Page 31 of The Night Shift
I arch an eyebrow. “Really? You’re not mad?”
Her shoulders relax as she draws in a short breath. “Of course, not. I’m never mad at you. You’re my best friend. You need some space. I get it.”
And now I feel like an asshole for doubting my friend for the second time tonight.
I whip out my phone to check the time and a notification on my lock screen grabs my attention. “Fuck.”
“What?” Cami asks.
“It’s my sister. She wants to know what time I’m coming over tomorrow to try on the maid of honor dress.”
Cami arches an eyebrow. “That’swhat she’s texting you on a Saturday night? Jeez, you Moore girls are boring.”
“You don’t get it. I hate that dress. It’s bright blue and satiny with like these weird fucking flowers all over.”
“Holly, I don’t want this to come across as mean, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna be looking at you. They’re kinda gonna be focused on the bride.”
“There’s more.”
“Oh, it lights up? Changes colors when you twirl?”
“She wants to know if I’m bringing someone.”
She narrows her eyes. “To try on the dress?”
“To the wedding.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Why are you asking me like you don’t already know the answer?” There’s an eighty-hour work limit set in place for resident surgeons. Eden General Hospital loosely follows that rule. When you’ve just finished ten hours of surgery and someone comes in with a severe blunt trauma, you’re not exactly allowed to say “oh, actually, I’ve worked too much today. Try again tomorrow?”
Whatever free time I do get, I’m doing…other things, occasionally taking a break to rot in bed and watch (fine, rewatch)BBC’s Flowersfor the thirtieth time. What? AmyFlowers is my fictional soulmate. I would have just taken Cami to the wedding, but April doesn’t know about her. No one does. Given what we spend a huge chunk of our time doing, it’s for the best to keep this friendship a secret.
My phone buzzes again.
April: Did you just leave me on read?
April: Holly!
April: …
Holly: See you tomorrow at 6pm.
I stand up straight and stuff my phone back into my pocket.
Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I just don’t have the time, nor the desire, to “date” anyone or make any more friends. And that’s okay. Some people are just meant to be alone. Some people are good at it. Sure, there used to be days that I thought I wasn’t one of those people. That I was okay, or at least that I was going to be. But nothing ever stays the way it is.Foreveris a myth. An empty promise.
I may never be able to fully connect or trust another human, but I’ve made my peace with that. I don’t necessarily like it, but I’mokaywith it.
It’s hard for me to encapsulate these feelings. To fit them in some sort of box when there are so many different aspects to it. I love myself, but I don’t like who I am. I want to be happy, but I can only think of things that make me sad. Most times, I don’t make any sense. I’m a living paradox. A puzzle that refuses to be solved.
Or at least, I used to be.
“So how does it feel? Killing someone.”
A fresh surge of annoyance rushes through my bloodstream. What the hell did Theo mean by that? Does he know something or am I just being unnecessarily paranoid?
It’s not the stupidest thing to be extra suspicious and careful when you’re out and about stabbing people's throats and slittingtheir wrists, but thereisone tiny problem. It sucks out all the fun. I live for theatrics. The muffled screams, the gurgling, the slurping, the sensation of blood splattering over my face. The begging for mercy while trying not to shit themselves. The feeling of my blade pushing through their tough skin, like slicing apart a watermelon, bones cracking just ahead of the blade’s edge, revealing their soft and crisp insides. The crimson liquid spewing and gushing from their wounds, warm and sticky to the touch. My pleasure is their pain.
