The clock on the wall ticked steadily, the only sound in the lobby aside from the faint footsteps from the other wards. I leaned back in the stiff chair, sipping lukewarm coffee from a paper cup that did little to mask the bitter taste. Enjoying the silence when a sudden voice broke it.
"Mr. Guerrero, right? This way, please." I quickly followed the nurse as she guided me toward the breakroom.
"Quiet day, isn't it?" she remarked as we took the stairs.
"Yeah, it's kinda unusual for a psych hospital, but I guess the nurses here are either really good at their jobs or good at conversing with their fists," I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Oh, definitely the latter," she laughed. "Anyway, welcome to the team! We spend at least a hundred dollars on pens every week, so you'll know you're having a good day when you survive your shift without losing yours." She chuckled at her remark while reaching for the knob to open the door.
"Everyone, meet the new relocated nurse from Baypoint—more break time! Mr. Aurren Guerrero," she announced as we entered. A few nurses greeted me warmly, while others glanced over nonchalantly
"By the way, I'm Hannah." The nurse earlier introduced herself as she handed me a few things. "Here are the charts for your patients and the keys to their rooms. Good luck!" I nodded and gave her a tight smile.
Noticing the forgotten coffee in my hand, I continued sipping it while scanning through the first chart.
Michaelle Suarez, new admit, 27—Schizophrenia. A bit early for that diagnosis, but that's not my problem. Honestly, I'm probably more worn out than I care to admit. It's not that I don't care about my patients. I do. But after seven years in this job, watching people lose themselves, you learn to protect yourself. You have to. Caring too much will break you and I can't afford to break.
I glanced at my watch—11:35 AM. Time for rounds. I drained the last of my coffee and tossed the cup into the trash near the door. The keys jangled in my hands as I stepped into the quiet halls, trying to ease the tension with a little whistle.
Room 109—I stopped in front of the door, an unfamiliar heaviness settling in my chest. Maybe it was just the way her name lingered in my mind: Michaelle Suarez.
I reached into my pocket for the keys, knocked, and then opened the door.
"Ms. Michaelle?" I called out as I entered. She was curled up in a corner, her eyes darting around the room as if the walls themselves were closing in on her.
"Hello, I'm Aurren. I'm a new nurse here, just moved from Baypoint." I tried to smile warmly, stepping forward cautiously. She looked at me with wide eyes, sizing me up, then recoiled when she realized I was getting too close. "It's okay, there's no need to be scared, and you don't have to speak if you don't want to. We can just do your daily check-up, alright?" I offered softly, moving toward the window to open the blinds and let in some light.
"Are you real?" Her voice trembled as she spoke, each word a struggle.
I smiled at her question, trying to ease her anxiety. "Of course, I'm real. Here—" I extended my hand slightly, my voice gentle. "You can touch me if you'd like. It's okay."
Years of experience had taught me how to deal with different patients and how to calm them down. Michaelle seemed like the scared type—or at least, that's what I thought.