Path of the Vampire forum

She crossed one her arms over her midsection and hunched forward, trying to lose herself in the blue paper of the hospital gown. The nurses had taken her pants, her shirt, and her shoes, leaving her in nothing but her underwear, and then they’d given her a poor excuse for a paper dress, one that barely covered her body. Even curled up, she couldn’t stop the shivering. The heating system had a problem, or the staff saved money by keeping the place at a cool 10° Celsius. If it weren’t for the handcuff linking her left wrist to the arm of the bed, she might have had more movement. She could have pulled the bed’s blanket up over her shoulders.

“Campbell?” The nurse peered over her clipboard and smiled at Clover, but Clover didn’t raise her eyes. She didn’t care about the staff or their duties. She was just another transfer from the prison, going from one cell to another. Wasn’t that what her attorney had said before he finally stopped visiting her? “Not a chatty Cathy there, are you? Let’s get a urine sample then--standard procedure. We’ll take blood next. And then you’ll be good to go to the top floor!”

Clover rolled her eyes and turned her head to the side, drawing her gaze from the woman’s hideously white shoes to stare at the single pillow on the emergency-room bed. The nurse placed a clear cup on top of the sheets and then went on to the next bed. The sheet-like divider had barely closed before Clover swiped her free hand out at the cup and sent it clattering to the floor.

“Miss Campbell, if you don’t give us a urine sample, we can’t admit you,” the same nurse called out. The woman’s scrubs rustled as she moved about the beds in the single room, but she never approached Clover’s little sanctuary. The aged nurse spoke from afar, as if she were uninterested in the troubles of a single patient.

“Then you piss in the damn cup,” Clover muttered, glaring at the cup. The plastic container seemed to react to her brown eyes and rolled further out of view, taking cover under the mechanics of the bed. “I’m not giving a urine sample. Either my blood’s good enough or I’m going back to jail. I don’t need this. Do I look like a junkie? Do I look pregnant?”

She knew she was making a scene. She knew she was blowing everything out of proportion. She felt like she finally had control over a situation. If she didn’t want to cooperate, she didn’t have to cooperate. With those final words, she looked up to see the curtain yanked open and another woman scowling at her. Clover felt her next argument fizzling out before the words were even able to escape her dry mouth and her cracked lips.

“We’ll need three tubes of blood.”

Clover felt every movement. The needle punctured her flesh with such force that she almost jerked her arm away from the sadistic woman. When one tube filled with the crimson fluid, she felt the needle move from one side to the other, eliciting a sharp hiss and a few foul words. After the second tube filled to the very brim, the woman removed the needle and Clover watched as her blood shot up into the air. The woman forgot to remove the tourniquet.

There was no chance for cooperation after that mishap, not even after Clover was moved from the emergency room to the next floor. The staff said they needed her bed for a couple of inbound patients. That’s how she ended up in a double room with another sheet for a partition.

She had taken to wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a long sleeve tee shirt underneath her robe, all having been approved by the head nurse shortly after she had given them a first name - Jersey - to call her by. With no identification or anyone to claim otherwise, it was her word that they had to go off of and it got the psychiatrist off her back for the evening. After dinner, which the meat product still remained uneaten on the tray, she had to deal with the rotation of pills again; the vitamins helped the most, as did the painkiller that dulled the throbbing in her temple and around her eyebrow.

They had told her that later on in the evening, there was a chance she'd be receiving a "roommate" until things were settled. They had asked her if it were okay, and Jersey had smiled, saying it was fine before her attention went back outside the window beside the chair she often sat in when writing in her journal. She chatted with other patients well enough, usually talking to some that had been in the same accident that robbed her of her memory. They hadn't learned her name and she had been told by a thirteen year old that she "didn't think she'd be so nice" before the child was scolded away by her mother, who had a nasty broken arm and road rash.

Jersey's own body had its own bumps and bruises - her ribs had faded from purple to blue, to the current healing blue and yellow already, a few scraps here and there, but the deepest cut on her forehead had been the only one to require stitches. Had she known her name from the beginning, she wouldn't have had to remain longer than three days. Instead, it had cost her two weeks. "Hello Miss Jersey." An orderly greeted while he stepped into the room after knocking on the already opened door. She lifted her hand in a light wave, listening as he pulled the sheet closed.

