D e c l i n e
Posted: 18 Oct 2016, 17:23
0 0 : 2 3
There’s no keeping track of time inside.
It’s only when she bursts through the service doors that it dawns on her another day has come and gone.
This should delight her.
It doesn’t.
The latex gloves were too big. They made her feel heavy-handed.
A corpse didn’t writhe in pain when she attempted to complete a simple procedure.
A corpse didn’t smell of burnt hair, spilled gasoline, and blood. So much blood.
Siobhan throws her hands up in panic.
The alley lining the back-end of the hospital is poorly lit.
She holds her hands up towards the humming sign over the door.
Her hands are all sweat and shadows.
There’s blood on her forearm and just over the elbow where the sleeve of her scrubs ends. Her wide gaze follows the dark trail up, up, and up. The cloth at her shoulder is clear. However as soon as her gaze dips to her chest, her hands come up shakily to hover over the blood tarnishing her scrubs. So much blood.
Her throat closes up.
The scream she wants to let out gets stuck, turns into a painful hiccup.
Her abdomen pulses.
There’s only enough time to turn her back to the hospital, to step out from the illuminated spot by the door in order to succumb to her disgust in relative privacy. Her shaky hands hold her belly, the blood on her clothes momentarily forgotten as bitter bile fires up her oesophagus. It burns, it stings, and it comes all up at once.
Siobhan’s hands aren’t the only thing shaking.
By the time her abdomen ceases to convulse, her knees can no longer support her weight.
Her bloodied hands scrape on the unkempt asphalt, gravel digging into her skin.
The worst part about all this should be the nine year old who succumbed to his injuries.
It’s not.
The worst part is that her shift doesn’t end for another six hours.
[/font][/size]It’s only when she bursts through the service doors that it dawns on her another day has come and gone.
This should delight her.
It doesn’t.
The latex gloves were too big. They made her feel heavy-handed.
A corpse didn’t writhe in pain when she attempted to complete a simple procedure.
A corpse didn’t smell of burnt hair, spilled gasoline, and blood. So much blood.
Siobhan throws her hands up in panic.
The alley lining the back-end of the hospital is poorly lit.
She holds her hands up towards the humming sign over the door.
Her hands are all sweat and shadows.
There’s blood on her forearm and just over the elbow where the sleeve of her scrubs ends. Her wide gaze follows the dark trail up, up, and up. The cloth at her shoulder is clear. However as soon as her gaze dips to her chest, her hands come up shakily to hover over the blood tarnishing her scrubs. So much blood.
Her throat closes up.
The scream she wants to let out gets stuck, turns into a painful hiccup.
Her abdomen pulses.
There’s only enough time to turn her back to the hospital, to step out from the illuminated spot by the door in order to succumb to her disgust in relative privacy. Her shaky hands hold her belly, the blood on her clothes momentarily forgotten as bitter bile fires up her oesophagus. It burns, it stings, and it comes all up at once.
Siobhan’s hands aren’t the only thing shaking.
By the time her abdomen ceases to convulse, her knees can no longer support her weight.
Her bloodied hands scrape on the unkempt asphalt, gravel digging into her skin.
The worst part about all this should be the nine year old who succumbed to his injuries.
It’s not.
The worst part is that her shift doesn’t end for another six hours.