No Florence Nightingale

Teri Bart rushed down the dark alley.  She had received the phone call an hour ago.  Same as always, she was given an address, told everything would be waiting for her, and most important – come alone.

As if I would bring anyone with me, she chided.

The calls were more frequent, at least once a week.  This pleased Teri.  After her dismissal from the hospital six months ago, she needed the money and the benefits this position offered.

Teri knocked on the door.  Three soft raps...then two loud ones.

"Who is it?"  A brusque voice asked.

"Florence Nightingale," she responded.

The door opened immediately and Teri entered.  The place was no different from all the others.  It was once an apartment, where people lived.  Now, the paint was peeling from the walls, cockroaches scurried through the rooms and the smell of blood was unmistakable. 

"He's in there."  The tall stranger pointed to what was a bedroom.

Teri never saw him before and never would again.  Every time she was called, someone new greeted her – their communication limited to his directing her to her charge for the night. 

Teri made her way to the room, stopping to scratch her arms.  She couldn't do anything about the itching now. 

Soon!  She promised.

The victim was a young boy, probably nineteen years old with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.  She was thankful he was unconscious.  This made her job easier.

"I'm going to take good care of you," she whispered in his ear. 

All the instruments she needed were placed neatly on a tray.  Teri's years of experience as an O.R. nurse would be useful tonight – she was going to have to remove the bullet.  She gave the victim a strong sedative in the event he regained consciousness and started the surgery. 

Removing the bullet proved to be more difficult than Teri had expected.  She started sweating and the itching became more than she could bear.  After repeated attempts, Teri secured the bullet and removed it from his shoulder.  She took a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.  The itching was incessant now.  Teri knew it wouldn't stop until she had finished with the victim. 

Her hands shaking, Teri reached for the needle holder to start stitching up the wound.  Distracted by her own needs, Teri failed to realize the victim was bleeding more than normal.  She started to panic, losing what little composure she had left.  All her experience faded as her fear grew.

Shit!  Teri didn't know what to do next.  She scratched her arms - out of need and dread. 

What do I do...what do I do?  Her head screamed. 

Then something came to her.  It was a conversation she had six months ago.

"So Florence...yeah, I like the name Florence Nightingale for you," Benny laughed.  "Kindda ironic, don't you think?  Anyway, your job is to either fix 'em up or put 'em down.  Remember..."

"Fix 'em up...put 'em down," she whispered.  "Put 'em down!" She sighed in relief.  She had her solution.

Teri reached for the syringe marked potassium and took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry,"  She cried and injected the needle into the victim's vein.  Within minutes he was dead. 

It'll stop soon, she reassured herself.  She needed it to stop more than ever.

After Teri changed out of the blood-soaked scrubs, she left the room.

"So?"  The tall stranger asked.

"Had to put him down."  Her voice was hoarse.

"That bad...huh?"

"Yeah," she answered, trying to hold back the tears.  "What...what was his name?"

"Don't matter."  His tone was flat, no hint of emotion to be detected.

The tall stranger handed Teri two brown envelopes.

Teri took them and left.  She knew better than to hang around longer than necessary.  She could wait until she got home.

At her apartment she sat on the couch.  She opened the first envelope – it was a wad of hundred dollar bills.

I can count it later, she thought, opening the next one.  It was filled with white pills.  She took out two and immediately swallowed them.  She sat back and waited.

The itching finally stopped.