Lisa awoke to a glimmer of light peeking through her curtains, the bright beam stinging her sensitive vision, brilliant and vivid.
Her throat felt coarse and dry, like a thirsty desert pleading for a speck of water. It was painful to swallow, creating a strange sensation that felt something akin to swallowing barbed wire. Grating and forced.
Stretching her arms with a content groan, she pulled herself into a seated position, letting the cool air settle on her warm body. A peaceful slumber had left the teen refreshed, cleansing her of any burden that she'd previously had to carry.
For the first time in weeks, the intern faced the day with a smile.
Quenched, she rose from her bed and entered the bathroom, turning on the tap and cupping both hands beneath a stream of ice cold liquid. Bringing the tiny pool to her lips, she gulped down the fluid, feeling it slide along her parched throat.
Rinsing her face, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, asserting that she felt no regret for what she had done. PTV was a strange and mysterious substance, but she couldn't deny that it had been a beneficial risk.
Drying her hands on a nearby towel, she paused to glance at her jewellery box, feeling the tips of her fingers prickle as she remembered where she had hidden the syringe. It would need to be disposed of eventually, but for now, she was content to let it sit.
Stripping down to her underwear, the nurse carefully examined her body for any side effects, relieved to find nothing but a rather tame bruise from where she had injected the needle. That was expected, and she ignored it, slipping into her work uniform.
Red cardigan obscuring her telltale contusion, she ran a comb through her sleek bob, pinning her cap in place with a selection of hair pins. Pinching her cheeks until they developed a rosy hue, the nurse applied her LPN badge, taking a moment to brush her teeth.
She still had little in the way of appetite, having forced herself to eat the meal her mother had prepared. Deciding to skip breakfast, she gathered up her belongings and headed out the door, embracing the stimulating air that rushed into her lungs.
As she basked in the sun's distant warmth, Lisa felt unusually exuberant, something which she attributed to the enigmatic medicine. She had initially doubted Kaufman's words, but after waking in a pleasant mood, her faith in the doctor had been restored.
I'll have to thank him. She thought, feeling slightly smug.
His actions could only be perceived as preferential treatment. Offering her a promotion, taking her to the theatre, providing her with medication. It was something that the normally stoic director had not done for anybody else.
He made her feel special, understood her feelings, and took an interest in her personal life. She desperately clung to the hope that his intentions were romantic, believing that she had finally found someone that she could open her heart to.
Afterall, he keeps chasing me. Surely that means something?
Entering the busy foyer, the nurse signed in at the desk, a ritual which had become as familiar to her as breathing. Removing her jacket, she placed her belongings in her locker, moving at a slow, distracted pace as she went about her routine.
As she walked to the lift, her feet faltered as she approached the director's office, eyes focusing on the door as she passed . The girl wondered whether or not to disturb the man. His door remained locked for a reason, and she was afraid that he'd get angry if she interrupted him.
Averting her lingering gaze, she decided that good manners took precedent over satisfying her own need to see him. The nurse intended to thank him eventually, but she would wait for a more opportune moment to arrive.
The elevator arrived with a ding, large doors sliding back to allow the girl entry. Crossing the threshold, she pressed the button for the second floor, interlocking her fingers as the lift began to rise. Her hands suddenly became very itchy, but she forced herself to ignore the sensation.
It was another hectic morning, with a flow of demands that kept the young woman on her toes. A shortage of staff had increased her workload by twice the amount, and the intern struggled to stick to her initial schedule, finding that there were far more patients than nurses.
With no time to think, she devoted all of her energy into wrapping bandages, changing beds and stitching wounds. She was content to be busy, finding it preferable to having her mind aimlessly wander, as it had so often done.
By the end of her shift, the teen's calves burned from the strain of constantly climbing the stairwell, gathering supplies and equipment from the storage cupboard. Beads of sweat drenched her body, soaking her underwear and making her squirm.
She bemoaned the fact that the hospital only had one medicine room, frustrated at how impractical it was. Sliding the cap off her head, she entered the nurse's lounge, perching herself on the edge of the weathered sofa, glass of water in hand.
Kaufman wasn't at work. According to another doctor, he had a very important meeting to attend to, something which would keep him occupied until the following evening.
Gingerly sipping at her drink, the teen wondered what sort of things the man did whilst away from the hospital. She had never heard him speak of family or friends, nor mention anything that would allude to a hobby. The man was a lock without a key, and it bothered her.
Absently scratching her hand, Lisa yelped when her nail grazed the skin, breaking raw flesh to reveal a blot of red. Unbeknown to the teen, she had been plucking the same spot all morning, irritating the lesion until it grew so weak that the tissue tore beneath her touch.
Surprised, she placed her water on the table, condensation creating a neat ring that surrounded the bottom of the glass. Hands sore, she ran a fingertip along the leaking wound, examining the deep hue that trickled down her palm.
She had an insatiable itch which would not leave, a sting that rumbled through her nerves, tickling the tip of her thumb, coursing to the edge of her wrist, and causing much annoyance. She was brittle and tender, having peeled away the outer layer of skin.
Puzzled, Lisa got up to rinse her hand, grabbing a paper towel and holding it against the small laceration. Rough, dead skin had settled between her fingers, a common occurrence in people who frequently washed their hands.
I'm stressed. She mused, dabbing her injury with a paper towel. This is a stress rash.
Scrunching the paper into a ball, she threw it in the nearby bin, running her fingers along the painful hives that had formed along her flesh. The only cure was to relax, which seemed impossible to do. There was simply too much on her mind.
Finishing her drink, the nurse grabbed her belongings and left, fighting the insatiable urge to scratch her injured hand. Placing it inside her pocket, she refused to acknowledge the discomfort it caused, brow furrowing as the tingle began to burn.
When she arrived home, the house was empty. Her father was at work, and she didn't particularly care where her mother was. Heading to her room, she kicked the door shut behind her, collapsing onto the bed as she burrowed her head into the linen.
Flat pumps provided little support for the girl's feet, and she slipped them off, relieving her screaming arches. Closing both eyes, she lay on her stomach, hands under her pillow as she inhaled the faint aroma of fresh cotton.
The pleasant chime of her music box began to play. It was a peaceful and nostalgic tune, which at one time would have lulled her to sleep. Cautiously raising her head, the young woman eyed the intricate object, noting that the lid was still down.
Nothing but a memory of her childhood, but it had seemed so real. Pushing herself into a seated position, the nurse found her fingers twitching, temptation and mild curiosity causing her to reach out and caress the glossy wood.
It was beautifully crafted, with a floral pattern painted on top, the wood carved and moulded to an elegant shape. Inside there was a tiny ballerina, pirouetting to the charming melody as she stood amongst the jewellery.
Lisa had received the box from her grandfather, a gift for her seventh birthday. Even after ten years had passed, she still cherished it. Feeling guilty, she mentally apologised to him, remorseful at having hidden the syringe inside.
I know I said just once. She told herself, taking the needle from its bed of pearls. But one more can't hurt. It's medicinal, what harm could it possibly do?
As she prepared the syringe, Lisa reluctantly confessed that she enjoyed the feeling of elation it caused, providing her with a welcomed release from the constant barrage of everyday strife. It was means to an end, and she felt decidedly at ease with the object in her palm.
Just one more.
With arm outstretched, belt wrapped taught around her flesh, the teen placed the cool tip against her skin, grimacing as she plunged the sharp point into her tender vein.