SHORT STORIES

How many people ever truly see the inside of an emergency station?
Not the entrance. Not the waiting room. The inside.

This one, possibly the largest in Hamburg, stretches like a steel intestine under neon light. Corridors unspool for miles. Automatic doors hiss open and shut like indifferent mouths. Reception desks, tile, signs, surveillance, more doors. And the people.

At first, it’s impossible to tell them apart. Blue and green figures flash past. Nurses, doctors, techs. Emergency workers in high vis armour piloting stretchers like tankers.
And then the others begin to appear.
Crouched on stools, half sprawled on rolling beds. Eyes sunken, limbs splayed, voices gone. Tragic silhouettes. Disassembled humans.

There is blood, urine, vomit. Biological refuse of pain. Addicts, alcoholics, people in shock. Men in uniform trying hard to maintain their own idea of order.

The first time visitor’s mind shuts down. Looks away.

But at night, when the lights dim and the bodies stop moving, the place reaches out with claws. Scratching bone. Screams curl up through the floor and etch themselves into your spine. It’s like sleeping in the corner of the lion’s cage.

To my dismay, the next day brought a new roommate. A young man wheeled in on a stretcher, special delivery from Afghanistan. He spoke no German. No English. Realising there was no use in trying, he closed his eyes and slept. A wise choice.

Six hours of peace passed before a young doctor arrived. A woman with fast green eyes and a full checklist. She went through the motions. Temperature. Reflex. Bloods. Spoke to him kindly. Slowly. Pointlessly. He nodded. Blinked. Smiled. Stayed silent.

Hours passed. Eventually, a translator arrived in human form. A quiet buzz filled the room as the doctor perked up, her green eyes shining now that someone finally understood.
But then, just as she began her next task, the translator bolted, shooting out the door like a rocket. Followed by a wide eyed young doctor, surprised that this scenario had apparently not been covered in her seminars.

I followed suit, knowing that things from Afghanistan tend to explode. Or so I thought.

Outside, the translator stood in hysterics, fumbling madly with a surgical mask, trying to get it onto his face after spending nearly an hour inside with a patient carrying tuberculosis.

No sign of the doctor.

What followed was a kind of bureaucratic dervish. People running in all directions. Neon lights flickering like bad theatre.
Only the junkies, the alcoholics, and the truly hardened staff remained unmoved. Oblivious. Solid. Unshaken in the heart of the cage.

Part II. The Search for the Elusive Doctor

I needed answers. A reason. A human explanation. So I went searching for my “representative” doctor, the one supposedly responsible for my case.
But that’s like looking for a needle in a rotating haystack.

They change every six hours. And if you’re lucky, you catch a glimpse of the new one before they vanish again behind a phalanx of nurses, schedules, protocols.

These doctors are guarded. Ringed by nurses trained more in containment than care, prepared to die rather than betray the name, the whereabouts, or the logic of the rotation. Trying to find clarity in that place was like threading a camel through the eye of a needle.
I elbowed through the haze of duty shifts and clipboards and eventually got there, finally standing before the mythical representative. She looked up. No greeting. No recognition. Looked through me. Or past me. Like I was a bug on the wall.

I asked if she could actually see me, or whether I was genuinely invisible.
She didn’t answer. Just tried to let it slide, like hospital floors.
Her solution was simple - “Relax. Go and drink a tea. Come back later.”
I wondered if she had ever even glanced at my file. If she had any idea that this was not about tea.
So I walked out. Mouth dry. Mind burning. Walked. Forgot to drink tea.

Then re-entered through the main entrance, past reception, and asked for the Geschäftsstelle. The administrative office. Closed, they said. But you can try over there. They pointed toward a door.
I followed. Opened it. Walked in. Knocked on another door.

Standing there was a nurse built like a tank in compression stockings. A sergeant major in crocs.
Not “how can I help,” but “what do you want?” I briefly described what had happened, only to be interrupted by her shouting: “DON’T COME ANY CLOSER! YOU COULD INFECT US ALL!”

I stood there, shocked, speechless.

I had been bounced around the emergency system like a human echo. I hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was trying, quite rationally, to understand what the plan was.
But there was no plan. And none of that mattered.

Not the story. Not the fear. Not the fact that I had entered her fortress without permission.
I stood there, transformed into a biohazard. Not a patient. Not even a person. A moving warning sign. Oh well, I thought. Things could be worse.

Somewhere in that building, the camel was probably still looking for me.