Just a Few More Hours

Even though you're wearing two pairs of gloves, you can still feel the warmth of the blood on your hands. The sensation hasn't bothered you for a while, as you're pushing your fourth year as an ER nurse, but it still feels a bit weird all the same. You remove your hand from the wound on your current patient, a teenage boy in bed 4. "Alex Lopez, aged 15, rusted, used pliers jammed into his shoulder at the scene," the EMT had told you upon his arrival in the ER. And since the pliers were rusted, you knew you'd have to disinfect the wound.

Crap. This will definitely sting a bit, poor boy, you think, as you ready your saline solution and suturing kit. Alex looks over at you, groaning quietly in pain.

"Alex, my name is Iris. I'm going to need to disinfect and stitch up this cut on your shoulder, okay?"

He nods. "Do you mind if I squeeze your hand while you disinfect it? Is that a weird thing to ask? I'm sorry-"

You cut off his blubbering with a smile and hold your hand out. He sighs and thanks you quietly as his hand wraps around yours.

"This will hurt a bit, just bear with me, pal. You're good," you mutter. His grip on your hand tightens and he inhales sharply as you drip a few drops of the solution into the blood-seeping wound in his shoulder. While you let that sit for a minute, you prepare your suturing kit, threading the needle oh-so-precisely. Setting it down on the table, you then take your syringe and prepare the anesthetic.

"Alex, I'm going to stitch you up now. I'm going to give you a small numbing shot and we should be done soon." Alex gulps, then looks up at you and nods weakly. He squeezes his eyes shut, and you place your thumb on the end of the syringe and your index and middle finger at the tip, sinking it quickly into his shoulder, right at the cut. He yelps a bit as you pull it out and press your finger to the spot to alleviate the soreness for a moment. You toss the syringe into the waste box and hold up the needle.

"Deep breaths, Alex."

He winces as you gently push the needle through that nasty laceration on his shoulder, his lip caught between his teeth. You can see the sweat beading on his forehead and the tears welling in his eyes, so you squeeze his hand for a second.

"You're alright, buddy. Talk to me."

He begins to open his mouth to speak.

"I was -ow- trying to trim our trees, because my dad asked -ouch- me to do it today. A-And the ladder -ah- k-kind of started shaking, s-so I panicked, and then -OUCH- I fell off and landed on my toolbox, and the p-pliers stabbed into my s-shoulder," he stutters as you finally cut your thread and cover the stitches with a bandage.

"Why on earth did he ask you to trim the trees at 11:30 at night?" you ask. He chuckles slightly, exhaling heavily. "My parents went out, and they told me to trim the trees while they were gone. Then they called and said they were on their way home, and I had forgotten to do it, so I had to go and get all the stuff together and try to do it super fast. Then they got home and saw me fall. My mom drove me here- is she here?"

"Breathe, kid. She's in the lobby."

He smiles and rests his head back on the pillow.

***

IRIS LANE, M.D. ST. MARY'S HOSPITAL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.

The bold embroidery on your white coat seems to stare you in the face as you pull it off and hang it in your locker. You're done for the night. Finally. Your 17-hour shift had really done a number on your skin. Just as you swing your tote bag over your shoulder and grab your keys out of your pocket, you hear a shuffling of feet behind you. It's the girl the next locker over, Riley Murray. She was one of the only people in the hospital who you really considered a friend, rather than just a colleague.

"Hey, Ri. You good?" you ask, staring at her. She sighs, covered in sweat, as if she just ran down three flights of stairs. She looks kind of clammy and pale, too.

"I'm good, I'm just not feeling well. I think I have a fever, but I'm on the night shift today, fuck me," she grumbles, staring you up and down. Noticing the bag on your shoulder, her eyebrows float up.

"Hey, are you all done for tonight?"

Before she can say anything else, you hold up your hand.

"Nope, nope, absolutely not. I literally just finished a 17 hour shift. I am tired and I want to go home," you recite clearly, enunciating every single syllable to really ensure she gets the message. Regardless, Riley keeps persisting.

"Please, Iris? Please, I feel so sick. I'll owe you big time. Endless drinks on me for the rest of next week. If you take my shift, I will literally owe you for the rest of my life, I swear. You just have to work until 7am, and it's already past midnight! Pleeeeeeeease..."

You sigh.

