Page 17 of Aftershock
This can’t be the third time this year Mrs. Tobin has been “overly clumsy.”
Except, according to her son, Harold, it is.
Her injuries never matched his bullshit stories about her tripping all over her apartment. If they had, his mom would’ve been admitted to the ER instead. She wouldn’t have been fighting for her life.
Still, when the paramedics brought her in back in January, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
When she landed in trauma again this May, alarms started going off in my head. I stopped by the ICU later while Harold stepped out to use the bathroom, hoping she’d confide in me. That she’d give me something to bring to the authorities.
She simply offered me a tired, apologetic look and whispered that she really did slip in the shower.
Four months later, she’s back.
And tonight, the trauma is so extensive that we barely managed to stabilize her before we could operate.
She did manage to speak, though. Barely.
“I tripped in the shower.”
Again.
Since I can’t prove otherwise, that’s the lie I documented just now before clocking out.
Doesn’t mean I’m letting it slide.
Accident.
Accident, my ass.
Attempted murder times fucking three, more like it.
Breathe, goddammit.
Losing my mind won’t do Mrs. Tobin any good.
So I walk and breathe.
Walk.
And breathe.
By the time I yank open the locker room door, the past no longer matters.
The only thing that does is the present, and right now, that means getting Harold, my next test subject, into my storage unit.
Soon enough, I will.
Then he’ll go through what dozens of other abusers already have at my hands.
Torturous trials that end with their bodies dumped into the Hudson River.
Taking him should be easy enough. I read in his mother’s chart that they live a few blocks from the hospital, making him my neighbor, unfortunately. The good news is, I won’t need a car or any complicated plan to kidnap him. I can just grab him and go.
With that settled, I strip out of my scrubs and head into the shower. Hot water pounds against my shoulders and down my spine, and I stay there until my breathing evens out.
Once I’m done, I shut off the water, grab a clean towel from the shelf, and wrap it around my waist. My dirty boxers stay clenched in my fist as I head back to my locker.
A damp strand of hair clings to my forehead, reminding me I need a haircut. I meant to take care of it yesterday, on my day off, but I was bone tired.