"Can you look into turning up the heat? It's freezing in here." She asked with a turn of her head only to be met with silence, he had already come and gone. The blonde sighed, pulling her robe tighter around her form before she got up to collect another long sleeve shirt. She pulled it over her head, the hem longer than the other as it reached her fingertips and after a moment, she looked through the open duffel bag she owned to collect her journal and another paperback. As she returned back to her seat, Jersey heard them bring in the other woman.

Her curiosity peaked, but she shoved the emotion away as she removed her pen from its spot behind her ear, beginning to write in her journal about her latest "diagnosis" that made her seem as if they were starting to make up words rather than actually do their jobs. The screech of the sheet sliding back caused her to jump, her pen dragging across the paper with the action and Jersey turned to glare at the nurse that apologized. It had reminded her of the sound of brakes screaming, and as her heart pounded in her temple, she let the look soften.

The nurse (was her name Johnson?) had another composition book in hand, something that Jersey had asked for earlier on in the week. "Thank you." She exhaled a breath that she didn't know she was holding as she got up to collect the notebook, holding to her chest as her green eyes moved quickly to the other bed before she looked back to the woman who moved to collect Jersey's dinner tray. "Is there anything I can get you?" She pretended not to see the scowl on the nurse's face as she saw the chunk of chicken that remained on the plate.

"A fireplace?" The blonde wasn't surprised to see the blank expression on the woman's face, "Another blanket would be nice, and could you see if the heat can be turned up in this room?" She was told that the woman would "see what she could do" before the sound of her heels clicked against the tile as she left the room and slammed the door behind her. Jersey flinched, muttering, "*****" under her breath as she went back to her window and set the book down, rubbing her temples. She'd make a complaint later to the nicer, elderly nurse that came around.

Clover curled her fingers in toward her hands. Nurse Rackett had found the dark-haired woman a more suitable cotton hospital gown that tied around the waist and a pair of paper pants. Paper pants were better than showing her panties off the world, so Clover held her tongue. She’d gone into the second-floor restroom, accompanied by a female security guard, and changed into the clothing. When she was finished, the guard took hold of the empty handcuff and tugged, leading Clover from the bathroom like a dog on a leash.

“This isn’t permanent, so don’t get too comfy.” Clover had her head bowed, using her loose hair like a curtain. She didn’t care which of the women spoke to her or if someone else had approached. One person had control over her left arm and another took hold of her right arm. She saw her tan-colored socks with each and every step forward, right up until she stopped moving. “This is it. The handcuff stays on. Don’t touch it.” The guard had been the one speaking all along.

“All right, dear. You’ll be rooming with Jersey,” the nurse spoke sweetly. It didn’t matter how many times the nurse addressed her or how many times she ignored or snapped at the nurse. They were stuck together. The elderly woman controlled the nursing staff. Clover belonged to them, like an object. “The sooner you cooperate, the easier this will be. I know your type. You’ll break and you’ll break hard,” the woman stopped, the motion putting a sudden, uncomfortable pressure on Clover’s left wrist. “Why set yourself up for that?”

Clover let out a long breath that disturbed the hair on either side of her face. Her reaction didn’t amuse the nurse, but she found it funny. Nurse Rackett reached out to tap on the open door with one hand while giving the empty cuff a little tug. Clover squinted to see into the room, finding the hospital either too bright or too dark. Someone had drawn the curtain-like divider and changed the sheets on the empty bed next to the door.

She didn’t want to sit down again, not after the amount of time spent in the emergency room, but she had to sit on the bed so the nurse could link the empty cuff to the rail of the hospital bed. The short chain rattled and the cuff made a distinct clicking noise, then Nurse Rackett took a step back and turned on the overhead light, casting a rectangular beam of white along the wall and up toward the ceiling. Clover’s side of the room then had a soft glow, contrasting with the harsh light in the hospital hallway.

