Page List


Font:  

But I can’t ignore it.

I step away and lean against the door to give him space, just in case my talking did it. He could be picking up on my anger at Fancher and this whole situation. Unbalanced people can be extraordinarily sensitive.

I go back for a redo, trying to use Zara’s super low-touch style. His BP is down a little on the second try. At least in normal range. I jot down that reading and do his blood and the rest of my check.

The rest of the week is uneventful, aside from my not being able to sleep, thanks to the antiseptic scent clinging to my skin and nose. It feels like it’s inside me sometimes, which I know is crazy.

On the upside, with every visit, 34’s blood pressure drops a bit more. At the end of the week, it’s right where it was for Zara.

He always exhibits that flat affect, but there are times, as I go about my business, that I could swear he’s almost glowering at me, or at least staring at me intensely, but then when I look directly at him, his face is blank…though sometimes it’s more likefuriously blank.

Which sounds a little odd, I know. It’s just that, even when he’s staring blankly at the ceiling, hefeelsaware. Sometimes I have this weird sense that he doesn’t want me there.

But I’m not sleeping, so I’m a mess. I could be imagining things. Projecting.

I keep talking to him. It’s not like anybody else there wants to talk to me. I say little things at first, like, “It’s me again. What do you think about that? Not much, huh?” Or I report on the ever-evolving cake and treat activity in the staff room. I tell him I’m thinking about bringing cookies. “Maybe the way to their hearts is through their stomachs,” I say. “Wow, that kind of makes me sound like a termite, doesn’t it?”

A muscle in his cheek twitches at that. I tell myself it was a shadow.

I come to look forward to seeing him. Strange that the most engaging person in this place would be a John Doe on so many drugs that he probably has the consciousness of a cantaloupe, but there you have it.

Still, there are these moments when I’m sure he’s fucking with me.

It’s exactly ten days into my brilliant career as a Fancher Institute team member and secret tracker of ephedrine supplies that I catch him.

I’m sitting at 34’s bedside updating patient charts on the Fancher-issued tablet. He’s his usual blank self, and as usual, I’m talking to him like he’s there.

“I know what you’re doing. You want to lull us into complacency and make your big break. I’ve heard the tales of your last attempts. They sound brilliant, for what it’s worth.” I flick through screens while I talk. “And I hear you smashed Donny’s head into a wall. I don’t know why they have you strapped up here. Between you and me, you’d have to be insanenotto want to smash Donny’s head into a wall.”

I look up and our gazes meet, or, more accurately, his eyes are momentarily riveted to mine. He quickly looks away, all blank, but it’s too late—I caught him.

I stand, shocked.

I know what I saw. He’s only pretending to be out of it. Fooling everybody.

I don’t know what to do. I’m inclined to keep his secret, because I feel this strange connection with him, but he could be really dangerous.

Who am I kidding? Of course he’s dangerous. Everybody in here killed at least one person. And he’s also an escape artist.

I think of the innocent children beyond these walls. I think about the nice girl at my coffee shop. The cops. My fellow nurses.

I have a responsibility here.

I walk out and tell the orderlies to stay put. I go down the hall to find Zara at her computer. I tell her that I suspect Patient 34 has found a way to skip his meds. “He is highly aware, and his thoughts are as fast as yours or mine.” I say. That’s one of the main effects of the drugs they give the patients—slow thoughts.

“They do move and twitch,” she replies, like I’m stupid.

“It wasn’t that, Zara. This man is acting. He tracks speech and responds.”

She heaves out of her chair, annoyed. “He’s ingesting every bit of his medication.”

We head down the hall. “I know it sounds improbable,” I say.

“He’s on B-52 with zyzitol. It’s not improbable, it’s impossible. What exactly happened?”

“I was…kind of talking as I went about my protocol. I, um…think the sound of a voice can soothe, you know, and I made this joke, and—”

“What was the joke?”


Tags: Annika Martin Erotic