The Monster 6

Blood seeped under the spot where the medical gloves had torn.

Shit.

She quickly stripped them off, turning one inside out and balling it up in the other, the

correct

way, and went over to the sink, washing her hands with soap and water for the full 20 seconds. She sung 'Happy birthday' in her mind as she scrubbed her hands together, paying attention to where the blood had smeared on her index finger. Wiping her hands on the scratchy paper towels, she turned back to where Flea was laid out on the stretcher, groaning in drunken pain.

Flea was a frequent flyer in the ER. Semi-homeless, his clothes clung to him in dirty strips, barely recognizable as a hole-ridden t-shirt, torn jeans and a ruined aviator's jacket. She sighed and went back to examine the gauze-covered bloody knee. The physician's assistant had stitched up the worst of it and had left her to clean and wrap it up. The once-grimy, bloody mess now shone white with medical tape under the fluorescent ceiling lights. Sterile. Clean.

Normally she loved her job. Having grown up poor with an absent mother and abusive, alcoholic father, she had busted her ass to put herself through nursing school and had appreciated every second of the decent-paying, semi-respected position of the ER nurse she had ended up with. She had enough money to comfortably afford her roomy apartment overlooking the sloping mountains of the rain-ridden Pacific Northwest. Wanting a fresh start, she had moved here as soon as she possibly could, putting as much distance between herself and her rotted out home and family. She was happy where she was. She was happy with what she did.

Today, however, was not a good day.

She had woken up in a sour mood. Something about the nightmares that regularly plagued her had stayed with her as she went through her morning routine. Shower. Brush teeth. Put up hair. Moisturize. Light makeup. Put on scrubs. Pull on white sneakers. Check mirror.

All the while, the darkness tugged at her, insistent in its intention to pull her back into that place she desperately tried to stay away from.

The stuff of nightmares.

Shaking her head as if to clear it, she turned back to the computer, charting the bandages she had used and Flea's drunken condition. They would leave him here, IV fluids drip, drip, dripping into his veins, hydrating the man who was currently three sheets to the wind. "All right, Flea, your knee should be fine. We'll send you home with some bandages and antiseptic wipes. Make sure you bring it right to the shelter. First aid will keep them for you and help you change it out."

Flea grunted, and she had no idea if he had processed anything she had said. That was all right. She would repeat it again later, after he had sobered. She would also call the shelter herself to let them know what had happened.

Turning away from the computer, she walked over to where Flea lay, his dirty, scruffy face twisted in a grimace as he clutched at his leg. She put a hand on his shoulder, immediately regretting it and feeling the need to wash her hands again. "You'll be okay, Flea. Get some rest."

Before she could walk away, Flea grabbed her forearm, squeezing in a way that made her yelp. This was something new. Flea was many things, but he was not a violent drunk. Flashbacks spun through her mind and she recoiled, but he held fast. Wild eyes looked up at hers, the slate grey pupils pulling her into the fray that was his existence. "Don't go back there, kiddo. Whatever you do, don't go back. He waits for you, he'll try to lure you down there. You don't remember, you can't. That's okay. Just

don't go back!!"

She tugged sharply to pull her arm out of his grip, fear coiling in her stomach like a cobra waiting to strike. She took a couple of steps back, out of his reach. Wide eyes watched her, the pain on his face replaced with something else. Something that made her pulse pound in her temples. "Take it easy, Flea. You'll feel better soon." She tried, but she couldn't keep the tremor from her voice.

Flea ran his tongue over his chapped lips. His mouth moved, trying to form words that wouldn't come. When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and low, like sandpaper.

That's not Flea's voice

. "He's coming for you Zoey. You should run."

Icy fingers ran up and down her spine and she shivered.

"Who's coming for me, Flea?" she whispered. She didn't want to know the answer.

Then his eyes glazed over, and he fell back on the stretcher, breathing heavily.

Without another word, she backed out of the room, drawing the curtain closed behind her.

.......................................

