Two in the morning and pitch black outside. Two Blissey fold sheets – clean, smelling of fresh rain – and place them in the basket. An Arcanine lies on the floor next to the counter, half-asleep, waiting for the unlikely sound of the door sliding open and the pitter-patter of a panicked Trainer.
Two-ten in the morning. Kiawe leans on the counter and stares at the windows. Red and brown and black is reflected back at him, a wavy blob somewhat reminiscent of him. The Blissey chatter amongst themselves in respectful whispers. The night shift is always a reflective time.
Two-eleven in the morning. The doors open. The Blissey pause their folding and move towards the stranger that entered their silent and pristine abode. It is time to do good deeds. The Arcanine raises his head, intrigued by the sound and repulsed by the smell of blood. Kiawe stands straight and blinks.
"My Salazzle…something's wrong," the boy says. He looks to be sixteen, seventeen tops. He wears a plain white T-shirt and faded black jeans decorated in spots of red. His hollow black eyes stare at Kiawe, waiting for a response as the dim light of the center illuminates the boy's pasty skin.
"What happened?" Kiawe asks, motioning for the Blissey to take the Salazzle to the emergency room. Red liquid drips in a consistent pattern on the floor. Shallow breathing is heard as Salazzle is placed upon the stretcher and quickly moved into the next room. Kiawe asks the boy the question again.
"Fix my Salazzle, please," is all he says.
Two-forty-eight in the morning. The vitals look steady for now. The machines beep steadily. Salazzle's chest moves up and down slowly. She seldom moves.
The Blissey hold onto Kiawe. They shake, they cry. They do not like what they have seen. Kiawe does not like what he has seen.
Two-fifty-five in the morning. Kiawe explains that Salazzle will make a full recovery.
"Will she be able to leave tonight?"
"Yes."
The boy smiles. A shiver runs down Kiawe's spine.
"Salazzle caught an infection from open cuts on her face," he starts. He forces himself to look straight into the boy's eyes. "Her tail was broken. It healed, but it will be permanently misshapen. She also had bruises on her tail, torso, and…"
He pauses, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. "And groin. There was severe tearing and bruises in and around the vaginal area, and has so many STDs that it is just fucked up."
There is silence between them. Kiawe wants to yell, but his mouth is locked shut and the key thrown away. The boy stares at him, tousled black hair covering his eyes. Kiawe can see the sin leaking from his eyes.
"But she is fine now?" the boy asks, voice desperate.
Kiawe is afraid of answering yes, but he forces himself to nod.
The boy's mouth curls upward disgustingly.
"Good. Good."
Three-fifteen in the morning. The darkness begins to seep into the center, into Kiawe's heart. The Salazzle is carried by the Blissey in a basket lined with linens. Her eyes stay on Kiawe the whole time. Black, beady, soulless eyes. She is fine, on the outside. On the inside, she is broken, and Kiawe cannot fix that.
The boy picks his Salazzle up from the basket. She makes no movement. She is stone. The boy thanks him and gives a reminder about the money on the counter. Her eyes are still upon Kiawe as she is whisked away into the darkness.
He can feel her screams.
Three-twenty in the morning. They are alone. The Arcanine cannot sleep, for fear of seeing those images again. Charred ashes worth one-thousand Poké Dollars lie in a pile on the counter, waiting to be disposed of by the Happiness Pokémon. The Blissey take the dirtied hospital sheets and clothes away to be washed; they roll the basket along silently. Kiawe sits on the floor, back against the wall, eyes staring at the window. Red and brown and black is reflected back at him, completely distorted, completely unrecognizable.
At six sharp, his shift will end. Mallow or Lana will come in and take over. He'll go home, greeted by his loyal Salazzle with a hug and a happy hiss. He'll watch as his Salazzle circles around him for Poké Beans, looking at him with lively eyes. She will be clean. She will be safe. She will be lucky.
Three-twenty-one in the morning. His vomit ends up in the wastebasket next to him, and the Blissey come by and haul it away in silence.
inspired by a pokémon story i read long ago titled hippocratic oath by public enemy no. 5.