by Bee Douglas
“N-no,” the girls stutters. A single tear tracks down her cheek, “I said th-that-”
“I know what you said, damn it!” For an old woman, she has one terrifying bark. “Don’t try and make a liar out of me.”
The girl that came to get me takes a leery step inside the room. “We explained that if she doesn’t take her medicine, she’ll end up going back to the hospital. It’s only going to be a matter of time.”
“And I ain’t going!”
Sighing, I walk over to Jeanie, motioning for her to sit on her bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the coward of an aid sprinting out of the room. “Do you remember the last time you stopped taking your pills?”
A fight rages behind her eyes and her jaw shakes with anger. I wait though, allowing her to answer for herself. That’s the key with Jeanie. Her family admitted her into Beacon Light because she had turned into an inconvenience for them. She didn’t voluntarily come here and she reminds us of that as often as she can. It takes a moment, but she finally nods her head. I let out the breath I was holding.
“You kept getting palpitations. They made you really weak and we had to take you to the hospital. They kept you for about a week for observations.” She squeezes my hand at the mention of the hospital. “You hated it and you made me promise not to let that happen again. I’m trying to keep that promise, Miss Jeanie.”
“They taste like powdered shit.”
I bite down hard on my tongue. Now’s not the time to laugh. I have to squint to make out the one aids nametag. “How about you let Lynn get your medicine? And after I get some work done, I’ll swing by. If you take them, I’ll make sure to bring some cookies from the vending machine. How does that sound?”
She doesn’t smile, but her eyes lighten. Miss Jeanie leans in, her voice barely audible when she asks, “The butter ones?”
“Yes,” I tell her, “the butter ones. Those are our favorite.”
After getting her comfortable, I turn on the Game Show Network and slip out of her room. Both of the other nurses wait outside. They thank me before heading back into the lion’s den. Climbing the stairs up to my floor, I laugh to myself. Loons, they’re my favorite.
...
Seven hours later, my shift is finally over. Despite how much I want to just head home about twelve long hours, I make sure to take Miss Jeanie the cookies as promised. I’m nearly out the door when I hear my name being called. Casey, my supervisor, stands with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Yes?”
Casey is our own Wicked Witch of the West, but with a smaller nose and minus all the green. “I was informed about an incident that occurred today. Apparently, you were asked to assist in administering Jean Coulter’s medication.”
“She was having a bad day. It wasn’t their fault. When I stopped by later, she got her medicine and everything was fine.” I turn to leave again, but am stopped short.
“I know it wasn’t their fault. That’s not what I’m referring to.” Now I’m completely confused. “You said that you stopped by her room later this evening?” I nod. “Did you have cookies with you?” Again, I nod. “Are you aware that Jean Coulter has issues maintaining her blood sugar? Did you go over her dietary intake for the day with her aids?”
“No...” I draw out.
A sigh comes from Casey. “You, like every staff member here at Beacon Light, are aware of the mandatory procedures in place. Those cookies could have set off her sugar, causing unnecessary repercussions.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. Mandatory procedures? Unnecessary repercussions? All over some fucking cookies?
Casey gasps. My cheeks instantly heat up.
Oh, fuck. I said that out loud. “Casey, I didn’t-”
She holds up a hand, her shocked face bleeds into a stern expression. “The care of the residents is our top priority. If you do not see the grave turn your decision could’ve taken, then I don’t think I can allow you to continue working with our patients, especially those with medical needs.” Casey reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. After a few moments of texting, she looks back up at me. “Take the next two days off. You need to decide if you can uphold the Beacon Light standards.”
What? I can’t be off for two days. But before I can argue or, hell, beg her to rethink, she turns and walks away.
There are three blocks to the closest bus stop. There are five street lights, one fire hydrant, and a corner store that you pass on the way. It’s a quiet town. Aside from the occasional drunk driver getting stopped or a group of high school kids being rowdy, nothing much ever happens here. But I wish that there was something going on tonight to distract me from my racing thoughts. No matter how hard I try to deter myself, my mind keeps going back to those hours I’ll be missing out on.
In a nursing home, there are many personalities inside its walls. Mix that with a vast spectrum of mental stability; Casey should be happy that I intervened. I don’t have a built in Spidey sense for when a resident gets upset. That aid came and got me, asked for my help. And they were a small package of cookies. If I thought they would have bothered her, I wouldn’t have brought them to her.
A lump forms in my throat and tears threaten to fall. Being left to my own thoughts has allowed me to see the truth behind the situation. A nursing home is just another cog in the corporate world, despite being a place for people to send their loved ones. It doesn’t matter that I actually take the time to befriend my patients. It doesn’t matter that a patient almost missed her daily dose of medication. Miss Jeanie can miss all the medication in the world. Just as long the nursing home isn’t directly liable for a patient’s mishaps; they can file it some unruly platform, since she’s one of our fully stable patients. If I didn’t intervene, the other aids probably would have gotten a slap on the wrist, despite the upset state they would’ve left Miss Jeanie in. It doesn’t matter that I was able to de-escalate the situation, making sure she got her medication without the use of force. I gave her cookies without following protocol, so I’m the one on suspension. My lack of filter didn’t help the situation either. But two days? I’ll have to live there for a week to catch up. It may not have bothered some people, but I need those hours - I need that money.
