The Broken Rib and the Cold Wall

Old Dubois felt his rib was broken. Not a dull ache, but as if a red-hot iron poker was being brutally stirred inside his left chest with every breath, every slight movement. The pain was so real, so tyrannical, much like life itself often imposed upon him. He had slipped on those damned steps, coated with a thin layer of ice, still clutching a small bag of wrinkled potatoes, his sustenance for the next three days.

The city, like a cold behemoth, yawned in the winter dawn. Dubois, an insignificant speck of dust on the city's body, was now huddled inside another, even larger, colder behemoth – the emergency hall of the city central hospital. The air hung thick with the mixed scent of disinfectant and suffering. Around him were hurried white coats and souls, like himself, whose faces were etched with anxiety and pain.

After a long wait and a series of examinations that felt like they would dismantle him, he was finally wheeled before the huge, humming machine – they called it a CT scanner. The machine's ring-like structure resembled a cold halo. Dubois lay on the narrow conveyor belt, feeling like an object awaiting judgment. He closed his eyes. The pain persisted, relentless, yet deep inside, a faint glimmer of hope arose: this machine, this miracle of science, surely it could see the broken bone tormenting him, prove his suffering was not imaginary.

The scan result arrived. A transparent film printed with the black and white images of his insides, like some abstract map of the soul. A young nurse clipped it onto the viewing box. Its light pierced the image's darkness, clearly outlining the contours of his bones. Although Dubois didn't understand the complex textures, he distinctly saw, right at the spot where his pain was most intense, a fine but clear crack, like an undeniable lightning bolt splitting the bone's continuity.

He was helped, or rather, dragged, back to the emergency doctor. The doctor was young, his face wearing a mask of programmed fatigue, like a craftsman processing parts on an assembly line. He carelessly picked up the CT film, glanced at it against the light, and then, almost immediately, tossed it back onto the desk.

“Nothing serious, just some soft tissue bruising.” The doctor's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, like someone reading an irrelevant weather report. “The bone is fine.”

“But... Doctor,” Dubois struggled to speak, each utterance pulling at the piercing pain, “I saw it... on there, there was clearly a line...”

The doctor looked up, his gaze as cold as a scalpel. “You saw wrong. Or perhaps it was an artifact. CT scans can have artifacts.” He paused, seemingly finding further explanation superfluous. “In any case, there’s no fracture. Go home, rest, apply a plaster, you’ll be fine in a few days.”

“No, impossible!” Dubois’ voice suddenly rose, despair surging like a tide. “It’s my own body, I know! That bone, it’s broken! Right here!” He pointed a trembling finger at his left chest.

The doctor frowned, a look of annoyance at being disturbed. “Old man, we look at countless scans every day. Trust my professional judgment.” His tone carried a condescending, unchallengeable authority. “If you don’t believe me, you can make an appointment with an orthopedic specialist and get more tests. But as far as I’m concerned, the conclusion is no fracture.”

Dubois opened his mouth, wanting to say more, but felt as if something was blocking his throat. He looked at the doctor's young, resolute face, at the white wall behind him symbolizing science and reason, and suddenly felt a profound sense of absurdity. The CT film, clearly showing the fracture, the truth revealed by the cold machine about his own body, lay there on the desk, so close yet seemingly separated by an insurmountable abyss. His pain, his intuition, the fact he had seen with his own eyes – all rendered worthless, even treated as a “misperception” needing correction, in the face of “authority” and “procedure.”

He felt like a child lost in a vast labyrinth, surrounded by towering, smooth, cold walls. Every path seemed to lead to the same exit, inscribed with the words: “There is nothing wrong with you; your feelings are mistaken.” A wave of dizziness washed over him, not just from the pain, but from the fear of being stripped of the authenticity of his own sensations. Who am I? Is my pain real? If even the most direct signals from my body can be so easily denied, what else can be certain?

Stooped, clutching the diagnostic report – stating “soft tissue bruising” – which felt both feather-light and leaden, he left the examination room. The flow of people in the corridor continued unabated; no one noticed this shuffling, pain-faced old man. He tightly gripped the copy of the CT scan, the one “ruled” invalid by the doctor. The black and white image now felt like his only evidence against the entire world, the sole proof of his existence.

The pain continued, the broken rib like a stubborn witness, screaming silently within his body. He walked out of the hospital entrance. The cold wind cut his face like a knife. The city remained noisy, tall buildings scraping the sky, neon lights flashing – everything seemed orderly, yet so indifferent and heartless.

Dubois looked up at the lead-grey sky. He didn't know what to do next. Should he go register again, wait in line, face another potentially indifferent “authority”? Or should he just endure it, let this broken bone heal on its own in silence, or perhaps worsen?

He suddenly remembered stories he'd read in his youth, about people lost in vast castles or endless bureaucracies. Back then, he found them absurd, unbelievable. Now, he stood at the very center of such absurdity. His enemy wasn't a specific person, not the young doctor – who was perhaps just a cog in this giant machine, following rules Dubois couldn't comprehend. His enemy was this invisible, cold wall, constructed from procedures, rules, authority, and indifference, impenetrable, shutting out the individual's faint cries and real suffering.

He shuffled homeward, each step accompanied by the sharp pain from his rib. That pain reminded him he was alive, that his feelings were real, even if the whole world tried to tell him otherwise. He clutched the CT film tighter. That thin sheet of plastic was now his last weapon against this absurd world, and also the humblest yet heaviest medal a sufferer could possess.

Night fell. The city lights flickered like countless indifferent eyes, watching the solitary old man walk. His silhouette stretched long under the dim yellow streetlights, like a giant question mark cast upon this seemingly prosperous yet cold earth. The broken rib, and that cold wall, would become an indelible memory for the rest of his life – a Kafkaesque parable about existence, suffering, and denial.