She chastised herself during the drive home. She had never let a patient spook her like that. In her five years at Mercy Medical Center, she had seen some truly terrible things. She had learned early on the importance of leaving the bad stuff behind the sliding glass doors that lead out to the parking lot. Fog clouded her drive, moonlight illuminating the thick cotton precipitate, making it impossible to see even ten yards in front of her. She cursed as a car headed the opposite way rushed by her, way too fast for comfort.

It had been a long, long time since she had felt this way. Afraid, vulnerable. Weak.

The first thing she had done when she had moved into her new apartment had been to sign up for martial arts and self-defense classes. Three times a week, she took out her aggression, toughening her lithe muscles on punching bags and sparring with partners. Partners that were always bigger and stronger. She felt an inexplicable need to fight and defeat something that could crush her, and she would practice and practice, taking blows and getting knocked down until she could bring her rival to the ground, knee to throat and thumbs pressing into eye sockets. Then she would move on to the next one. And the next one.

She wondered about herself, about what had made her so blood thirsty and violent.

She parked in spot B2, the little sign marking it as hers weathered and impossible to read. Grabbing her purse and lunch bag, she stepped into the cool autumn night and climbed up the wooden creaking stairs to jiggle her keys into the slot. Penpal greeted her, little tail wagging as the three-legged dog jumped up and barked in greeting. She dropped her bags and leaned down to gather the rescued mutt into her arms, pressing kisses to the top of his warm, furry head. "Hey little guy," she cooed. "How was your day?"

Penpal licked her face in response, and she giggled and put him down. "You hungry?" she asked and moved to the kitchen when he yelped excitedly. She poured him some kibble, sprinkling his vitamin powder on top and adding a little water to make it soft, just like he loved. She placed it down on the floor and he dug in like she had been starving him. She shook her head in amused exasperation as she looked down at the precious broken thing.

What a pair they were.

................................................

Eyes drooping, she gazed at the broken picture frame by her bed. It was some sort of twisted habit, staring at the picture that had captured what might have been the only happy moment of her childhood. Her little arms were wrapped around the hips of both her parents, happy smiles that reached all three pairs of eyes adorning their tanned, sun kissed faces. Waves crashed against the perfect white beach behind them, a seagull tormenting a crab caught in the bottom corner of the photo. If she focused, she could feel the salt infused wind weaving warm fingers through her hair, could hear the lazy ruin of the waves as they spent themselves trying to reach further and further onto silky sand.

It was the last thing she looked at before she slept, the morbid obsession with the parents who had never been the smiling characters in the photo overtaking her in the dark of the night. In the gloom of morning, the start of the new day promising 24 hours free of her past, she would avert her gaze as she pulled the covers back and climbed into the shower, determined not to look at the picture that night.

She always broke that promise.

Tonight was just another night she couldn't stop herself from falling into the fantasy of the portrait.

Without warning, the air changed, and the dog curled up at her feet lifted his head and growled. She sat up, straining her ears for sounds of an intruder, but she could hear nothing. Slipping a slender hand under her pillow, her fingers danced over the reassuring cold of the .45 Glock she could wield expertly, as jealous and infatuated men at the shooting range could attest to.

Penpal settled, head curling back down to rest on his little paws. The air still held the heavy weight of an unknown presence, and she felt dark eyes on her, watching, waiting. Pointer finger drawn parallel to the trigger, but not on it, she scoped out the three rooms of her apartment but found nothing out of place. Sighing, head dropping to her chest, she padded back to her bedroom and looked down at her cozy bed. A strange sensation overtook her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as her eyes were drawn to the black space under her bed. In her mind's eye, she could see a gnarled hand, almost a claw, reaching out for her. Round golden eyes glowed as the creature underneath cackled in delight. Gun still in her hand, she reached up and smacked herself lightly on the side of her head.

Perfect,

she thought.

I'm scared of the monsters under my bed.

She drew up her courage and crawled onto the firm mattress. After years of sleeping on the cold floor in a broom closet stinking of mold and bleach, she had never been able to sleep on soft things. She deliberately took her time getting into bed, stepping close and daring whatever phantom was under there to grab her ankles. No monster rose to the challenge.

