“We would take you to the fourth floor. The people there will be happy to see you, and you will be happy to see them. There, you would step off, and it would be like none of this had ever happened.”
The elevator doors opened, and I could see the fourth floor out there—nurses milling, patients smiling. The easy congeniality that came with knowing that none of your patients wanted to murder you. The doors closed again.
If I were honest with myself, I’d have to admit that it looked tempting.
“And my brother?”
“He would stay clean as the day is long. All that would change is you, and your place in the world. You could be a new you. A better you. A happier you.”
I waited, measuring things. Nurses on the fourth floor could probably make payments on a new car, or have a two-bedroom apartment. Those things—they would make life easier, yes. But happier?
And there was no way they didn’t have a reason for offering me my freedom. What would happen if I ran into Dren on the outside and the Shadows had helped me to “forget”? Besides, nurses on the fourth floor didn’t get chances to be heroes often. The Shadows could have at least offered to place me in an intensive care wing.
I reached for the door buttons with my left hand, and saw my old scars from Anna’s first bite. I hit the “door close” button with my thumb.
“I already have a job that I like. That I’m good at.” I pointed at the ceiling. “I remember the way you made me feel that day—you guys were wrong about me.”
The Shadows were unfazed by my posturing. “We do not often offer mortals a second chance. Your feelings of heroism will fade.”
“I’ll keep my job now, thanks.”
I had the sense of the elevator dropping again, and the darkness began to recede.
“Hey—Shadows!” I rapped on the wall. “I want a raise!”
Their laughter erupted from all around me.
“Gee, thanks.” I crossed my arms and looked up at the ceiling. “Why me for all this?”
“Why not you? Anyone could have done what you did,” said their echoing voice. I frowned for a moment, and then realized they were just trying to feed off me again. The elevator doors opened onto the familiar tile of Y4. Kinder coworkers/siblings or non-lethal patients would come in time—or they wouldn’t. But at least I knew who I was, and that I’d done a good job, for now.
“But it was me,” I said. I flipped off the ceiling, and stepped out onto my floor.
About The Author
In addition to being a writer, Cassie Alexander is an active registered nurse in California.
