Imposter

It's dark now. The patients are asleep; we don't want to wake them. My shoes squeak on the floor. I barely notice the antiseptic smell anymore, but right now it feels very strong in my nose.

Something makes my spine tingle, and the hairs on my arms lift up, as if to meet it, whatever it is.

I'm tired, that's all. It's been a long, busy shift. I'm still new at this; it's that, too. I haven't done this particular task before.

Have I let the brisk pace I've kept up all afternoon leak out of my aching feet? Does dread drag at my soles? Has confidence deserted me? Do the corridors seem quieter?

I want to accost someone, a nurse, anyone, and find an excuse for them to accompany me...

help me

Sometimes, in a forest, it goes unnaturally quiet. Even animals know something isn't right and stay away from a place Touched. Is that what this is? People subconsciously avoiding this hallway? This room? The one I am, no not walking, being drawn towards?

please help me

The door is ajar. The sliver of the room beyond seems even darker than out here, in the corridor. It's just a little old lady. That's all. That's all.

I am caught between fearful hesitation, and wanting to get it over with.

step. step. step.

I nudge the door open and move into the room. Irrational fear grips me: the door will blow shut behind me, and a lock click... but nothing happens.

There.

She looks absurdly like a ghost in the room. A cartoonish one, a child's last-minute costume for Hallowe'en: a person under a white sheet.

wooooooo!

I almost burst out in hysterical laughter, but I hold tight to professionalism. I wish I could loosen it, break the tension. Break the spell I'm weaving with my own feet.

step. step. step.

I begin a deep breath to gird myself, remember I am next to a cadaver, and stop. What might whoosh up my nose?

I know I'm being silly, but I can't help it.

Just pull back the sheet.

I can't.

I clench my fists several times.

Do it!

I wish I weren't alone. I hope I am alone.

help me!

I grip the sheet and pull it back. I cannot bear to do it slowly, so I do it like a band-aid. Rip it off quick. I hope no one sees this moment of weakness. Brutality. Unprofessionalism. I hope someone comes in and dissipates this cobweb with a jovial remark, a grin, some of that famous dark humour.

There is no one.

I hope.

I look down.

She is more ghastly than I expected, and I gasp, forgetting that something could whoosh-

Death has not been kind. Is it ever? Her face is a rictus, her hands are claws. Her hair, wiry and white, is sparse on her bloodless scalp. Her blue eyes stare at something I can't see.

Do you know what I must do? I must feel for her pulse. Not for a handful of seconds, either, under bright lights and surrounded by bustling and beeping. For a whole minute that lasts a week or a year, in the dark, with this oppressive silence choking the air. I must listen for her breath, head bent close, neck exposed.

Pulse, first. That wizened talon flashes out and clasps my wrist with an iron grip... in my treacherous imagination. Over and over, which might be worse than if had just happened once, and I could recoil in horror. React. Defend myself. Instead, I must pretend it isn't happening at all, and stand still with my fingers to her cool, papery skin. I am locked there as surely as if she had grabbed me.

tick tick tick tick

I heave a relieved sigh when the century of ticking seconds ends, forgetting about the whoosh, and remembering in the next moment, that I must press on and do the next thing.

I lean close. I am the handsome prince, and she is most certainly not sleeping, nor the other thing. Her head is tilted back, as if for a kiss, and her jaw has sagged open. I absolutely do not want to press my lips to that mouth, and I want her to wake even less but what if she does?

I cannot do this job (the one I trained so hard and so long for) if I cannot do this job, this task here in front of me right now. And so I lean in, and I listen for her breath.

nothing.

We are still, together, she and I. In a static dance. Something taken from a fairytale and twisted, then frozen in place.

tick tick tick tick tick

I breathe shallowly, and I listen, and I pray to a God I don't believe in, that this lady, someone's sweet Granny probably, stays dead.

The seconds tick and tick, and at last they're almost done ticking.

almost there!

Something cold grabs my wrist. For a moment, I check myself: is this just in my head again? No; it hurts. A lot. In this heartbeat (mine; not hers) I am less afraid than when I was waiting for something to happen. I am shocked, because a part of me (most of me) didn't expect it to happen after all. I'm a grown man. I don't believe in ghosts and ghouls and such. I have a degree for Pete's sake-

Fear returns with interest; floods back and slams into every cell of me. I twist, trying to pull away but she has me! and in my struggle I catch sight of her eyes, gone black edge to edge. She feeds. I am going limp. My fear bleeds out of me. Sleep swirls. What was I doing? It's like I've been given benzodiazepine and-

-shoes squeak on the floor. I hear his breath, his heartbeat. I smell his fear. I wait for him to pull back the sheet. We are hungry.

+

Word count (not counting author's note): 999

Well? Did I frighten you?

Thank you for reading!