Fall is coming down hard on the city, threatening to sweep cold air in with the ever encroaching darkness that sneaks up on us earlier and earlier every day. My office window is open just enough to let in the smell of crunchy leaves and the first hints of tin-sharp cold along with the evening traffic that bustles about below me. I, however, am engrossed in a collection of notes and charts that my fingers scan over as I record the days appointments and observations for the record keeping. Scans and pictures of brains are littered amongst the notes, and every so often I will pick one up and reorient myself in my train of thought. I'm woefully behind on these, and I've been pushing most of the evening to get caught up.
When I press the stop button on my tape recorder, it's only because I have yawned for probably the fifteenth time during this dictation. Whoever ends up transcribing this tape is going to have a fit if I can't keep my yawns under control. I rub my eyes furiously and stand up from my desk, thinking that maybe a brisk walk through the department is what I need to wake me up for the last bit of work for my evening. On my way out of my tiny office I grab a stack of papers that I've been meaning to photocopy and head down the deserted hallway towards the rickety piece of office machinery.
The rest of the offices in our wing are empty, dark for the night as their occupants have long since gone home to their families. Even the receptionist is gone. But that's alright with me. She treats the copier like it's her own personal instrument of frustration and makes a stink if anyone else wants to use it. I usually have to sneak down to MRI/Radiology and use theirs if it's an emergency. At this time of night though I have free reign and I walk in my slippers like I own the place.
This wing of the hospital is quiet at night, used mostly for day appointments with patients who are receiving ongoing treatment, but we're still connected to the main building and available for consultations. I can see the entrance to the ER from my window, and sometimes when I need a break I will watch the little slice of humanity milling around the sliding doors to our House of Pain.
But I'm not allowed to call it that. My department head has cautioned me against it. Says it, "upsets the patients and their families."
"But they won't even remember!" I often retort. He doesn't think that's funny, either. While I feel a sense of humor is necessary in this line of work, it's usually the first thing that people allow to slip away when they've been dealing with brain injuries day in and day out for years. It's especially bad with the two other specialists I rotate with, they've been mired in case after case of watching the people lose their memories, people whose minds slip slowly from between our fingers no matter how hard we try to get them to hold on. Yes, it's enough to wear down anyones sense of humor.
Right now I'm not feeling humorous though. What I'm feeling is intense dislike of the aging copier that has jammed, yet again, and is blinking a less than helpful message at me. Paper jams are the bane of my existence.
I bang on the side of the machine, thinking that somehow this will solve my problem, but to no surprise it does nothing. I'm just about to wrench open the sides to look for the jam when a rush of chill goes up my spine and I stand up straight and whirl around. A quick pulse of fear races through me and my gaze darts around the deserted department. I breathe deep, trying to calm my pounding heart, and remind myself out loud that I'm alone. But for a second there, it was like I could feel someone else in the room. Like how you sometimes see deer in the woods become suddenly alert when they sense the presence of another.
The office space is still and silent, just as I like it, but that feeling of not being alone lingers on.
"Hello?" I call out tentatively, thinking that maybe one of the janitors has come early and that I'm getting worked up over nothing. But there's no answer. That doesn't help my feeling of unease.
It takes a minute before I turn back to the copier and finish my task, quicker than I would have if I hadn't frightened myself. Because I convince myself that's what I did, it's the only way I can keep myself from running back to my office and locking the door. It's all in my head. But the shadows feel menacing now, like they are keeping secrets from me and I think it's probably time to go. I gather up my files and tape recorder and throw them into my filing cabinet beside my desk, locking them inside to prevent any HIPAA violations.
When I'm in the basement parking garage for staff, I still feel that same small sense of being watched and every few steps I glance over my shoulder but still I'm alone. My car is agonizingly close and I speed up a little to get to it.
That's when I hear the rush of footsteps behind me close in quickly, I start to turn but there is a strong arm around my chest, a sharp sting in my neck, and then the world goes black.