Chapter Seventeen #2
“Straight ahead.” I follow Darla through the jungle of weeds, and the movement triggers the light to come back on.
I take the opportunity to look in the opposite direction from last time before the light inevitably goes out again.
Just ahead of me, I can see another building.
It’s dark inside, but from where I’m standing it looks derelict.
“What’s over here?”
“This is where your room is,” Richard answers.
“But… It looks abandoned.”
“For you to understand the privilege of good health, you must first understand the basics. Privilege is something automatically assigned to someone at birth based on the circumstances they’re born into, the family they have, and the money they are provided.
It seems that, despite being born into a good family, being given everything you’ve ever wanted, and being financially provided for, you’re still an ungrateful little bitch. ”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did. Who are you gonna tell?”
He’s got me there. Because there is no one. Well, there’s Harley, but he’s barely known me for twenty-four hours, and unless my dazzling personality made a lasting impression, the bullshit that is my life could seem to any untrained man that this is more hassle than it’s worth.
I refrain from commenting, which is so unlike me, but I’m starting to realise I have no leverage here.
The best way forward is for me to pay attention to my surroundings, absorbing all of the information in order to make a plan.
A plan that I probably won’t be able to execute, but at least I’ll feel like I’m not just wasting away and doing nothing.
Once we reach the building, I’m close enough to take in the details.
Windows are broken, paint is peeling, bricks are missing.
Now, some would assume my parents didn’t know about this part.
From the front of the property, it looks just like you would assume a private hospital to look like, but this part, this part tells me that the only people responsible for me ending up here were Eric and my mother.
This would have been a selling point for them to ‘knock me down a peg or two’.
But still, I can’t help but try to put my case forward.
“What about me tells you that I’m an ungrateful little bitch, Richard?”
“Quinn, don’t—” Darla interrupts.
“No, let her dig her own grave.”
“Now that’s an interesting comment. Do you have a lot of patients dying on you, Richard?”
“Why do you keep saying my name like that?”
“It’s just your name. What’s the problem?”
“Well, stop it. It’s nurse to you.”
“Couldn’t cut it as a doctor, then? Or do you just like getting up close and personal with your victims? Sorry, I meant patients.”
“Has anyone ever told you your mouth gets you into trouble?” Darla whispers next to me.
“Yes, they have, but unfortunately for them, it just spurs me on more. Just because I’m a woman, it doesn’t make my thoughts, feelings, or opinions any less important than his.
He’s acting like he’s superior to me based on limited information.
Your job is to help people—it’s the literal definition of a nurse, is it not? ”
“Well…”
“No, answer the question.”
“Of course we want to help people, but when someone is mentally ill, it makes it a harder process,” she responds.
“So, instead, you take the information given by the people that put them in here as gospel and whatever the patient tells you is a fabrication because of their mental illness?”
Darla looks contemplative. Like my words have hit somewhere, and she’s remembering why she started this job in the first place. Richard, on the other hand, looks pissed.
“It’s called a mental illness because it’s just that. All in your fucking head,” he scoffs as his face contorts.
He’s not a good-looking guy by any means.
If I had to compare him to anything, it would be a mouldy, bruised peach.
His face is reddened/ Whether that’s from exertion or sun exposure is anyone’s guess.
He’s balding on his crown but has a tuft of hair still growing at the front, and it’s styled in one of those faux combovers, to make it look like he has more hair than he does.
His eyes are sunken, his lids hooded. His entire appearance represents a blowfish, to be honest. He’d definitely be Nemo’s enemy, probably for kidnapping Dory and trying to turn her into a fish fry.
His belly hangs over his trousers, and his nurse's tunic is bunched up on his chest where it can’t quite stretch over his stomach.
Darla, on the other hand, is a stark contrast. She has a body I would die for, curves in all the right places and the perfect height to be thrown around the bedroom and have a prime view at a concert.
The best of both worlds. She has waist-length, dead-straight dark brown hair with bangs that frame her face.
She’s naturally pretty, no enhancements, and not so much as a dab of makeup on her face.
Uniforms are supposed to make a team cohesive, but I don’t think anything could achieve that with these two.
It’s very clear that he calls the shots and she cleans up the mess.
“Ahhh, Dicky. Dicky Dick. Dickard. You poor, ignorant man.” He slaps me across the face.
The sting is enough to shock me, but as it fades, it becomes quite pleasant.
I feel cool liquid trickle down my chin and stick my tongue out.
The taste of blood doesn’t surprise me; this isn’t my first rodeo, after all.
“My name is Richard, and I think it’s time you showed me some respect.” His hand fists my hair, and Darla gasps.
“Rich, at least give her a chance to settle in before you bring out the big guns.” Darla’s tone is jovial. Obviously, she’s just as complicit as he is.
“Oh, don’t worry, Darl, she’s not seen the big guns yet.”
The sting from his fist in my hair has my scalp on fire.
I struggle to free myself, but it’s no use; it just turns the sting into pain.
He pulls me up the steps onto the porch of the broken-down building.
“Now, we usually give our patients a twenty-four-hour settling-in period, but since you like to run your mouth, I’ve decided you’re not eligible for that offer. Now, move.”
He pushes me through the door, and inside I’m choked by a layer of dust particles dancing through the air and a hallway only lit by candlelight.
“What is this? Medieval times?”
“I told you, it’s back to basics. Electric and hot water are a privilege here. They must be earned. Your room is down here and to the left.”
“So the front of the property is just for show?”
“No, the front of the property is where we stay. It’s lived in. It’s functional, and patients that earn it can eventually live there. But they always start here. The only way to learn appreciation is to have nothing to appreciate.”
“You should look into that one day, buddy.”
I walk down the hallway, taking in the little I can see. There’s no furniture, just broken picture frames still hanging on the wall. We reach my room—if you can even call it that—and I realise I don’t have a door.
“Where’s my door? I need privacy. I’m a woman.”
“Privacy is a privilege you have yet to earn, Quinn.”
He pushes me inside, and I’m shocked by what greets me.
It’s no better than a prison cell. The walls are cinderblocks, there’s a pane of glass missing from my window, and you’ve guessed it: blood is my only wall decoration.
On the floor behind the door is an old broken palette posed as a side table and a kerosene lamp on top, lit but clearly running low on fuel.
Shadows bounce along the walls as each of us moves.
“This can’t be hygienic.”
“Hygiene is a—”
“Privilege. Yeah, I got it.”
“Good, maybe we will get along after all.”
On the floor is a green rubber mat. A pathetic attempt at a bed for anyone, but a fat woman with chronic pain?
The definition of Hell on earth. There’s a grey steel wool blanket and a cushion that would barely fit my head on it, let alone for me to be able to turn over in my sleep.
I reach over to pick up the blanket, and sensory overload spreads through my body so fast I drop it.
Textures overstimulate me so much that sometimes my brain short circuits and it’s easier to not use those things than it is to grin and bear it.
So, it’s safe to say, I’m probably gonna end up with pneumonia while I’m here.
A chest infection for someone with barely any immune system and immune to antibiotics? Good job, I like rollercoaster rides.
Richard picks up my suitcase and drops it onto the rubber mat, unzipping it and emptying its contents onto the dirt floor.
Well, at least we might be able to build up the old immune system here, hey?
! Dust particles fly through the air and into my nose; a clear line where the suitcase has imprinted in the dust is visible.
He rifles through my clothes, picking up my underwear and almost admiring it in the dimmed light.
If I were a betting girl, I would bet he was fighting against his impulsive thoughts to sniff it. Fucking pervert.
“Time to strip, Quinn,” Richard declares.