Chapter VIOLET
The lights are dimmed, a few streaks of moonlight slip through the closed slats of the window blinds, painting pale silver lines across the room and him.
The machines hum softly, their volume turned low.
I silenced the TV long after Luciano went to the cafeteria.
The guards are stationed outside. My favorite part of my shift has finally arrived; it's just Marcello and me.
I move quietly, slowly, afraid that if I make too much noise, the spell might break, and he'll vanish. My steps feel heavier than they should, like I'm trespassing in a space that was never meant for me. Which I'm painfully aware that I am.
Feeling like a ghost haunting a man still tethered to life, I check the lining of the bandage on his arm. He doesn't move. He never does. But I swear his skin is warmer today, his breathing more even. A sign, maybe. Or just my imagination.
I dip two fingers into the jar of Vaseline and gently apply a fresh layer to keep the skin moisturized beneath the dressing. It's routine, part of the job—at least it was. But it stopped feeling clinical a long time ago.
Before I realize it, my fingertips trail along the curve of his bicep—just a featherlight stroke. I tell myself I'm checking for inflammation. I tell myself a lot of things lately.
His muscles are firm even in stillness, the shape of strength carved into flesh. Dark, intricate ink patterns move along the muscles, hiding the thick sinew and strong veins. My stomach flutters. Guilt coils tightly in my chest, a slow-burning flame of shame I can't seem to put out.
He's not mine. He never will be.
All I'll ever have are these stolen moments—whispers of a life I'm not allowed to imagine.
He doesn't even know my name. Doesn't know how I've sat by his side when the machines beeped too fast, or how I've whispered to him when his fever spiked, or how I read to him from the newspaper just to fill the silence.
How I keep a blanket on him at all times, even when the room is warm, just in case he might feel cold.
I have no right to touch him like this. No right to sit here in the dark and pretend I matter. But if there's even a sliver of comfort I can give him—if he somehow feels that he's not alone—the thought soothes my conscience enough to stay just a little longer.
I tuck the blanket more firmly around his waist and lean forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You're not alone," I whisper, a confession to no one.
And then—
The peace fractures.
Subdued shots ring out—not the loud banging from movies, no, these are thudded and muffled.
A scream pierces the corridor. Everything happens too fast. I'm yanked from the moment, shoved hard to the side.
My body slams into the narrow space between the bed and the monitor stand.
Pain explodes along my side. I cry out, but it's lost in the chaos.
My head snaps against cold metal, blurring my vision.
I blink rapidly until a pair of black slacks and polished loafers enter my field of view.
Instinctively, I know whoever that person is, he has come to kill my patient.
I don't know where my courage comes from, but I roll myself forward and, grabbing an ankle, I pull, trying to get whoever this killer is off his feet.
"Fuck," he grunts out, but keeps his balance.
His other foot comes forward to kick me, and in a last, desperate attempt to stop him, I bite down.
"Fuck!" He yells this time.
"Told you to kill the bitch first, that's what you get for having a bleeding heart for nurses," another man says. Shit, there are two.
It's past midnight. I should have been home hours ago, but since Marcello's surgery is tomorrow, I wanted to stay and make sure he got a good night's rest, especially after the fiasco with Waspo.
Luciano is still in the cafeteria, and I have no clue where the four guards who are supposed to be standing outside are.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
All that runs through my mind as I clamp down on the stranger's calf, hard enough to draw blood.
A kick to the side of my head forces me to let go. Another kick lands in my side and has me coughing for air. That's it for me. I'm not some badass chick like in some of the action books I read. I'm just a nurse. And I'm in pain.
A shot rings out, and I scream, pressing both hands over my ears. I expect to feel more pain any second now. I'm sorry, Felix, pops into my head. So sorry. Hopefully, my sister will take him in.
Another shot.
At least Marcello is unconscious and has no idea what is happening. I can very well imagine what it would feel like for him lying immobile on the bed, knowing he's about to die, because that's pretty much where I am. Except, I'm not on the bed, I'm under it.
A body slumps heavily to the ground. Two eyes stare sightlessly at me, while a red third sits in the center of his forehead. Blood slowly dribbles out. My hands move from my ears to my mouth as I try to choke down another scream.
Two more shots ring out, deafening me.
"Violet!" Luciano screams. At least I think he's screaming, it's hard to tell, because I can't hear much.
I want to crawl out from under the bed, but two bodies lie in front of it, barring my way, and I'm not about to crawl over them. Besides, I'm pretty much frozen in fear.
"Violet!" This time, I hear Luciano's voice a bit better.
Shhhh, the sound of the first body being moved aside, leaving a trail of blood and… brain. Bile rises in my throat.
Shhhh, the second body is being pulled away. His head moves, and I make out a gaping wound where his skull used to be. Brain matter splatters over the ground. As a trauma nurse, I've seen plenty of gory things, but this?
"Violet!"
A hand of steel clasps around my arm and pulls me out. "Are you alright?"
My head hurts.
"You're bleeding," he states, pulling gauze from the metallic bedside shelf where he must have seen me do the exact same thing every time I clean Marcello's wounds.
"I'm okay." I shoo his hand to the side and press the gauze against my wound. "How is Mr. Orsi?"
Something flickers in Luciano's eyes. Regret? Resignation? It looks sad, but it's come and gone so fast that I hardly notice it in my worry for my patient. Yes, patient, I tell myself, but I know I'm lying. There is no need to call myself out on it.
"He's fine. You saved his life." Luciano says, looking at Marcello in affection, avoiding my eyes.
"I did?" I wonder how? I was cowering under the bed.
"Whatever you did to delay their attempt to kill Marcello was enough time for me to get here."
"How did you know?"
"I was already on my way back, but I ordered the guards to talk to each other the entire time I was gone so that I would know everything was alright.
" He points at the little earbud that I had assumed was a headphone.
Well, I suppose it is, but instead of filling his head with calming music like I had assumed, it kept him in contact with the guards.
"When they abruptly stopped, I knew something was up." Luciano finishes, and bile rises once again in my throat.
"They're dead?"
Luciano looks angry. "Yes."
"Drop your weapons," a woman yells as police officers swarm the room.
What follows is a shitshow. Six dead bodies need to be photographed, and whatever else police officers do at a crime scene.
Under their protest, Doctor Waspo orders Marcello to be relocated to a different room, and I follow.
Doctor Waspo takes the time to check on my injuries before I have to give my statement.
Thankfully, I only have a small cut by my eye, but half of my face will be black and blue tomorrow, not to mention the swelling I see already coming.
And my side is smarting with every breath I take from the kick to my ribs.
The four guards Luciano had stationed by the door are dead, and the station nurses are discovered bound and gagged in a storage room. Soft spot for nurses runs through my head—the words of one of the killers to the other.
I take a couple of aspirin and sit down on the bed next to Marcello. It's not something I normally do, but one, my shift is already over, and two… well, screw it.
"No worries, Mr. Orsi, Luciano has everything under control, and now there are six guards by the door and several others patrol the entire hospital," I tell him.
Rationally, I understand that he is in a coma, but I've heard stories of patients being at least partially aware of their surroundings while in a coma, and I don't want Marcello to have to worry about his security.
"The surgery is still set for tomorrow, and soon you'll be home, you'll see." I chipper away, forcing myself to sound happy and upbeat as if nothing happened tonight. Nothing at all.