Under normal circumstances, I’d be glad that someone killed my captor. That’s par for the psychosis—under normal circumstances, I’m glad to see nearly anyone die.
Have you ever heard of a Chelsea Grin? Take a mouth and slice a two-inch gash outward from either corner. Now torture your victim until they scream. Your victim’s screaming tears open more flesh, leaving him with a very permanent “grin.” Heath Ledger’s Joker had a Chelsea Grin. Nurse Rosetta says my grin is most disturbing whenever I’m thinking about someone dying.
Nurse Rosetta needs to live.
Disinfectant pervades the entire Institute. That inescapable “hospital” odor clings to every surface and lives in every fabric seat cover, every gown and lab coat. The smell of urinal cake and sharp, acrid artificial pine trails behind each of the orderlies on their rounds.
The buzz and flicker of ancient fluorescents struggle to keep the hallways dimly lit. Shadows lurk in every corner, and only the harsh spotlight glare of the nurse’s station lamp separates shape from void in the farthest limits of the hall. Closed doors badged with corroded brass numbers face each other across the corridor every thirty feet. I know that all of them are empty, save mine.
Each night I hear Nurse Rosetta’s heels click clicking up and down the tile of that hallway several times, on some unknowable Nurse Rounds mission. At the end of every night, she stops in and checks on me, inspects my chart, and takes careful notes. Each night my eyes lock on the swell of her breasts, dive into the hollow of that glorious cleavage, just the briefest flash when she stoops to replace the clipboard.
Those uniform, sharp creases are perfectly starched and ironed with the attention to detail that no one but a Nurse still takes. I want to lick her nylon seams. I’d cut those clinical buttons free and tear at the garters that hold the nylons hugging those perfect thighs. My tumescence rages and I moan against the gag, imagining those proud nipples freed from the pushup bra. My limbs lock against the restraints, and the leather creaks with my need.
Nurse Rosetta only pats my cheek, and her eyes sparkle at my helplessness and my hopeless, helpless, impossible longing. Some nights she rewards me with extra hip-sway when she leaves the room, I am certain. I know that she knows.
The procedure is only hours away now. Nanobot brain surgery, infinitesimal machines seeking out my “harmful” thoughts and “dangerous” emotions, eradicating the nodes and areas where they are born.
The court mandated this treatment after Millie’s husband. Never again will I seek out an ex-lover’s new spouse, slice him up and seal him in baggies. The tortured memories of that night will have to go. Too bad, I liked Donald. Millie’s already had her treatment; she drools and doesn’t remember me.
Nurse Rosetta will remember me, won’t you Rosie? Just one night, away from the institute, I promise you will.
498 words. For this week’s Finish That Thought prompt. Also inspired by a number of other sources, including Nurse Ratched, and lyrics from From the Inside, “Nurse Rosetta” and “Millie and Billie“.
ParkInkSpot 