Kunoichi -the Girl with No Name

2. Grim Reaper

He is short, his features vaguely oriental with a yellowing of the skin over one cheekbone, which looks like a recent bruise. His sharp eyes glitter with suppressed anger. He rests the clipboard on the rail at the bottom of the bed and gently pulls the stethoscope from around his neck.

'I can't seem to remember anything about what happened.' I say.

'Really. That's unfortunate.' He sounds bemused. Subconsciously his hands are twisting the stethoscope into a knot like a hangman's noose while his eyes run around the room. If I didn't know better I'd think he is doing what I was just a few moments ago.

'Are you OK?' I ask, nodding at the loop in his hand.

For a moment he looks down at the knot and then longingly at my neck. 'I'm fine.' He drops the stethoscope on the bed and picks up the clipboard again. He closes the door behind him and glances across to the washroom as if to check it's empty. He moves with purpose, like a panther balancing on a tree truck, carefully placing each paw exactly where it knows it is safe.

'I don't remember my name, where I live, nothing.' My eye is drawn to his shoes. Are those motorcycle boots he's wearing, there is a flash of metal just beneath the hem of his trousers, the silvered plates wink at me as he walks. What Doctor wears motorcycle boots on his rounds?

He's stands at my side and shuffles through the medical notes. 'Apparently not.'

'What do you mean ...apparently not, Doctor....?'

His eyes flicker down to his name badge. What Doctor needs to check his own name? For a moment our eyes meet. He ignores my question, studies the clipboard, makes a short note and then signs it like a rock star who's just sold his millionth album. Then he passes me the notes to read. The last entry says 'Patient declared dead at 7.46pm.' He's signed it, Doctor Jim Reaper. He probably thinks that's funny. I don't laugh and it isn't because my ribs hurt so much.

Of course it is just a distraction.

I know what's coming, but it's an instant too late. His hand slams down on my face pushing my head back into the bed. One of my feet lashes up and hits him on the back, he reels away and with surprising agility flips up on the bed and drops his full weight down on me, pinning my arms to my side and sending an agonising pulse of pain across my chest.

He bends over until his face is almost touching mine, up close his skin looks like woodchip wallpaper. 'This is it!' he hisses. With a sudden cruel laugh he whips the pillow from under my head and slams it down on my face.

There's no time to think what's happening and why. In the muffled, suffocating darkness survival is the singular instinct. My chest is screams with pain as his dead weight drives the air from my lungs. I kick up hard and hear him grunt as my knees come into contact with his back. He thinks I'm stuck but it just a distraction. He's unbalanced enough for me to free my right hand, I feel for the steel dish and then grab the syringe. Whipping it around I plunge the needle into his upper thigh and hear him grunt.

With a thrust of my hips I flip him off the bed onto the floor. Gasping for air, I spin off the bed and throw the pillow across the room and watch it bounce effortlessly off his sweating head.

He staggers up and grimaces as he pulls the syringe from his leg and drops it to the floor. With a wide grin he reaches behind him and pulls a curved blade from the back of his trousers. A short katana with a thin steel blade, ideal for killing at close quarters. 'Do you want your pillow back?' he laughs.

I'm off the bed but I'm still attached to the drip like a dog to a leash. I tug at the plastic tubing. 'No, I couldn't borrow your knife, could I?'