“Get help,” she whispers to the other nurse.
A laugh tears from me, my jaw tight as I stare at her. The second nurse pulls free and runs for the door.
The one pinned to the wall digs at my fingers with both hands. Her brows pull tight, her mouth shaking as she drags in shallow breaths. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
I lift her off the floor with one hand. Her feet scrape, then kick as I drag her back toward the table. I lean in close, my voice low and rough against her ear.
“Lay down,” I growl.
She lies down shaking. The table rattles beneath her as I strap her in, pulling the restraints tight around her wrists and ankles, buckling them until the leather bites into her skin. I make sure each lock clicks into place before stepping away.
I turn to the tray of sterile tools. I take a scalpel and wrap my fingers around it, then walk back to her.
She stares at the blade, her eyes wide, her breathing quick, in shallow bursts.
I lean in and make a small cut along her left cheek. Just enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood appears, and I shift my hand and angle the blade closer to her left eye.
“Brown,” I say quietly. “Shit color.”
Her body trembles harder. “Please.”
“Please, what?” I chuckle softly. “Please don’t kill you? Please don’t take your eyeballs and have them for breakfast?”
“Mhm,” she cries, her lower lip quivering, her chin shaking as tears spill over her cheeks.
I press the flat edge of the scalpel beneath her eyebrow. “Tell me, nurse,” I say, watching her closely, “how many of you have been working here since 1998?”
She shakes her head. The blade sinks deeper, stretching the skin.
“Please,” she sobs. “I don’t know.”
I press down harder. Her cry breaks into a scream that fills the room.
“Six,” she shouts. “Six.”
I laugh. “You see? That wasn’t so hard.”
Tears slid down the sides of her face, soaking into her hair, dripping onto the table beneath her head.
“Did you know a scalpel is the best tool to peel someone’s skin?” I ask casually. “I’ve never tried.” I chuckle. “But it sounds fun, right?”
She shakes her head, her breath hitching as her eyes squeeze shut.
I ignore her and place the blade against her forehead, dragging it slowly, opening another thin cut. Blood beads and trails toward her temple, sliding down onto the floor.
“I need something from you,” I say, meeting her eyes. I press the tip of the blade in again, just enough to draw another sharp cry from her throat.
She nods frantically, trying to scream through her clenched lips.
“The code to Dr. Beckett’s office,” I say.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Zero seven.” A tear slips down her temple. “Zero five.”
“Wonderful,” I shout.
I drop the scalpel on the floor, followed by a sharp metallic click. I clap my hands together and move back to the table, laughing.
“You know how nurses talk?” I ask. “Patients do too.”
