Death's Captive: Will she escape eternal confinement?

CHAPTER 1

If a bird must live in a cage at least it should be a gilded one with fresh sprigs woven through the golden bars to make it feel homely. Maybe that's why I've always liked this hospital – it's modern and new. It can be daunting, and sometimes I feel out of place, but it's a pretty cage to be trapped in. The hospital grounds are pleasant to wander through, and although the corridors are flooded in harsh florescent lighting, they're clean and wide.

When I'm not busy I follow the nurses around the wards. I try to follow a different nurse each time, though I admit, I do have favourites. I pretend I'm one of them; going about my everyday life, looking forward to seeing friends on my days off, thinking about what to have for dinner, wondering how my family is, or worrying about the future. I haven't had those kinds of thoughts in years and it's nice to pretend.

Ooh the old blonde one is on the move. Margie her name is. I always wonder where she's going. She has a thick skin and a steel stomach. I like that. I wish I was like her. I think I was too sensitive and squeamish, which, during an emergency, isn't desirable in a nurse.

I follow behind Margie casually - she isn't moving with any great speed. She looks troubled; perhaps she's thinking about her husband. I've heard her telling the other nurses about how her husband drinks when she's not home. It worries her. I remember when Margie and Peter started going steady. She was so happy. Always smiling and humming to herself as she did her rounds. I remember when they fell in love and got married. Such a long time ago now – must be thirty years by now. Margie looks sad. I don't know why and it bothers me a bit.

Margie is coming to the end of the hall where a police officer is leaning against a wall, pencil poised over a folded newspaper. He sees Margie and swiftly puts it away. He opens the door for her with a smile and a nod. It's a fake smile. How do I know it's a fake smile? It doesn't reach his eyes. He's just acknowledging she's there, late at night, like him. I follow Margie into the room. It's dark. She walks straight over to the bed and turns on a lamp.

The male patient is asleep, but the brightness of the light wakes him and the handcuffs on his wrist clinks against the metal bed railing. Someone else is in the room, hunched over in the corner, perhaps asleep. He's wearing similar clothes to the man at the outside the room. Another police officer? Margie tells the patient she needs to collect some blood for testing. The man grunts in reply but doesn't move. Margie lifts the old man's arm and clicks the tourniquet in place, pulling it tight and pinching his skin painfully. He glares at Margie, with fury in his eyes. Margie smiles. She smiles? I've never seen her be sadistic before. She can be rude at times, particularly when the patient is abrupt and sarcastic, but never cruel. This behaviour is out of character. I wonder what's going on – I can get so confused sometimes; if I don't pay attention time slips away from me like I'm a goldfish in a bowl. Margie finds a vein and plunges the needle in, dragging the blood out into the syringe. The man winces and takes a deep breath.

"Finished," Margie says smiling.

"Is that the best you can do?" the man says, his narrowed eyes glaring into hers.

Margie looms close to the elderly man's ear and whispers, "That's a speck on what you deserve, you innocence-thieving prick." Margie straightens up, collects her equipment and leaves the room; I follow her.

Outside the room, the officer doesn't look up from his crossword puzzle. Margie walks off into a side room and picks a purple and a yellow topped tube. Stabbing the seals with the needle, she deposits the blood from the syringe into the vials. I watch as she labels the tubes of blood and sets them aside for processing. I wait in the doorway as Margie stares at the blood, seemingly mesmerised. Gathering herself, she places the vials in the rack beside the centrifuge. Margie moves briskly to the door, then hesitates, holding her hand on the doorknob. Her brow furrows as she takes a slow, deep breath. She turns her head towards the rack, and locks the door with a quiet click.

I roll my eyes at the irony of this action. She closed the door for privacy, but nothing is private while I'm around. I walk through the door into the room and lean against the wall. I haven't missed anything. Margie is standing beside the counter, looking down at the vial of blood lightly held in her hand. I am brimming with curiosity – seconds seem to tick by like hours ­ then Margie opens her hand and watches the vials roll off her fingertips and onto the floor. She collects them up and raises her hands high above her head then drops them again and again with more force with each drop. I'm really confused because her face looks angry and determined, but I can see there are tears glistening in her eyes. She picks up the tubes once more and throws them with such velocity that I'm sure the plastic must crack and there'll be blood spilling onto the floor, but it doesn't. Strangely, Margie seems satisfied with her work as she places the blood back on the rack to be processed by the lab. She wipes her hands across her eyes, takes a deep breath, unlocks the door and marches down the corridor towards the nurses' station.

TING!

I'm so shocked by Margie's behaviour that I almost let her get out of my sight before I rush down the corridor behind her. I'm desperate to know what's going on but unsure how I'll find out unless she confides in someone while I'm within earshot.

TING!

We approach the nurses' station together. "Everything OK, Marg?" asks a young nurse, whose pretty face isn't spoiled by her chestnut hair being pulled back into a tight ponytail.

TING!

Oh go away! I think to myself.

"Yeah, it's just the patient in room 736" Margie replies.

TING! TING!

"The one with the guards? Isn't he..."

The world begins to ripple and distort. Christ! Not again. I never get to know what's what.

I find myself in the geriatric ward in front of a bed. I sigh. Duty calls.