Hell Bent

Prologue

The corridors in the hospital had magnolia colored walls; they were scrapped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that had bumped into them, and you could tell the staff tried to cover some of them up by placing small coffee tables here and there. As if renovation wasn't an option.

There were also a couple of photos of landscapes lined up along the walls as an attempt to make it feel like home, but the stressed-out nurses and the undertone of bleach that blew out from the ventilators defeated the whole point. Hospitals became a completely different place at night. It feels more enclosed and cold due to the darkness outside. As if a big black blanket is hugging the building, holding you inside with no possibility of leaving the place.

There was not a single light peeking through the windows. Even the lightning in the waiting room seemed sketchy; the small flickering in one of the ceiling light reminded me of that scene in Kill Bill how the killer walks around dressed as a nurse but she's actually there to kill you, and nobody would even notice it.

It's kinda weird how much trust we put in doctors. We don't know them personally, yet we trust them with our entire being coming here. God knows what they could do to someone without anyone finding out. People would assume the patients died from a disease or sudden death or something, you know, because why would you doubt the doctor who is here to save lives... Right?

Okay, Vera, enough. You're on the second floor; therefore you cannot see the short street-lights and the nurses aren't wearing an eye patch like that killer lady in the movie, and so far you haven't witnessed a death. So far, so good, I told myself.

And, I mean, I would rather let a professional stitch my hand up than going home and try to do so myself. But at this point, I was oh so tempted to leave and not due to the paranoia but because I had been waiting for such a long time and my patience was running really low, especially when I saw the guy that came in twenty minutes after getting called into the doctor's office before I did. All this made my eagerness turn every person that passed me by into a nurse.

My hand was bleeding, and all the nurse said to me was that I needed to put pressure on the wound and that somebody would soon call me in. I don't know what their definition of soon was, but I had been waiting for forty-five minutes.

Loud voices were suddenly entering the room, one deep and raspy and the other one almost the complete opposite, "Sir, please, sit down. A doctor will be right with you." A nurse spoke as she led, or more like, tried to push the guy to the waiting room.

"You guys are full of shit. This hospital is full of shit— Do y—" He sighed, making a short pause as to recollect himself, before continuing; "Do you even know who I am?" He finally blurted out.

"Yes, sir. So if you could just sit right over there, I will go get a doctor right away." She spoke as she managed to get him to the waiting area, where everyone else, including me, sat. He still didn't seem convinced, though he did sit down. The nurse got the cue before quickly scurrying away like some frightened cockroach.

"Fuck this piece of shit... Where is Andersen when you need him..." The guy, two seats away from me, muttered; the same guy that had everyone's eyes all over him, the same guy that yelled at the horrified nurse just a moment earlier.

His face looked like it had been dipped and dragged in dirt and gotten a lot of scratches along the way, which looked like they were beginning to infect his skin. His grey t-shirt, as well as his black jeans, was ripped, and you couldn't tell if it was intentional or not, but given the bruises and other wounds along his arms and the fact that he was at the hospital, I took it that it was in fact unintentional. As if he had come straight out of an accident. His hair was a mess too — which was kinda expected if you would look like you had been rolling down a cliff and bumped into a few large rocks here and there.

"Finally. I have been trying to get a hold of you the whole night." The guy snapped once again.

At first, I really couldn't see why he needed immediate medical attention. Other than the bruises and the scratches, he seemed fine to me. But he was probably one of those spoiled brats who get angry because they couldn't bribe their way through the queue because they think that you are more entitled to most of the things in life as long as you got the money for it.

"No. Don't come. I'll be done by the time you're here," He spoke into the phone. "Yeah, well, I got a fucking metal piece stuck in my fucking back, what do you expect me to do? Sit back and relax, maybe push it deeper into me while I'm at it?"

I wanted to vomit right there and then. And I thought my one-inch knife cut was bad, imagine having a metal piece stuck in your back. The thought made me feel sick. I could feel all the color on my face drain.

Never mind what I said earlier. The guy was calmer than he possibly could have been. With a metal piece stuck in my back, I probably would've fainted so hard I'd fall in a coma. Blood and I just don't go well together.

"No, no, you go keep fucking Marie, and I'll be here, waiting for a shitty doctor in this shitty hospital because this is the hospital that you fucking assigned me to." He rose his voice back and forth, "Fuck you, Chris." He said before hanging up the phone.

He put his hands on the hem of his shirt and slowly began pulling it off. After a few groans and moans, he finally got it off. I gulped at the sight of it. There was this big scratch along his ribs, it was wide but not deep, though it still managed to send an unpleasant shiver down my spine. He moved around a bit, and that was when I saw the metal piece sticking out from his left shoulder blade.

My eyes widened, and it took everything in me not to vomit. It was not big, but it was sharp and covered in blood. How could he not be getting emergency treatment? The piece looked like it could kill him at the slightest touch. No one seemed phased by him as they walked by.

"What?" He snapped at the people behind him who was looking at the same thing I was. I mean, it wasn't really the most everyday thing to see, you couldn't blame the people for staring.

He turned back around to look at the reception again as he went from being frustrated to quiet in just the blink of an eye. He pulled his phone up and started to tap on it. That was the moment I thought he was finally going to relax, but that was also when he proved me wrong by quickly putting his phone away before wrapping his arm around him and putting his hand on the metal piece. He let out a faint groan then muttered stuff under his breath such as "fuck this" and ''I'll do it myself'' before tugging on the piece stuck in his back. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suppress his groans. He then made a small pause to catch his breath before continuing to pull at it like it was no big deal. A vein on his neck appeared, then disappeared during his breathing breaks.

I accidentally gagged audibly the same moment he made another one of his pauses and, suddenly, our eyes locked, and we stared at each other for a few seconds before a huge grin covered his face; I couldn't tell if it was a playful or a painful one, or if it was a mixture of both. Whatever it was, it made my stomach churn.

He began tugging again, giving me no warning ahead because he did not break eye contact. Not once. Not even when the pain was, visibly, at its worst stake; when you could see fresh blood leak from the wound.

My heart was pounding like the bass of a speaker as my sight turned into a big ball of blur, which shortly after was replaced by darkness.

"Mr. Bieber! Stop it right now!" Was all I heard, and just like my sight, all noise around me faded away. And before I knew it, I had passed out.