I plop down on the bus bench. Based on the time on my phone, I have another twenty minutes until the next bus comes. I debate making a run back to Beacon Light and beg on hands and knees for Casey to reconsider. It wouldn’t work though. Once Casey sets her mind to something, nothing can waiver it. Accepting defeat, I lean back against the bench and close my eyes.
“Bad day?”
There wasn’t a man sitting on the bench when I got here, but there sure as Hell is now. The majority of his face is shaded; his cheekbones and nose the only things illuminated by the streetlight.
I instinctively clutch my phone and wallet tighter in my hand. “I guess you could say that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault?” My voice unwillingly turns the statement into a question.
His head moves up and down slightly. He clears his throat, and then asks, “Is there anything that can make it better?”
A sarcastic chuckle climbs past the lump settled in my throat. “For my boss not to be such a bitch, a spa day,” I list off, “hitting the lottery.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I would be perfectly okay with any of those options, to be honest. A day at the spa would help with my muscles that are now permanently stiff. If Casey had a heart, she would have understood that being suspended for giving a patient cookie is outrageous, especially since Miss Jeanie is perfectly okay. Receiving even a fraction of the lottery would relieve so much stress in my life. But sadly, I don’t see any of those things happening.
An SUV heads toward the bus bench. Its headlights expose the man’s face for just a brief moment. Under the layer of scruff, his jaw is sharp enough that he could probably cut glass with it. A few strands of dark hair hang across his brow. He is extremely a
ttractive. If I were to have run into him in any other circumstance, I would’ve possibly talked to him. Over a short small talk conversation, I might have even given him my phone number if he asked. And yet, whether it's the time of night or the empty street, I get a dangerous vibe from him.
“Is there anything that could make it worse?” His eerie question doesn’t help that impression either.
My voice cracks slightly when I say, “I don’t think my life could get any worse than it is now.”
Yet again, he doesn’t reply.
I contemplate calling Aggie, but I choose against it when I finally see the headlights of the bus turning down the road. I stand, planning on taking the closest seat to the driver as possible.
I don’t see the man stand, nor hear him as he nears, but his hand grasps firmly over my mouth. And then... nothing.
4
Kane
If I wasn’t already Hell’s bitch, I would have officially just secured the rest of my days to be spent burning in it. At this moment, there is one wall separating me and a sleeping girl. Except, she isn’t exactly sleeping. She wasn’t tired and decided to take a nap. And this glass of scotch I’ve been drinking isn’t a simple nightcap. On special orders from Death, I was to obtain a certain red haired woman by any means necessary. And obtain I did.
But first, I spent the day learning a bit about her. Eleanor McKinley puts the damn Energizer Bunny to shame. Throughout her shift, she was constantly on the go and efficient with everything she did. Watching the way she interacted with her patients, I had to admit that she is the most kind hearted human I’ve ever seen. She knew each of her patients’ names and treated them as friends, not just morgue bound residents. They all loved her. But then again, if I were stuck in a strange room, it would be like seeing an angel each time she walked in.
I didn’t pay much attention the night before. Between Gunthrie’s untimely death and the odd effect of her voice, ogling a human hadn’t been in my agenda. Eleanor McKinley has a very contagious smile. As she joked around, there were several times that I caught the corner of my lips teasing with a smile of my own. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and the knotted mess of hair on her head, she is a beautiful creature.
Part of me wishes that I would’ve hung around the night before and waited for Death. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been given Gunthrie’s envelope. Royce is dense. He probably wouldn’t have paid much attention. And Griffin would’ve been more focused on his reaping than anything else. That would've saved me from having a kidnapped woman in my spare bedroom.
“Fuck!” I feel the rush of my drink spilling before I do the sting of shattered glass cutting into my hand. I reach for a dish towel and wrap it around my hand to help stop the blood. I take the dozen or so steps to the bedroom door in hopes that I didn’t wake her. Peering inside, she is still asleep - unconscious, whatever you prefer. Her chest moves in slow, even breaths.
Most people enter a serene state when they sleep. Their facial features relax as their worries are placed on hold for the time being. But Eleanor, she is the personification of innocence. Her hair fans out around her, standing stark against the white sheet. She has such natural beauty. If she were to step into a place like the Devil’s Playground, no one could rival her.
I hear the elevator ding, signaling that Royce has finally arrived. I pull the bedroom door shut and leave her be.
Royce is already welcoming himself to my whiskey when I walk back out to the kitchen. He glances up at me with a smile on his face. “Get spooked by a little mouse, did ya?” He gestures to the glass shards and puddle on the floor.
I mutter at him to fuck off. Stepping on the pedal of the trash can, I throw the blood soaked towel away; the gash in my hand now a barely visible white line.
“Come on, dude. It’s not that bad.”
I clamp my jaw shut, trapping all the thoughts running through my head. Of course this doesn’t seem bad to him. He doesn’t have to personally deal with any of this shit, and if I would’ve just kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t have to either.
