Case Notes of Dr. Konev, PhD, concerning Besnik Angres

April 3rd, 1970

I don’t know why I’m here. I’m a biologist, not a damn doctor. You can’t expect me to nurse the poor gypsy bastard back to health. I have the feeling I’m not supposed to. It turns my stomach. I’m not even sure what he’s suffering from. He’s suffering, there is no doubt, but I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think the medical officers have either, so he might be fucked no matter what I do. I supposed I have to try. His forearms are all torn up, self inflicted. He was damn near tearing the skin off his arms when the soldiers found him, clutching that piece of rock. I’m a man of science, don’t get me wrong, but that thing has dark juju, as I suppose Mr. Angres would say. I have a bad feeling about it. They beat him with their rifles, either to get him to give them the rock or to stop his yammering about the wolves or his dog or whatever, or maybe just because he was a gypsy who couldn’t or wouldn’t run fast enough. He’s in a bad way, broken leg, cracked ribs, bruises all over. And that’s not even touching whatever sickness he’s contracted in that cave. He seems to be alright mentally, at least for now. A little distant. I suppose that’s to be expected, with all he’s been through. Whatever made him pass out yesterday in the interrogation room doesn’t seem to be bothering him, at least not right now. He keeps complaining that he forgot something, something important. In his words, “like something reached in and ripped your thoughts out.” He’s also reporting nightmares of being pulled down, being drowned, in a “blue crystal sea” by some unseen force. It seems to be just a nightmare, but I’ve made a note of it just in case. According to him, he’s fifteen. He’s severely malnourished. You can see his ribs. Whoever raised him probably had no knowledge of medicine, or nutrition, or simply doesn’t care. Or they couldn’t get him enough food. Probably both, being gypsies; wandering migrants almost universally reviled, written off as nothing more than pickpockets, petty thieves, and con artists. He’s got bad teeth. Then again, most are. Not a lot of food to go around, as long as I can remember. The cuts on his forearms are open, refusing to close, leaking some sort of black pus. The skin around the lacerations is black as well. He’s not reporting any pain; perhaps it is gangrene, but it’s been less than 36 hours. That simply doesn’t make sense. It’s likely some new illness. I’ve placed him in quarantine, or course. In addition, I’ve taken to wearing a mask and gloves. Due to lack of proper equipment, I’ve had to substitute thick woolen gloves and a gas mask, which does wonders for my bedside manner. I think he’s given up hope he’s going to make it through. He asked me to call it ‘Dying Gypsy Syndrome’. He’s fifteen. My little Valeriya turned that just last month. I missed her birthday. Because I was working. Makes you wonder, you know? How life slips by when you don’t notice. I’m trying not to notice him looking over at me with those eyes of his. It’s not the dark circles around them, making him look skulllike, or their vacant look. It’s the pupils. God, those pupils. Pupils are supposed to be round. Not...not round. Growing outward like blood seeping from a gunshot wound, oozing.

April 6th, 1970

The condition of his eyes has continued to deteriorate. Unsurprisingly, his eyesight has worsened as it progressed starting in his left eye, his right joining not long after. His left eye is completely blacked out, and the other doesn’t have much time left. His mental state seems to be deteriorating in tandem with his eyesight, he keeps muttering to himself about “The Topaz Sea”.

He doesn’t seem to notice me. He’s rocking back and forth, gently slamming himself against the walls, the door, not unlike victims of shell shock. As time went on, he seemed to become increasingly unhinged, violent almost. At that point the soldiers took him away, beating him down with batons before dragging him off. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.