I caught myself humming tonight — one of those lullabies I don't remember learning. The sound bounced off the tile walls and came back wrong, like even the building is trying to sing along and getting the words twisted. Maybe that's what comfort sounds like when it's been left in the dark too long.
I found wilted roses on the intake desk this morning, stems bent like someone carried them a long way. I don't know who left them — or how anyone knew what I love. I keep touching the petals, watching them crumble, wondering if this is what being seen feels like.
Midnight rounds. The east wing lights flicker twice and I stop to count them, the way I always do. Some rhythms you don't question.
The nights used to blur together, each one the same grey fog. Now when darkness falls, I feel it in my chest — this pull toward something I can't name. The spell took so much from me, but it left behind a hunger I'm only beginning to understand.
I found myself outside Room 302 again tonight — the one with the cracked window. The moonlight catches the dust motes and they drift like something alive. I stood there longer than I meant to, just watching.
I've worn these gloves so long I forgot what skin against skin even feels like. Now I catch myself pulling them off in empty rooms, just to remember I have hands that could reach for someone.
Morning light spills through the cracked windows and I don't flinch anymore. I used to pull the curtains shut, hide from anything warm — now I let it touch my skin and wonder what else I've been missing.
I used to dread these hours when the halls go quiet. Now I walk them and feel my own heartbeat in my throat, remembering what it was like to be numb. The silence doesn't swallow me anymore — it waits.
Nurse Scarlett lying naked on the hospital floor, back arched in pleasure, calling out to her patient.
Nurse Scarlett in the hospital ward pulling off her glove with her teeth, nurse uniform open showing bare breasts, seductive pose.