The shift was quiet for the most part; the lunatics were all so heavily sedated that it could not have been otherwise, all he had to do was sit around and read while they twisted and moaned in their sleep. Only twice had there been any problems during his shift and both he had dealt with easily and efficiently without calling upon a doctor. Not that he considered this place as having ‘doctors’; wardens were closer to the truth for all they cared about those under their care. ‘"Just give them more trancs"’ was a phrase that he well knew by now and hated with every fibre of his being. These poor people never stood a chance of getting out of here and even less chance of getting the help that they truly needed. He would have left had he been sure that he could have obtained a place somewhere better, but he knew there was little chance of that now; his only consolation was that the drugs kept the inmates, for that is what they really were, asleep and unknowing of the uncaring world of which they were now part.
Greg shifted in his chair again, it being almost too small to fit his
bulky frame, and felt his eyes wander for his paperback over to the clock
on the wall for the third time in under twenty minutes, as if by his looking
the clocks’ digital display would halt and the hour for ‘the rounds’ would
therefore not come. The black display showed 12:58 picked out in red lines;
he sighed though he knew what he had to do was inevitable, as it had been
ever since he had become the standing night nurse at ‘Dr. Theodores’ Haven
for the Psychologically Impaired’, a cute way of saying nut house and every
one knew it. Lifting his six foot five body upright he carefully placed
the detective story he had been engrossed in upon his desk, making sure
he noted the page first, and reached into his pocket for his key.
Standing before the pale, pastel green door Greg shifted uneasily and ran a hand over his forehead noticing the slight dampness of sweat that had begun to appear, the key in his other hand seemed too heavy to lift. The door was like so many others in the institute that you could pass by it and not notice that it even existed if it were not for the small metal box that sat on the wall next to it. The box with the keyhole. The keyhole that Greg was currently staring at as if it were a bottomless void. The rounds through the ‘Violent and Criminally Insane ward’, or ‘Sickos Alley’ as many of the other staff nurses called it, had never made him this nervous before. Before it had been a chore; a chore that he had done with little emotion, his own caring nature that had first gotten him involved with nursing, held back by his disgust at the crimes some of these patients had committed before arriving at the haven for treatment. But it had not been bad, no, not bad at all. Then she had arrived.
It had been the end of his shift when she had been brought in. He had just come out of the changing room, where he had changed out of his nursing whites, when the screams and growls had erupted from the side entrance, thinking that some patient had become violent and was trying to get out. He had set off running towards the disturbance, quickly joined by Phil who had taken over from him barely five minutes before. As they had crashed through the last set of doors into the entranceway, they both stopped stunned by what they saw. It was a young girl being held off the floor by four male orderlies that were struggling to keep her from getting free. She was dressed in a straight jacket, over the hospital pyjamas, and there were chains wrapped around her torso and ankles turning her into a writhing worm in her captures arms. Greg was sure that he could hear the metal links creaking as if they were about to break even above the loud screams and feral noises that issued from the girls throat. Standing, mouths open, Greg and Phil watched as the chain round her legs suddenly broke with a shrill shriek of protest just as Dr Theodore appeared from behind the struggling group and slammed a hypodermic into her thigh. The girl cried out once more, this time in pain, but moments later went limp against the orderlies’ arms as the powerful tranquilliser went into effect and she fell asleep.
He had seen her next on his rounds through the VCI ward. She had been placed in the furthest room from the entrance, and the name on the door had simply read Jane Doe; either no one knew who she was or some one was paying the good Dr Theodore to hide it from everyone else, Greg was not so blind as to not know that this sort of thing went on from time to time. His second sight of her, through the sliding view port set in the solid, steel door that was the only entrance and exit to the padded cell, allowed him to see her clearly for the first time. She crouched in the centre of the cell, spotlighted by a shaft of moonlight that poured in from a small window eighteen feet up on one wall. The straightjacket and pajama-bottoms were both clinical white hiding her small body in their folds, and in so doing drawing attention to her face and its surround of unkempt, red hair that hung limply about her shoulders. Greg was almost shocked at how pale she was; her skin seemed to glow under the moons illumination making the whites in which she was dressed seem grey. Her eyes were fixed on the view that the small window allowed with more clarity and intensity than he had seen before in anyone let alone a patient. The stillness of the tableau ended as she turned her head towards the door, where he stood in fascinated observation, throwing her face into shadow. Greg had been caught then, the alabaster face that had held his eyes with its ethereal beauty had become covered by shadow and appeared to turn into a skull. Her eyes were hidden in the blackness shadows yet he knew that she was staring at him. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew they were fixed upon his own and the ability to move had suddenly become a long forgotten memory. It was only when she turned away, returning her gaze to the window that he had been able to look away and slide the cover back over the hole.
