It was, by no means, a special city, nor was it ever an interesting place. It contained hundreds of buildings, most of them tall and thin. Skyscrapers, office blocks, apartment buildings, department stores… Stacked together like a child's building block tower. It had its ambitious students and graduates, the polished look of a wealthy area. There were the people in crisp, clean suits, the bright spot of an occasional tourist with the customary camera hanging around their neck. There lay the seedy areas where no one with half a brain ever goes, unless they have a wish to wake up in their socks, or dead. There stood the drug dealers, collecting or distributing their supply. There were the families who struggled to make ends meet, who faced each day with mounting dread or sorrow as they left their children in capable, or available, hands while they tried to work. And then there are the parts in between…
At first glance, the apartment block is just like all the others. A second glimpse of the greying walls and clean, if chipped, paintwork gave nothing more away. Each door was the same; the only difference lay in the number across the paint. The lift was temperamental, working only every other day, when carrying less than twenty kilograms and only if there was a full moon. Friendships were quickly formed with those people who lived on the first floors, with those who had to climb almost ten extra flights of stairs.
On the eighth floor, there is a door just like dozens of doors that had been passed before. A glimpse of the number says, "8G" for, although the constructors were willing and able t work at this monstrosity with such skill and devotion, it must be admitted that they lacked creativity whenever it came to numbering the doors.
Opening the door, a visitor immediately notices a total absence of life from the living area. The table and sofa remain spotless, suggesting the place was never really used. A peek in the small kitchenette revealed even less, a stray chopstick betraying that someone actually lived there. Moving across to the next space, one can see toiletries lining a small shelf, neatly stacked and labelled. A razor and a shaving brush reveal a male occupant. The next room is a vast contrast to the former areas. An explosion seems to have occurred within the space. Clothes lie strewn across the floor in an uninterested manner. Blankets, sheets and a pair of trousers cover a lump in the bed, moving gently up and down in accordance with the resident's breathing pattern.
A blare of an alarm cut through the otherwise silent space. Although it is not enough to wake the dead, it is enough to wake someone from a very deep sleep. A hand emerges from the mound, groping wildly for the clock that lies just beyond its reach. The fingers brush against the box-shaped clock, moving backwards to create a larger surface area, beginning to slap anything and everything that lies beneath it. The buzzing ceases and a groan emits from the mound. Moments pass before the bed clothes shift and a tousled head emerges from the warm cocoon. With the slow, painful movements of someone who hasn't had their daily intake of caffeine, the head shifts allowing arms, legs and half a torso to appear from the warmth of the bed. Another groan and the hands cover the face of a sleep-deprived figure. Finally, he moves, groggily and uncertainly from the bed, as if unsure about what each individual limb is supposed to do.
His eyes remain half closed, as if he still sleeps, while his feet have minds of their own and guide him towards the dim bathroom. The door closes and hides him while he prepares for the day ahead. The sound of running water can be heard, muffling the sound of yet one more groan from the simplified man in the bathroom. There is silence, save the gentle patter of the shower and the slight squeak from a shower door as it is pulled back. A yelp cuts the air as the first drops of lukewarm water hit his body and yanks his mind out of the gentle fog that had been conveniently placed to numb the pain of early morning awkwardness.
Minutes pass and finally the door opens. The zombie figure that went into the bathroom has disappeared, replaced by a sodden and clean-shaven young man who moves towards the abyss of the bedroom once more. When, at last, he emerges to face the day head on, his eyes are fully open and his hair is now controlled. He strides towards the tiny kitchenette, fixing a cuff and checking his watch. He is running late. He always does. This is the problem with people who feel unable to face mornings. In the time it takes for the body to fully wake up and take notice of the world, the world ensures that time somehow speeds up. And when time speeds up, so do you. The figure stops walking and starts dashing around the room. One hand grabs keys, the other reaches out for coins. Coins which will become essential within the next few minutes. One arm somehow lifts a coat from the back of a chair and places it around the figure's body. He snuggles into it, longing for bed again, but his treacherous legs take him towards the front door while his hands unlock and open it. A gust of cool air smacks his face making his teeth chatter a little. He ignores it and steps outside, shutting and locking the door behind him before plunging his freezing hands into the deep pockets of the coat and walking away to work.
He can see each breath he makes, can feel his lungs protest at the quick pace he has now set himself and each harsh breath he is forced to take in. Each step takes him further and further from his own wonderful place of dreams, and closer towards another's nightmare. His hands move only once, to adjust the collar of his dark coat, trying to heat up his perishing cold face. Few people recognise him, for few people are awake and out at this hour. He spots a familiar face and waves, crossing over the practically still road to greet him.
"You're late," the man says, holding out his hand. The coins are dropped into it. He counts and seems satisfied. He smiles grimly and hands over a waiting paper bag.
The figure opens it, drawing out a plastic cup of hot coffee. He gulps some down, relishing the heat that courses through his cold and aching morning body. He sighs and smiles in appreciation before peeking into the bag again. Slowly, he draws out a bagel, still warm from the small heater the man carries with him in his stall. He grins as he bites into it, walking away quickly as he does so. He calls his thanks, but his words are muffled by the food located in his mouth. He glances at his watch again. He will have to hurry if he is to make it on time. His legs pick up more speed, neatly and carefully avoiding those almost invisible patches of ice that lie across the pavement. His breath is more visible now; the heat from the coffee and his meagre breakfast has contributed to that.