Royce crouches down, offering me another rag as I clean up the mess. “By the end of the night, Death will be pacified. She’ll be out of your hair and you won’t have to deal with this anymore.”
“That’s the last fucking thing I care about.”
“You’re just pissed because Griffin weaseled his way into the situation,” he states, standing up. “You’re overthinking this entire situation, Kane.”
“I’m over thinking? I wouldn’t be in this fucking situation of it wasn’t for you.” Anger steams up inside of me. If Royce would’ve just kept his mouth shut too, Griffin wouldn’t have run off to Death, and I’d be preparing for tomorrow’s reaping. Hoarding a mortal wouldn’t fall anywhere in those plans.
“So that’s why you’re so pissy.” He shakes his head, downing the rest of the whiskey in his glass. “This could be good for us. For all we know, she’s a means to an end.”
I don’t dare tell him anything else. “I just want to get this done and over with.”
“Just think positive.”
“Fuck, Royce!” I snap. “There is no positive to this. Once again, I’m just a mule. When Death gets their hands on their prized harbinger, I’ll be right back to where I started. We’re just puppets in their show. Do you not get that?”
“I do understand, but this is what every Reaper signs up for, Kane. We exist only to serve at their every beck and call. That’s never going to change. You need to stop fighting it. After our sentences are up, we get cut loose. But until then, it is what it is.”
No matter how many times we’ve had this same conversation, I cannot get it through his head. Lost souls are offered a choice. After that, they either stay in limbo or are reborn in the mortal realm as Reapers. Except, I wasn’t given a choice. I don’t have an impending life sentence. All I’ve ever known is reaping and that won’t ever change.
A faint noise comes from down the hallway. The two of us share a look. Eleanor’s steps are quiet as she makes her way toward the kitchen. Her face peers around the corner.
“Where am I?” she whispers. Her gaze moves from Royce to me; her body stiffening as she recognizes who I am. “Where am I and who are you people?”
The ever charming Royce flashes a smile and takes a step toward her. His smile quickly turns into laughter as Eleanor holds up a lamp in defense. She must’ve unplugged it from the nightstand. She’s fierce, I’ll give her that.
“My name is Royce. What’s yours?” he asks.
She scowls and takes a hesitant step closer. “You know my name, or else I wouldn’t be here. Is it my father? Does he owe money again?” Royce shakes his head.
“Her name is Eleanor,” I tell him. Her head snaps in my direction. Her mouth gapes open and shut. I wait for words, but nothing comes out.
Royce takes a couple of steps closer, making her grip tighten on the lamp. He stares intently at her as if waiting for the word Banshee to form in her freckles. Her cheeks pink at this attention.
“It-its Nora,” she stammers once Royce stops invading her personal space.
“Hello, Nora.”
She lowers the lamp, but adds more distance between them. It’s like watching an awkward dance routine. “I need to go home. If you’re looking for money, I don’t have any.”
“We don’t want your money,” I say. A deep shade of confusion blankets her face. I almost feel sorry for her. Her bad day is turning into Hell - literally. “We do need something from you though.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“It’s not what you have.” Her eyes widen at Royce’s comment. They bounce around the room. “Calm down. We’re not the ones you’ll need to talk to. We’re just the messengers.”
“And kidnappers.” I’ll give her that. Shaking her head, she begs, “Just let me go. None of this makes any sense. There’s nothing I can offer anybody.”
She’s becoming frantic. This is not how I wanted this to go. We need h
er to cooperate and not make a scene. We’ll be fucked if she did.
I grab an empty glass out of the cupboard and fill it with tap water, placing it on the island. She watches every move I make with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t poison it,” I sigh. “You watched me pour it.”
She’s reluctant, but ends up grabbing the glass. And even though she had view of my hands the entire time, she sniffs the water before taking a gulp. Clever.
“Are you aware of what a Banshee is?” I ask once her quickened breaths slow. She shakes her head, knocking a few strands of hair in her face. “A Banshee is a harbinger of Death.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?” she questions. A few drops of water sloshed onto the counter as she set the glass back down. Her hands shake. Fear will do that to you. “I’m a nurse, not a Banshee thing.”
I shrug. “That’s not my decision to make.”
“Then let me go!” Tremors travel up into her voice as she begs. Royce continues to study her.
“Our bosses are convinced that there is more to you than what meets the eye,” I explain. I rest my arms on the counter, leveling my gaze with hers. “Once they determine if there’s anything useful to you, you’ll be on your merry way.”
“Seriously? They think I’m some sort of harbinger?” I nod. She slams both hands down as her fear curdles into anger and frustration. It’s interesting to watch. “This is ridiculous. Fairy tales aren’t real.”
“Fairy tales may not be real,” I counter, “but the boogie man is.”
Royce chuckles. When he sits on the stool next to her, she doesn’t move away. “Have there been a lot of people that have died in your life?”
She rolls her eyes. “Again, I’m a nurse. I work in a nursing home. People die there all the time.”
“Hmph.” I don’t know why he keeps staring at her the way he does. I doubt she’ll be turning into a winged beast anytime soon. “Maybe it was just some leftover aura?”
“I doubt it, but I wouldn’t knock anything.”
