Kuebiko ♤ Chishiya

°♤♡◇♧ ᵒⁿᵉ ♧◇♡♤°

My pen taps arythmically on the countertop, filling the mournful quiet of the cafeteria. The dinner time rush had finally disapated, as the digital clock on the til reads 20:37. With twenty three minutes left of my shift, my eyes anxiously dart between the clock and the customer in front of me.

The elderly woman fumbles at the small change in her hand, concentrated on calculating her sum of money. From the coins I could see, I'd already realised she didn't have enough to cover the cost of the hospital food. Her wrinkled hands hold out the money to me regardless, and I take a moment pretending to count it.

"Is that enough?" She asks, tucking a strand of wilting grey hair from her face. She definitely doesn't have the money, yet I can't tell if she's asking out of humble confusion or a plea for help.

"Yes Ma'am, thank you." I lie, as I place her paper cup of tea next to her food. "Do you need a hand with the tray?"

She thanks me, but declines my offer as she takes the tray from the counter and slowly ambles to one of the many empty seats in the cafeteria.

A hint of sympathy glaze over my eyes for a split second, but I force my gaze to harden in a blink as I turn towards the kitchen. I lean against one of the fridges as I take a sip from my water bottle.

God I hate working in a hospital. I think as I scratch at the itchy hairnet that covers my hair. Working in hospitality alone would be hard enough, let alone doing it for the sick or grieving.

Each interaction is just as emotionally taxing as the transaction before, eating away at any optomism I try to muster at work. If I'm honest with myself, it's too much to handle.

Each shift, I'm forced to take money from already vulnerable people, in exchange for the basic necessary food to their recovery. If they can't cough up enough money, I'm forced to take that food out of their mouth, and put it back. It's heartless, but I have no choice.

By the time I leave, I feel like a hollow shell of a human being. Besides, when all you see is suffering, you're forced to numb yourself to it out of self defence. Many people have it far worse in this building. I'm not dying, nor am I ill. I'm blessed to be in good physical shape. I shouldn't really complain; this is just how things work.

That's what my boss says at least. I know Yamato's about to critique me for it too, judging by the disapproving look he gives me from the other side of the kitchen.

"Ayami? May I have a word?" he calls from across the room.

fuck.

I nod anyway, and sonder over to him, folding my arms across my stomach as I prepare to be scolded.

"You charged that woman short of the price." He informs me.

"Did I?" I bluff, a poor attempt at covering my tracks.

"I watched you."

"I must have counted wrong, my apologies. It's been a long day and I'm just tired." I counter.

"Ayami, I know you didn't, you're studying a degree involving mathematics"

He's right, I can't really use that excuse. I wouldn't be at this job if I didn't need the money for student accommodation.

"I'll be better in the future." I surrender, knowing he can see right through my lie.

"You had better. I'm gonna start subtracting it from your paycheck."

He's serious about it, but I can see there's a hint of empathy behind his eyes. Like me, he dislikes the cruel nature of the job; yet he also understands that the hospital puts minimal finances into it's kitchens and money is tight for us too.