After that he had always been wary, only glancing in before quickly looking away. Greg had had no idea where the fear came from; she had broken a chain, yes, but had done nothing threatening towards him at all. He had heard from his fellow nurses that she was always heavily sedated before she was approached by anybody yet he had not heard of any violence on her part.
His unknown fears had become reality a few weeks later. He had gone down to the bar near the institute where most of the nurses went after their shifts to put the day behind them and had seen Mark Roberts already there. Mark was a large man like most of the male staff (It rarely occurred to the public that having the build of a rugby player would have advantages in the field of mental health. "You try and restrain a violent lunatic." was the answer that was given whenever this rarely asked question came up) and he did his shift directly before Gregs’ own. Greg had shouldered his way through and had asked how come he was there when his shift didn’t end for another ten minutes,
"I changed my shift with Tomlinson," Came the easy reply, "its the wifes’ birthday took her out for dinner and dropped her round her mothers. Just popped in for a quick one before I go back and get her."
Greg hadn’t heard the last part, he had stopped hearing after Mark had said Tomlinson. An ice-cold hand had grabbed his spine; Craig Tomlinson had a reputation for being overly friendly with the female patients, thought nothing had ever been proven. When the girl in C ward had turned up pregnant, the girl who had been catatonic for eighteen months after her boyfriend had driven head first into a wall with her in the passenger seat, they had known. But there was no proof and it had been swept under the carpet to avoid ‘complications’.
He had run all the way to the clinic, crashed through the doors and torn up the stairs in too much of a rush to wait for the lift. When he had reached the door to the VCI and found it open his rapidly beating heart had crept up his throat. Opening the door further he stepped in and walked along the frighteningly silent corridor with ice cold sweat forming on his body. Her door was ajar. One shaky hand reached out of it’s own accord and gripped the metal handle in a death grip as it slowly pulled open the door to reveal the scene within.
Craig was indeed in there, or rather the thing that had once been Craig. Tomlinson would be no longer be a threat to any female patient, or any one at all. His body lay across her lap his trousers and boxers around his ankles, arms out stretched and his face hidden by her hair as her head rested in the crook of his neck. The creak of the opening door caused her to raise her face to him revealing the torn ruin that was all that was left of Tomlinson’s neck and her blood-covered face. As Greg stood transfixed with horror he saw her tongue emerge from her mouth and lick at her too red lips before she again buried her teeth in her victims neck.
The next part was still a bit of a blur to him but he found his forearm pressed against her throat trapping her against the far wall the body of Tomlinson lying in the centre of the floor. Her blood stained face twisted in rage as she growled and spat at him, her feet trying to gain the floor as he held her small frame face to face with his far larger one. He had no idea how long he could have held her there with her strength but the next instant several security guards appeared with Dr. Theodore and she was soon subdued and unconscious as a cocktail of drugs was pumped into her.
Greg had been congratulated for his quick thinking and the recapturing
of Jane Doe. Dr. Theodore had given him a surprisingly large rise in pay
and told him that he had a job for life at his clinic but Greg was no fool
and had heard the unspoken words, ‘as long as you never say anything about
what actually happened here tonight.’ He had shut up, not because of the
money or the threat of unemployment, but rather because he had no idea
what had happened. It was too weird, too disturbing and he hadn’t been
able to find the words to describe the way she had torn at Craigs’ throat
and licked at the blood that had welled up from the tears; an odd combination
of wild animal and a cat with a saucer of cream. Yet every night he would
do his rounds look in and find her as he had that first time staring out
at the moon, an object of desire and beauty, before she turned to face
him and became death incarnate. Tonight would be no different; not that
that thought gave any comfort.
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