Be(d)evil

[Soul 1]: Kindred

It was fucking boring.

A week passed by for Shaniv in his internship as a medical student— a pharmacy student at that, he groaned twirling on the seat he sat on while staring at the white cold ceiling.

The room was painted white in all corners, except the cabinets that were oak-colored with glass panes showing bottles neatly labeled with their generic and brand names. Below the L-shaped table were papers and forms of prescription with specific formats for different patients and drug manufacturers. In the drawers of the said table was the sterile equipment meant for compounding, and at the side of the furniture was the infamous mortar and pestle, and centrifuge along with an electric stove. The telephone was placed at the other edge of the table, with the monitor, keyboard, and mouse by its side a cup full of pens, and a stapler on the monitor's left side. There was only one window, with a circle cut out in the middle as a patch of wires were glued to it meticulously. At the back of the room were the lockers, Shaniv's locker was at the farthest to the door. It's not that he picked last, he just wanted it that way. No odd reason at all.

The room's layout was not usual for him, but it didn't feel off to him since it was he who rearranged the place anyway. It was meant to be unconventional. The other pharmacists were too kind to let him do the honors of changing up the hospital pharmacy. But that was the only thing he did for a week's worth of internship so far.

He thinks the seniors were treating him too kindly to the point he has nothing to do in the hospital he was assigned to on the third floor of the building. The compounding of drugs was left to the pharmacists with Doctorate degrees. Fuck degrees, he thinks.

The writing of prescriptions? The other pharmacists were doing that. Oh, that's where Sienna's assigned, too. Restocking of inventory? Nope. Still not him. That's still Sienna's, or sometimes Umar's. He knows he's not that clumsy to drop a vial or accidentally stab himself with a used injection or anything. But it got him having second thoughts about actually doing it. Ah, what if he accidentally hits a nerve on his wrist with an unsterile injection? Would it give him anything else besides pain? Oh, what trouble would it be? He wonders. He is known for being occasionally clumsy. They just didn't think he was being intentional about it.

But then again, the thought of wasting those damn hags' money came to his mind. 

He did go to medical school for the heck of it. It was expensive. Everyone knows that. He'd do anything to max out their debit and credit cards for revenge. Anything that keeps his mind at peace. Anything.

Most of what he had done in the internship so far was stand back and watch while they do their shit. It was so boring he could imagine himself knitting a thick jacket out of his pubes and armpit hair to pass the time.

He knows he's not that much of an asshole to trash the place out. After all, he was spoiled the moment he became an intern in this particular hospital for a reason.

His grandfather, Josiah Rixon, is the current owner of Rixon Hospital.

But alas, dear gramps doesn't care about him and his money-spending habits for some reason.

Whatever. Anyway, Shaniv was on the verge of crashing his head into the wall as he stayed seated when the door slammed open.

He lets out a yelp, falling down his swiveling chair, and hitting his hip first.

"Shit. Sorry Shan," Umar Dewey, his fellow intern, immediately reached his hand out to the fallen soldier. 

Shaniv's fingers were a few centimeters away from holding his colleague's until Umar retreated his hand back to the front pocket of his white coat when he scoffed, "That's what you get for slacking off. Now, use your limbs. You can get up by yourself. You're not dead."