Still, she switched on the lamp on her bedside table, illuminating the cozy room and chasing away the shadows. She curled up in a ball under the covers, breathing in the smell of lavender from her fabric softener, and slowly drifted into blissful unconsciousness. Just before she fell completely into darkness, she thought she saw a figure standing in the doorway, watching her. A very, very big figure. The smell of cinnamon and cloves followed her into sleep.

...................................................

She was curled up in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around her bruised legs, head pressed into her scrawny knees as she cried tears of frustration and fear. The man outside the door raged on. She listened to the crash of fragile objects smashing against the heavy door, breaking as they struck. His words were slurred and unintelligible as he continued destroying their dishes. A distant part of her wondered what they were going to eat on when this was over, how she would be able to serve the dinners he expected her to have ready at whatever erratic time he came home.

Out of the shadows emerged a figure. Broad shoulders filled in a leather jacket adorned with patches and pins. She could tell he was strong, strong enough to protect her from the man ranting and raving behind the flimsy protection of her locked door. The man extended his arm, holding out his hand to her. His skin was the color of the fleshy inside of a lime. She wasn't afraid. He would take her somewhere safe. He came for her often.

"Come to me, sweetheart. Let's go away from here."

She unfolded like a little flower, placing her tiny hand, tan and dark, into the pale green of his palm. His fingers curled around hers, enveloping her entire hand and wrist. Sparkling blue clouds surrounded them, a tornado of color and glitter whisking them away to another world. They emerged, reborn, to a world of monsters and inky midnight. Some of the monsters were terrible things to behold, unearthly creatures covered with scales and horns and spikes. Others were like her savior and friend, Roen, almost human in appearance with subtle deformities. Like skin the color of lime juice squeezed from the meat of the fruit.

They wandered, hand in hand, through the magical world. She knew no fear until Roen let go of her hand, and the creatures around them crept closer, sniffing and reaching toward her with clawed fingers. Roen was back at her side in an instant, growling low and dangerous. The creatures skittered off, and his hand once again closed over hers.

After they explored the land of shadows, gleaming orbs revealing rocks and caves beckoning with promised adventures, he found a place to sit and drew out huge heaps of food from the flap of his jacket. Somehow, in this world, all of the strange things Roen did made perfect sense. He gathered her onto his lap as she ate, her flat and hollow stomach stretching with the decadent meal. This was the only place she had ever known what it felt like to be full.

He stroked her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear as she ate. She turned to him, captured by luminescent lavender eyes looking down at her. His lips were curled into a funny looking smile, and for some reason she didn't quite understand, she shivered.

He snaked an arm around her tiny waist, drawing the plate away from her lap and hugging her to him tightly. Almost too tight. His breath was warm and cold all at once on her ear, whispering like it was the most precious secret ever shared, he said something that made her shiver even more.

"You are mine, little one. When you grow up, strong and lovely, I will come to get you."

He dragged scratchy knuckles down her cheek and planted a light kiss on the side of her mouth.

"Come," he said. "It's time to go home."

The magical world disappeared. Roen was gone. She was standing alone in a dark alley, spitting rain wetting her chestnut curls. She narrowed emerald eyes as she looked around at the strangely empty space. This was behind the hospital. She had parked here once, when a health fair had taken over the employee parking lot. Her footsteps echoed as she walked toward the main street. A ladder clanged down in front of her, making her jump. A second later, a mass of sinewy muscle and worn leather slammed into her, her head crashing against the hard brick of the apartment building wall. The mass surrounded her, strong arms framing her narrow shoulders. Suddenly, all of her training fell away, and she looked up into lavender eyes. "Roen," she breathed, a mixture of relief and fear sweeping through her. His lips curled up into a wicked smile as he leaned in.

"It's time to collect you, my little sweetheart." Just like before, his breath was warm and cold on her ear. She felt something hard and tight pressing against her thigh. Panic gripped her as his words settled in her mind. She raised her arms to strike him and he caught her wrists, pinning them to the rough wall behind her. He squeezed, hard enough to leave bruises and let her know he could break her if he wanted to.

