, he is my savior.  I wonder if he realizes.

I’m tired Journal, I’ll write again later.

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