Post by hawkeye on Feb 3, 2018 17:10:13 GMT
Being a psychology grad student, even with top grades, has little in the way of perks. Long evenings for little pay at the local hospital when classes aren’t burying you with reading and lab work. The experience is the thing or so the douchebag docs at Orlando Memorial assured Sierra, particularly if you worked in the wing for the dangerously psychotic.
Sierra -![]()
Pulling the graveyard over the weekends, when patients were heavily sedated, was usually easy money and it generally meant not running into the handsy MDs. Hold down the fort. Make a call to the staff if any of the patients worked their way into a froth. That was about it.
Tonight, however, there would be no calls. Or so the young brunette hoped. For if there were, they’d be about her, not from her, and they’d likely end in her losing her job, if not worse. She cinched her white lab coat tight, her head on a swivel.
The University of Central Florida scholar and intern walks the long hallway, her ivory sneakers keeping the steps quiet, the woman brushing up on the notes in the chart cradled in her left arm.
“Thorazine,” Sierra whispers to herself. “Damn. They’ve upped your dosage. How does someone get that much for their size?”
With her free hand, the woman brushes her shoulder-length, chocolate-hued hair over a shoulder and glances at the door for Room 314.
“At least you won’t be giving me a fight after that many milliliters pumping through your system.”
Sierra turns her gaze to the room across the way. A storage closet. She turns the knob. Success. What a little flirting could do. The brunette opens, enters, and returns with a wheelchair, making sure to close the door as quietly as she could.
“Alright, Dr. Mist. I do believe it’s time to use your discharge privileges.”
The woman pulls a huge set of keys out of her jacket pocket and fumbles through a half-dozen before finding the right one. Cheapass Memorial still hadn’t made it to the 21st Century and the keycards that came with it, but at the moment, that was a blessing.
Sierra slips the metal into the lock and turns slooowly. It clicks and she pushes the door open a crack, the light from the hallway sneaking into the pitch blackness from behind her.
The woman clears her throat and creaks the door wider, stepping a foot inside, immediately feeling the floor turn from tile to a cushioned surface.
“Helll-ohhhh,” she whispers. “Anyone alive?”
A soft feminine groan comes from the recesses of the room, the inky darkness not yet fully penetrated.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, but this is the only time that would, well, work.”
No response save a confused squeaky ‘huh?’
“Don’t worry. I’m more than I used to be. And I’m ready to put you back where you belong.”
Sierra pulls out her penlight and flashes it toward the softly stirring bundle on the cot in the corner. She rolls her chair to the makeshift bed and begins unstrapping the tight cloth belts crisscrossing the slender woman that made sure she wouldn’t be leaving the comfort of her crib.
Lifting her patient, Sierra plops the woman into the wheelchair, the junior staff member checking her charge’s jacket and finding the restrictive wardrobe to her liking. She brushes the hair of her passenger softly, running her fingers through lovingly. She purrs to the softly struggling woman.
“Even with all those psychotropics, you know you don’t belong here. I know it too, ma’am.”
Sierra gives the woman a peck on the cheek, her lips surrounding a distinctive mole for a moment before they softly smack as she pulls them away.
“Let’s be calm and this will all be a bad dream soon enough.”
Sierra steers her cargo to the door and through, moving at a double time march down the hallway. The unplanned puns were always the best ones and the biggest surprises were the same.
Sierra -
Pulling the graveyard over the weekends, when patients were heavily sedated, was usually easy money and it generally meant not running into the handsy MDs. Hold down the fort. Make a call to the staff if any of the patients worked their way into a froth. That was about it.
Tonight, however, there would be no calls. Or so the young brunette hoped. For if there were, they’d be about her, not from her, and they’d likely end in her losing her job, if not worse. She cinched her white lab coat tight, her head on a swivel.
The University of Central Florida scholar and intern walks the long hallway, her ivory sneakers keeping the steps quiet, the woman brushing up on the notes in the chart cradled in her left arm.
“Thorazine,” Sierra whispers to herself. “Damn. They’ve upped your dosage. How does someone get that much for their size?”
With her free hand, the woman brushes her shoulder-length, chocolate-hued hair over a shoulder and glances at the door for Room 314.
“At least you won’t be giving me a fight after that many milliliters pumping through your system.”
Sierra turns her gaze to the room across the way. A storage closet. She turns the knob. Success. What a little flirting could do. The brunette opens, enters, and returns with a wheelchair, making sure to close the door as quietly as she could.
“Alright, Dr. Mist. I do believe it’s time to use your discharge privileges.”
The woman pulls a huge set of keys out of her jacket pocket and fumbles through a half-dozen before finding the right one. Cheapass Memorial still hadn’t made it to the 21st Century and the keycards that came with it, but at the moment, that was a blessing.
Sierra slips the metal into the lock and turns slooowly. It clicks and she pushes the door open a crack, the light from the hallway sneaking into the pitch blackness from behind her.
The woman clears her throat and creaks the door wider, stepping a foot inside, immediately feeling the floor turn from tile to a cushioned surface.
“Helll-ohhhh,” she whispers. “Anyone alive?”
A soft feminine groan comes from the recesses of the room, the inky darkness not yet fully penetrated.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, but this is the only time that would, well, work.”
No response save a confused squeaky ‘huh?’
“Don’t worry. I’m more than I used to be. And I’m ready to put you back where you belong.”
Sierra pulls out her penlight and flashes it toward the softly stirring bundle on the cot in the corner. She rolls her chair to the makeshift bed and begins unstrapping the tight cloth belts crisscrossing the slender woman that made sure she wouldn’t be leaving the comfort of her crib.
Lifting her patient, Sierra plops the woman into the wheelchair, the junior staff member checking her charge’s jacket and finding the restrictive wardrobe to her liking. She brushes the hair of her passenger softly, running her fingers through lovingly. She purrs to the softly struggling woman.
“Even with all those psychotropics, you know you don’t belong here. I know it too, ma’am.”
Sierra gives the woman a peck on the cheek, her lips surrounding a distinctive mole for a moment before they softly smack as she pulls them away.
“Let’s be calm and this will all be a bad dream soon enough.”
Sierra steers her cargo to the door and through, moving at a double time march down the hallway. The unplanned puns were always the best ones and the biggest surprises were the same.