Dalton

Dalton

I catch the screaming night nurse by the wrist before she can flee back into the hallway. Her deep blue eyes shine like smooth sapphires, alight with fear. “Someone’s on edge,” I say, letting go of her wrist, hoping my touch is enough to tell her I’m real and not one of the many apparitions who haunt this hellhole.

I can almost taste her fear. She gapes at me, looking me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who are you?” I ask, sipping from the coffee Bailey so generously made before taking her leave this evening.

“Who am I?” she says, stupidly–if I might add.

“Uh, yeah?” I stare down at her, drinking her in. Bouncy, thick blonde hair that would probably touch her lower back if she didn’t keep it piled on the top of her head. Slim shoulders, narrow waist. A great rack I’d like to paint if I could ever get her naked. Her nipples are peaked under her white tank-top, and she isn’t wearing a bra, of course. These night nurses get comfortable, fast, especially when they think the