“You missed dinner, but I’m sure Nurse Johnson can bring you something.” Nurse Rackett smiled one last time, checked the handcuff to make sure it had locked both around the bed railing and Clover’s wrist, and then exited the room. Someone else came and went. Footsteps went back and forth.

After that, Nurse Johnson, the rude nurse with a penchant for blood, came into the room and yanked on the room divider, creating a sound so close to nails on a chalkboard that Clover had to grit her teeth to bear the quick, harsh noise. If she looked away from the evil nurse, Clover would have seen the other inhabitant of the room, but she focused on Johnson.

A single pudding cup connected with the table beside the bed, followed by a plastic spoon, and then the nurse moved beyond the open partition, crossing the midway point. Clover eyed the pudding cup with a hunger she never knew she possessed. Her stomach had been growling since halfway through her ER stay, but the food sat six to eight inches away from her. She could reach out and grab the plastic container. She could. She could if the nurse had placed it on her right side.

Clover had to roll over, rubbing her left wrist along the metal of the handcuff, and swat at the cup until she collected both pudding and spoon. When she rolled back over, she saw the Nurse Johnson had been watching the act.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nurse Johnson responded, her words directed to the mysterious roommate. When the horrible woman left, she left with serious attitude, as evidenced by the definite click and clack of her heels on the tile floor.

“That woman is Satan,” Clover grumbled. She made sure her voice was loud enough so that the other woman heard the opinion. When she lifted the pudding cup and readied to pull back the foil seal, she saw the bright blue letters scrawled across the top.

Tapioca.

Clover threw her plastic spoon across her room, sending it soaring down the length of her bed until it met with the opposing wall. Next went the pudding. The foil cover split down the middle and the pudding left a line of smaller splatters until it exploded against the wall. Clover felt that the woman purposely picked tapioca pudding.

She listened to the people speaking in the hallway, recognizing Nurse Rackett's voice before she tuned them back out once handcuffs were mentioned. Her pen moved smoothly over the paper, Jersey making a list of the symptoms that she had been feeling for the day. Headaches were often, much to her displeasure along with a subtle throb on her temple depending on the time of the day. When stressed, she found her sensitivity to lights went down and she was grumpier because of it.

Jersey had gotten the nurses other than Rackett, to stop bringing her meat product - the days they had fish, she didn't argue if it remained on her plate. At least it wasn't furry and adorable. Headache, nausea, light sensitivity. She closed her eyes, thinking as she leaned back in her perch and relaxed. Down below, a siren wailed and she watched as an ambulance sped off north. It happened often, she had noticed.

Her long legs stretched out idly and then recrossed as she turned her head to peer back outside. She left occasionally, they weren't too pushy about when she returned so long as it was before curfew. Jersey had revisited the crash scene once, and she had looked at photos from it. So far, the library had become her favorite place to be, as evident by the stack of books beside her bed on the floor. Her psychiatrist encouraged her to get outside in hopes that something, a smell or sound a place, might trigger some of her memories.

It wasn't until Nurse Johnson left that Jersey replied with a simple, "Satan likely has a better sense of humor." When the other woman threw something, Jersey glanced to her chocolate pudding before getting up and collecting it, deciding to be friendly as she brought it over to the curtain. She pulled the curtain over lightly, her green eyes moving to the cup before reading the foil upside down.

"She's not one of the kinder ones, stabs the hell out of my arms when she draws blood. The bruises are awful." Pulling up her sleeve lightly, she revealed her right arm where a yellow patch remained, "I suggest asking Nurse Miller to do it, he screamed at her for me after I told him. He and Rackett are the nicer ones. Dr. Hall is a creep." She chattered before moving to put the cup of pudding and plastic spoon on her right side, returning to the curtain after.

The blonde offered a small smile, not going to ask about the handcuff or why she was there. Considering Jersey's mental state, she had decided never to judge anyone immediately or question anything. She had no need to, really. "I'm Jersey, if you need anything, let me know?"

