Terrence Mathews, an employee of the Angel Stone hospital starts this story with empathy, and suicidal thoughts. He begins to see hallucinations, going insane slowly. He chats with his friend Adam Clark for a bit while working on a corpse, feeling b...
Fifteen minutes I counted, my expectation of course. The patient below me was currently in the process of an unexpected seizure. I turned him gently to the side and cleared the area of anything hazardous. I moved a soft pillow under his head delicately.
He stiffened while his arms and legs convulsed and extended out. His mouth frothed, and the substance dripped down his chin, staining his clothing, and falling to the floor. I held on to him, making sure he didn't harm himself during the episode as he continued shaking violently.
He spasmed for a few more minutes, before he stopped, then fell limp, as if turned to stone. Fifteen minutes exactly. Fifteen minutes he'd thrashed before his body had gone rigid. His eyes looked out into the world no longer with conscience, its traces of abuse upon him faint and unnoticeable. I reached for his eyes, removing his glasses that seemed to capture my appearance.
I looked rather dull in the quick glimpse, my mood decreasing for the worse rapidly in recent times. My meticulously rakish, otherwise coal hair streamed limply just barely past my ears. Its ends seemed to reach downwards pitifully, and for what they reached I know not. My skin was ashen pale, paired with my jaded gray eyes, and a subtle beard that was nothing more than spots upon my chin. I had a sharp jawline, a chiseled stone that became more prominent when I clenched my teeth briefly while observing the corpse of my patient. My clothing was a doctor's wear, though it was personalized to my liking. The attire was primarily black with some white neatly placed on the areas in which my clothing touched my chest and arms.
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My gosh how I so similarly resembled a sickly Victorian era being.
I'd shift my finger's delicately towards Azel's eyelids, shutting them so that they covered his motionless gaze. He'd finally died, and I'd kept count of the time he'd had left before now. Three months, four days, forty-four minutes, and twenty seconds he'd stayed at our hospital. I'd trudge over to my supply's cabinet, writing with profound calligraphy how long his stay had been, cause of death, and the time he'd died. I'd stuff the blazingly green note inside my pocket. I didn't want these people to die- I really wanted to save them and let them have a wonderful life outside of this hospital. Unfortunately, I couldn't do anything. The patient's deaths were confirmed the moment they stepped in this place.
Azel Bantzer, a resident at our dear hospital who was always quite luxurious in his tastes, stubborn and even snobby at times. A noble-man, rich and only fifty-eight. I was only twenty-seven in comparison, close to being half the age he'd been. He could've lived thirty years more at best if I'd tried harder.
I'd shift my eyes around his quarters with brief dejectedness, and I was made aware of the stillness in the air, and the gloomy feel of the area. The hairs on my back stood up, and I instinctively moved my clothing tighter on myself, as if to warm up.
His area consisted of plenty of furniture, more comfortable than anything else, a rumbling ceiling fan, a gathering of medical items, and a table at the end of the room, littered with numerous tools in the pretense of helping one such as my current patient.
I'd despise this place most vehemently. I had a foreboding sense, though it wasn't really anticipation of evil in this hospital. I knew this hospital was evil. It was obvious. We didn't help. We didn't deem life necessary.
No, not we. They. They did not deem life worthy. The employers. Those sadistic trolls who only cared about filling their own pitless pockets. If they knew I was sympathetic for my patients, I'd be killed too.
Death was always whistling in the air in this ludicrous place, its unique carrion odor acrid and present.
I shouldn't have come to this hospital, but how could I have known? How would I, an outsider in the past, have known secrets held tightly by such a place? I shan't blame myself, for contradicting myself could be fatal. I'd figured that out myself when I'd witnessed the flailing body of a scraggly companion of mine descend from the fourth floor to the ground from my window. The sickening sound of a guttural scream heard, before a resounding slam when flesh met floor. His contorted limbs were displayed, blood splattered around him for viewers to observe. The outline of his body resembled a speck from my perspective high above.
He'd reminded me of feckless roadkill. A piece of trash just lying there. He should've had a proper burial, been with his family. He'd died lonely and depressed, carrion birds finishing him off. Maybe I'd be him one day, and I firmly emphasize on maybe. I'd likely be him one day.
