I know what you’re thinking.
You over there in the blue fleece vest, scraggly hair and fat Charlie Brown head, skinny legs– you, I know what you’re thinking but it’s not me. Not me. You don’t know me, just stop it. Now the damn train lurches to a stop and you, I saw that, reaching out like it was an accident but I know what you’re thinking, cop a feel because it’s so crowded in here. I know. I can see through you.
****
Off the train and onto a cross town bus, long ride and everyone’s wishing I’d get off, they know I work in ICU and they think I’m the one in the papers lately, just because that nurse is on admin leave, allowed only scut work. Yeah, I know, I have dark curls and freckles, it’s not me no matter what you think. Stop thinking about me.
Okay. Okay. Deep breath. There, my stop. Everyone’s thinking how irritating it is that the whole bus has to come to a stop just so I can get off, they probably think I should jump off, not inconvenience the rest of them, I know what people like you all think.
*******
Warm air, stench of disinfectant, and that weird too-medical smell. God, sometimes I hate it here. Punch in and another night begins and I know what all the other nurses think and it’s a good thing because most of them won’t talk to me anymore, think they’re so much better than me. I know what they’re thinking. They think I did it too. Some of them fought against my getting to stay until they proved it one way or the other. Damn them. Here I am paying for someone else’s crime. This sucks.
So back to the desk, back to the filing, and I’ll show them, they think I’m stupid at best but wait until they try to find their filing again. Shit, there’s MaryAnn. Little bitch. I know what she’s thinking because I can see through her. I can see her soul. She’s possessed, MaryAnn, a walking demon habitat, ecosystem there are so many of them in there. She thinks she’s helping people but they just get sicker in her presence. Sicker and sicker and then I have to take over, try and help them past what she’s done, past her curses, and then they die, they fucking die and administration blames me, as if I’m the angel of death. No. It’s MaryAnn, demon of damnation. I’m innocent.
I know what you’re thinking. Don’t look at me like that, I know what you’re thinking, looking at me standing beside your bed holding this hypodermic, but that isn’t it. That isn’t it at all. It’s just time for your medication.
© 2009 Jennifer Rachel Baumer
Jennifer Rachel Baumer lives, writes and runs in Reno, Nevada, with her husband, Rick, and a household of cats, both reformed feral and unreformed housecats. Her work has appeared in On Spec, Shelter of Daylight, Jabberwocky 3 and other genre anthologies and magazines.
October 17th, 2009 at 8:57 am
‘The drugs don’t work …’ but the story did. VERY GOOD.
October 17th, 2009 at 10:44 am
In intersting look into this disturbed mind. Well done, Jennifer.
October 18th, 2009 at 6:29 pm
Oh that is so creepy and frightening. Her inner monologue is so compelling - great stuff.