The way the woman moved set Clover on edge. The last time someone had been so nice to her, she ended up sprawled out on a concrete floor, kicking her legs and flailing her arms to try and dodge the repeated blows of her pissy cellmate. She didn’t want to admit that she drew back from the blonde, but she did--she slid further into her sheets and her pillow, trying to make herself less of a target. Her dark brown eyes traveled from blonde hair to green eyes to the single pudding cup clasped in the woman’s hand.

“Hm,” she hummed in response. Lifting her gaze from the cup, she relaxed and stretched her legs out on the bed. She didn’t want to think about how she looked, her hair tangled and her face bare. The rings around her eyes had darkened and made her eyes look sunken. She’d seen her reflection. She knew. Her skin, once pale, had become sallow.

She didn’t know what else to say, so she just watched the woman--Jersey--retreat. Slowly, she reached out and snagged the cup of pudding, followed by the spoon. Nothing described the sound of the foil cover as it separated from the plastic cup. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled.

“Clover.” The name fell from her lips before she had fully removed the cover. The moment she looked down at the chocolate pudding, she felt regret. She didn’t like chocolate. She’d shared something about herself in exchange for pudding she’d never consume. “I appreciate this,” she sighed, “but I don’t like chocolate.”

Clover looked over at her roommate’s bed and then leaned over to place the pudding cup on her bedside table. If she could have reached, or moved from the bed, Clover would have returned the pudding to her roommate or her roommate’s bedside table. Instead, she just cast the food aside.

Sitting up on her bed, Clover crossed her legs and hunched forward. Her spine curved, like a gentle slope, and cracked with her change in position. She tried finding patterns in her bedspread, the floor, and the ceiling, but she saw too many and far too few. She broke the silence by clearing her throat.

“You don’t look sick. Why are they keeping you here?” Clover thought her own voice sounded foreign. She turned her head sharply to the right to get her hair off her right shoulder and then began picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

She had noticed the way the woman pulled back and moved slowly, not wanting to startle her. The last roommate they had stuck her with threatened to smack her with a bible and exorcise her. Heathen. Devil. Monster. Needless to say, the time period slot had remained for three hours before Jersey kindly requested them to “get her the **** away” or “change my room, immediately.” Nurse Rackett had frowned, but she hadn’t argued. If her memory served right on what the date was – which would be an improvement – it had been three days ago.

Jersey wanted to give the woman her space. She wanted to ask her questions, but knew that it would take time and that some people didn’t want to give answers. The blonde would respect it, and given the other looked like she had gone through hell, it wouldn’t do well to fire off many things. She brushed her fingertips through her own blonde hair before collecting one of the scrunchies she kept on her dark blue hairbrush.

Clover. That’s what she had said her name was.

She tucked that away for thought later and she disliked chocolate, but she appreciated the gesture. Watching Clover put the cup aside, she gave a soft smile and a chuckle in understanding. "I think it tastes better with vanilla mixed in or some sort of fruit. Too sweet, otherwise.” Fixing her robe lightly, she turned her attention back down to her journal as she took it back in her lap.

Her messy handwriting blurred and she moved to set it aside, turning the lamp down a bit lower as she felt another headache threaten her if she’d started writing once more. When she heard a crack, her green eyes flew immediately to the other side of the room and she watched Clover sit up. She glanced at a package of unopened hair ties and then back to the other woman in consideration.

She’d ask later, but for now, she answered the dark haired woman’s question.

"I was in a bus accident, um... a few weeks ago, I think. Time runs together, I don’t have a calendar to mark anything.” She thought her explanation sounded lame and continued, after she motioned to the bandage over her eye, "I have very little memory of anything and if I over exert myself, I get really dizzy, severe headaches and have passed out a few times.” Usually after therapy sessions that caused her to scream at the man trying to help her that she didn’t remember anything and that pushing her wouldn’t do a damn thing.

"I think it’s more for my safety than anything. No family, no address. I’m just an unknown patient that the psychotic ones can use as a pin cushion any time they need to test my drug levels when they switch my medications.” And that bothered her. She wanted to get out, explore and find what brought her to the city. She needed to go out and look at the crash, see if she could find anything that belonged to her that would actually clue her in on who she was. "And yourself? What’s with the handcuff?” It seemed like a good time to ask, "If I’m not being intrusive.”