"Fine. Just because you're annoying and I want you to shut up." You groan and toss your keys back into your bag and hang it back up in your locker, grabbing your coat and pulling it back over your shoulders.

"Thank you so, so much, dude. I promise I'll get you drunk off your ass tomorrow night. I love you." She opens up her locker as you roll your eyes and stroll back out to the lobby so you can add some more hours to your name in the system.

***

Why did you agree to this? You hate the night shift. Being surrounded by half-awake, sick, zombie-like people. Grumpy, exhausted staff. Obnoxiously sobbing family members, and fluorescent lighting that made your head hurt, all while having it be almost one o'clock in the fucking morning.

Great.

Suddenly, you hear the crash of the ER doors flying open as a screaming woman covered in blood is wheeled in. Your eyes widen as you jolt up from your seat and scream "DIBS!" to the other nurses in the room. The EMT hands you the woman's chart and begins to read off her stats.

"Dolores Bateman, 68 years old, diagnosed with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Self-inflicted GSW to the chest, no exit wound on the bullet. Broken ankle, fractured ribs, and blown out pupil due to head trauma while falling down the stairs. She hasn't stopped screaming since we got to her house, her son called us. He's on his way," the EMT shouts over Dolores's wails.

She's truly screeching like there's no tomorrow, it's kind of incredible. However, it is making it a little hard for you to do your job as you raise your voice to try and communicate with her.

"Mrs. Bateman, can you hear me? My name is-"

"OFF- GRRRRRAAAAAGH- YOU FUCKING SLUT, GET OFF OF ME!"

"Dolores Bateman, my name is Dr. Lane. I'm gonna be taking you up to the O.R. You are severely wounded and at risk of bleeding out-"

Before you can finish your sentence, you're cut off with the crack of her palm on your cheek and the stinging that follows. Your patient slapped you. Your eyes widen as the EMT reaches out for Dolores's fidgeting, shaky hands and restrains her down. "I'll restrain her, we can sedate her if you want. I'm so sorry," he stutters. You weakly nod and brush it off as you watch the EMT inject Dolores with a sedative, her wails gradually dying down as she flops back down onto the gurney.

***

She was in the O.R for a little less than five hours. They had to do a small thoracotomy to get the bullet out of her chest. Her entire left leg is wrapped up and resting in a sling hanging from the ceiling. Her right eye is covered by a patch, but her left eye flicks violently around the room. She makes guttural heaving sounds with every breath she takes. Her chest barely moves as she breathes, like it takes every muscle in her body to steal one more gulp of oxygen.

Of course you were assigned to take care of her tonight. Your least favorite shift hours combined with your least favorite patient to date.

Fuck.

It's almost 5:30am. You're going to monitor her stats for just a minute, and then you're not going into that room again. You slightly nudge the door of her ICU room open, the slight beeps of the heart rate monitor beeping consistently. She snores lightly in wheezing breaths. Her bandaged body makes your stomach churn, overpowering any nurse-like reflex you've ever developed.

Why is this woman, of all the gruesome-looking patients you've ever treated, the one to make you shiver as you walk by her? She just carries a terrifying aura, you've decided, as you inch closer to her bed, outlined in the hazy dawn light. Her one visible eye is shut, twitching every now and again under the cool air of the vents above her head. You notice the weak rise and fall of her bandage-wrapped chest, coupled with nearly Darth Vader sounding breaths. Her entire torso is rife with damp, sweaty gauze and tape peeling at the corners. You move your eyes down to her hips and legs, careful not to bump the elevated leg as you peel the old tape off of the gauze and replace it with fresh pieces.

But suddenly, you feel a grip on your wrist and a low, wheezing growl.

She has her hands wrapped around your arm and she's pulling you down towards her face. You shriek.

"Mrs. Bateman! Get off of me-"

"...hungry."

And with that, she opens her jaws wide and clamps her teeth down hard onto your shoulder and forearm.

And god, do you scream.

Her bony teeth sink into your flesh and begin to tear chunks of it out. You can feel the skin ripping and the blood cascading down your elbow.

"HELP ME, SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!"

She suddenly releases her mouth from your arm as you stumble backwards, hyperventilating. You can't breathe, you're in more pain than you've ever been in your life. Your vision goes fuzzy as you stare at this deranged woman, whose face is covered in blood.

YOUR blood.

And that's when you black out.