He can see the workplace up ahead. The building towers over him, reminding him just how small and insignificant he really is compared to the world. It used to be much smaller than it is now. A casual observer can see where the oldest parts end and the modern extension begins. It used to be quite pretty too, some places still bear the patterns and the mouldings of past days, days which saw its birth and the realisation that the quaint little village of old had long since gone. Ever since the renovations, the building had lost all natural charm that had been its essence and the town's pride for so many years. Now it lies, cold and modern, and the cause of some children's nightmares as they speculate what might lie behind those automatic doors. He hates it too. Neither is he fond of the events of each day. They are the cause of HIS nightmares and he prefers neither to dwell on them nor to bring his work home. In desperation not to remember, he usually goes out at night or, when he is simply too tired, he cooks. He often wonders how cooking his own meal somehow stops his thoughts from becoming a reality before his eyes so that every little detail of the day obstructs everything else. But somehow it does. The paperwork is the worst part of it all. All that signing and counter-signing, initialling and dating documents was enough to drive him to despair and he often considers asking for time off to recover from this alone. But insanity caused by mass paperwork was not grounds for a sabbatical, much as he wished it was.
He enters. He can see within the first five seconds, it is a normal day. As he walks over the tiled flooring, he can see many people analyse him, as if he lies under a microscope. They all wonder why he is there, he cannot be part of this place. He is far too young. Twenty-eight cannot be counted as too young…in fact, at times he feels far too old for his years. He catches the eyes of a work colleague. She immediately walks towards him and grins in a teasing fashion. The way that tells someone, "I know something you don't."
"You're late," she says.
He glances at his watch. "Not as much as yesterday."
"Still late. She'll kill you." She continues to grin, as if this is the best part of her day.
"Don't tell her or no present for you."
"He gave it to you?" she questions, astounded,
"Ask me no question, I'll tell you no lies," he taunts, signing his name and time of arrival.
She pouts a little, attempting to look endearing. On anyone else, it might work, but not him. He moves quickly towards a small cloakroom where he can leave his coat for the day. He ducks behind a corner as a severe middle-aged woman comes his way, her face fixated at the contents of a clipboard in her hand. She doesn't see him as she walks past and he slips into the room like a very bad spy. He hangs up his coat in a spare locker, lifting a small, wrapped up parcel from the shelf in one hand, his tag in another. He moves to lift a vest from the locker, but his blonde colleague bounces in.
"Is that it?" she demands, taking the parcel from him as he nods his head and relinquishes the cumbersome burden to her. She hugs him, ecstatic, before tearing the paper like something possessed. She lifts a beautiful necklace from the box, squealing in delight, her eyes sparkling. He smiles, but hides his face so she cannot see his disappointment with the gift or see expression change as he begins to reason with himself and tugs on the vest, attaching the tag to the pocket. He hears a sigh and glances back at her to see her regretfully return the piece of jewellery to the box.
"There it will have to stay until I can leave," she sighs, placing the box into the locker once more. "So temptation can't find me," she explains before checking her watch. "I've got to go. I'm meant to be upstairs. You'd better move…now!" She sprints out the door which swings easily behind her, leaving him to drain his coffee cup and throw it into the nearest wastepaper basket. He places a hand on the door, pausing to steady himself before opening the door to hell and beyond.
He is spotted by the woman he tried to avoid before. He pretends not to see her as he strides towards a senior staff member and friend. The older man turns to greet the newcomer before leading the way towards a small room. They are unsuccessful. She's in front of them before they know it.
"You're late," she snarls, frown lines creasing her forehead.
"I'm here," he protests. "And I'm working! Besides I signed in AGES ago." For him, 'ages' is anything from five minutes to five years, but he omits that part of his logic.
She frowns harder but moves her arm from the door. "Don't push it," she hisses, before marching down the corridor to shout at someone else.
He breathes out in a rush of relief as his friend raises a sympathetic eyebrow.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing! Except maybe being a teensy bit late a few times." He holds his friend's gaze before wavering and giving a sheepish grin. "Ok…every day this week. But it was not my fault!"
"If you cannot get here on time, get up earlier. Or stop taking a morning shift," the dark man states, a brief smirk crossing his face. He places a hand on the door, ready to enter. "You ready?"
The younger man glances at himself in the glass. He knows what he'll see and he knows what is in there. Is he ready to face it? His dark eyes take in his pale features, blue vest…and that tag. The one that made him face these horrors. Despite the reflected letters that lie on the laminated cardboard, he knows what it says.
"I'm ready," he replies, voice barely shaking. 'Amazing how quickly you get used to this,' he thinks. His legs take over once again as he walks towards the mother and child in the room and his lips form the words that he could say in his sleep.
"Hello, I'm Jake. I need to take a small blood sample from you, Nick."
The child pales at the sight of the needle he brings out, but he smiles. "It'll be alright. It won't hurt a bit."
That's all he does. Terrify the patient, reassure and smile. Always reassure and smile.
Today is another day, another day of numbing horror. The loss of life and limb. But this will not phase him. It never does anymore. He sees the badge, part of the chain that holds him here:
"Jake Prince
Nurse
General Hospital"
A/N
Many thanks to everyone who reviewed. A grand total of 6 of you. But it's the most I've received for a first chapter, so keep at it. I usually answer each review seperately, but all I've got so far are 'interesting' and 'very good'. So...I'll need LONGER reviews and questions for me to answer (hint, hint)
Just a quick note to apologise for taking so long to update. I've been bogged down with exams which are almost finished now. Help me get through the next few. I cannot get through the rest of my exams without reviews...(pauses)...that means you must click the little box below. Please?