My eyes slowly open when the prickle at my neck comes back. There’s no one but me at the end of the hall. A door to my right, and across it, a door to my left. No one else is here. Aiden is in the back with the paperwork, Mel is on a smoke break. She’ll be outside for at least another twenty minutes since her patients are all accounted for and sleeping. She’ll do her last round, checking on their breathing, and then switch off, just like I will. We only have forty minutes left until the end of shift at 1:00 a.m.
Maybe I’m just coming down from the high I was on with Seth. The realization is sobering. That’s what the odd feeling is. It’s the reminder of all that happened and the fact that I was ignoring it.
The tray takes both of my hands to hold, so I have to balance it before turning the doorknob, and using my hips to bump open the door to E.J.’s room.
We weren’t given her name, only initials.
Yet another thing that makes me feel uneasy. We’ve never had a patient whose information was guarded. We only have her medical history. Nothing else. Not a name. Not an address.
Aiden never should have accepted her in here under those conditions. With that thought resonating inside of me, I set the tray down and then look at her.
Really look at her.
Her brunette hair is matted as she lies lifeless on her side on the mattress. Her bed is made neatly, it always is, and she lies on top of it, rather than under the sheets. I know she’s cold because of the goosebumps on her skin; hell, even I’m cold in this place at night.
A horrid guilt rolls through me; how could I ever think of turning someone away?
“E.J.,” I say as I swallow the previous thoughts and pick up the small paper cup containing three colorful pills. And then a cup of water. I don’t sit on her bed like I do with some of the other patients. I keep my distance with her, she’s more receptive that way.
I sit in the chair in front of her nightstand. It hasn’t moved from the last time I was in here. She doesn’t like me to move it though.
It’s a rare moment when I see someone in here who truly wants to die. This woman’s only thirty-two, and I have no idea why since it’s not in her charts and she hasn’t spoken to anyone, not that she could now anyway, but she doesn’t want to live another day. She has a bandage at her throat from recent surgery. The antifreeze destroyed her esophagus and she nearly died. Death’s door was only a minute away from her and not for the first time either. That attempt was made in this facility and that knowledge will never leave me.
She blinks slowly and then her deep brown eyes look up at me. Rolling onto her back, she accepts the pills and then the water, downing them without thinking twice.
When she closes her eyes as I check the bandages, tears fall down her cheeks and land heavily on the bed on either side of her head.
She only sniffs once and then she swallows thickly, gripping the sheets.
“Does it hurt?” I ask her and she shakes her head. Even if she wanted to talk, her voice would be hoarse and difficult to hear. Surgery saved her life and with time, she’ll be able to talk again. Not right now though, not while she’s in recovery.
I wish whatever was hurting her inside would leave. I wish it would go away. The thoughts in her head that make her desperate to die are something no one should have to deal with. I can hardly look at her without feeling her sorrow. It’s palpable. Whatever happened to her, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
“It looks like you’re healing well,” I comment even though I know she doesn’t care. My blue gloves snap as I take them off, depositing them on the tray with the last set of pills. I never leave anything in here for E.J. I’m sure she’d think of a creative way to die with any items that are left behind.
“If you want anything at all, you know to just hit that button. I’ll get you anything.” Even to my own ears, I sound desperate at the last sentence. “A radio if you want music.” All the rooms have televisions in the upper right corner, but she’s never turned hers on.
She only shakes her head, licking the tear that had rolled its way to her lip.
“I hope you sleep well and you have the sweetest dreams,” I tell her sincerely. I don’t always talk to my patients like this. They’re all different.