Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Here.” The orderly who gave me this assignment looks pretty fucking pleased with himself as he hands over a mask. “This helps. Gloves, too. Don’t forget the gloves.”
Gloves? At this rate, I’m wishing I could wear a whole-body condom. I can’t wait to get home and burn every stitch of clothes on my body. And this is only day one.
“What, you squeamish?” The guy wears a name tag. It says Joel. I wonder if Joel knows I’m imagining how much fun it would be to empty one of these things on his head. “We’ve all been there.”
Right, the difference being this is his job. It’s not mine.
“I’ve got this,” I mutter after looping the mask’s straps over my ears. I can’t imagine it making that big of a difference, but at least I don’t have to breathe in anything floating around in the air. Oh, Christ, is there going to be diseases floating around in the air after I do this? Dad has no idea what the fuck he’s asked us to do.
He didn’t ask us. He told us. All because we had the balls to do what he can’t or won’t. Protecting what’s ours. He can’t be bothered to encourage his wife to lay off the pills and would rather pretend there’s no problem at all. Why would he face up to reality now?
Somewhere, my brother is being forced to do the same kind of humiliating grunt work I’m staring down. When we compare notes later, I’m not going to tell him I punked out. Besides, the sooner I get this done, the sooner I don’t have to deal with the stench.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, glad I’m alone by the time I get started so Joel won’t have anything to laugh at. They have to know who we are, right? They all do, everybody at the hospital. It’s not like I expect everybody around here to know us by sight, but we’ve been here enough times to be familiar. I wonder if they know why we’re doing this. Dad wouldn’t allow it.
But word spreads, doesn’t it? Whether we want it to or not.
All I know, by the time I’m finished emptying and rinsing bedpans, is medicine is the last thing I ever want to pursue. I can’t imagine having to face something like this every day, getting into the nuts and bolts of the body. That’s for people like Dad, who consider it a calling. I literally cannot imagine it, and I can usually imagine a lot of things very clearly.
Right now, I’m imagining how much fun it would be to make that pretentious, pearl-wearing bitch do this for me. All her fault. And then she has the nerve to stand in front of us and sling insults around? I can see her in front of me now, smirking while people laughed at her insult. I’d like to know who the hell those people thought they were, too. Like we couldn’t easily end them if we felt like it.
All of the thinking and imagining in the world isn’t helping, but at least it gives me something to focus on as I finish my task. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to be finished with anything as I am when I pull off my gloves and throw them into the nearest trash can. It’s kind of amazing I didn’t throw up.
Though as it turns out, there’s something worse than cleaning bedpans. I never would’ve guessed it, but it’s true.
The clock in the hallway tells me I’ve only been here an hour. I would’ve sworn it was almost time to leave, but we have two hours left. I mean, three hours, no big deal. Right? That’s what I tried to tell myself all day, especially when I would remember what I had in store for me after school. I’ve watched three-hour-long movies that flew by, but time is crawling now.
All because somebody couldn’t bother minding her own business.
“I’ve got you. Don’t you worry about anything.” The sound of Preston’s voice grabs my attention, like a beacon cutting through storm clouds. I turn in that direction more out of desperation than anything else—maybe I’ll feel better if I know he’s going through as much shit as I am.
There he is, coming down the hall behind a wheelchair that holds a woman who looks like she personally witnessed the invention of the telephone. I’m surprised she can hold her head up, as thin and frail as she looks. “You just sit still now, Mrs. Peterson,” he says, walking slowly and carefully, pushing her down the hall.
This asshole. Why the fuck couldn’t I have got a job like that? And here I was, thinking we could commiserate. All he has to do is push a wheelchair.
He spots me and jerks his chin in acknowledgment. “We’re just taking a little walk around the floor,” he explains once they reach me, and I fall in step beside him. Very slow, tiny steps. “Mrs. Peterson’s next-door neighbor is in another room, turns out. We’re going to pay her a little visit.”