He looked up as a Metallica song echoed through the empty space. He growled, the same growl he used to chase the monsters away. He looked back, an angry smile twisting his face into something cruel and dangerous. "I'll be back, princess."

Guitar and drums almost drowned out his words, getting louder and louder and louder...

Gasping, Zoey sat up, wild eyes searching the room for purple-eyed phantoms. She was alone. The room was empty. Dull sunlight filtered through the brown curtains framing her bedroom windows. She reached over and turned off the alarm on her cell phone. She swept her hand across her forehead, tucking damp hair behind her ear. She was shaking, a full-bodied tremor that gripped her and made her teeth chatter. The room was freezing.

Fuck, the damned heater must have crapped out.

She crawled out of bed and stripped her sheets off the mattress, noting the sweat that clung to them with disgust. Penpal yipped at her ankles, sensing her anxiety.

Leaving the bundle in a messy pile by the door to take down to the communal laundry downstairs, she stomped to the shower and turned up the nozzle as hot as it would go. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to shake the dream from her mind.

The long-forgotten specter of her imaginary friend haunted her thoughts. Through the violent tantrums that plagued her father in his worst moments, Roen had kept her safe, spiriting her away to that lost world that was at once terrifying and fascinating. His eyes stared at her from the murky depths of her mind. She could almost trace the features of his face. The strong jaw, the prominent brow, the broad nose. He was striking, almost beautiful. Cropped hair pulled up to a subtle mohawk. Jeans torn in all the right places covered muscular legs. She had imagined him big and tough, a remnant of the '90s she had grown up in, part of the "cool" crowd. He could take on anything, could envelope her in his massive arms, drawing her in as she took in the sweet smell of him. He always smelled of cinnamon. Cinnamon and...

And cloves.

She spun around, realizing that the scent was all around her. It surrounded her, suffocating and demanding. She choked and reached for the shower handle to turn it off when she saw her wrists. She cried out, raising shaky hands in front of her, deep purple bruises in the shape of fingers wrapping around her thin forearms.

.......................................

"When are you going to let me take you out?" Kyle, the PA, stood leaning against the counter beside her, blond hair sweeping over charming hazel eyes. She smiled and rolled her eyes. "When are you going to stop asking?" she said, pushing past him to grab the chart for the new patient. Room 2. Trauma room. Possible stabbing. A security guard stood outside the curtain.

"Seriously, Zoey. Just let me take you to dinner. No pressure, just two friends sharing a meal." He smiled, and she had to admit that the man was almost adorable. She was tempted. He would be kind and respectful, a good boy down to his bones.

"Kyle, you can't handle me. I would break you so fast your head would spin." She smiled sweetly as his jaw dropped. She had always played the role of the pleasantly pretty girl next door. Today, her nerves were on edge, and she had let the words spill out of her mouth without thinking.

She walked away from him, a look of shock pasted over his face. She nodded to the security guard and slipped through the curtain. She walked into room 2 and gaped.

There was blood everywhere.

She blinked, and it was gone. She frowned and shook her head.

What the hell?

Where blood had covered the floor, seeping into her white sneakers, there was only the shine of the waxed tiles. A clean stretcher, free of the crimson that had dripped down the crisp white sheets, held a man in maybe his late thirties. His head was hanging down, dark hair hiding his features. He wore all black, a long sleeve shirt with a lime green logo she didn't recognize and black jeans. She stepped closer, her head cocked to the side. He held his arm protectively to his chest, and she could see the torn sleeve, flesh sliced deep through muscle, almost to the bone.

"Sir? Do you know where you are?" He didn't move. She creeped forward, looking down to try to see his face. "Sir? I need you to talk to me. My name is Zoey, I'm a nurse, you're in the hospital. I need to see your arm. I'm here to help." Again, there was no response. She wondered if he had fallen asleep in that position.

She was so close to him now, she could reach out and touch him. She wondered if she should call in the security guard, then decided against it. She didn't want to spook the man. She stared at his arm, trying to guess at how many stiches it would need. First she had to assess him, clean out the wound, figure out if he was hurt anywhere else.