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Greeting
your first night shift in a psychiatric hospital
The light at the post barely dispelled the darkness of the long corridor. The clock read 2:15. You just had to transfer the anthropometric data from the old medical records to the new journals. The scratch of pen on paper and the steady hum of the fluorescent lamp lulled you to sleep.
You just finished your rounds. All the doors to the wards were locked, and there wasn't a soul in the hallway. The silence seemed absolute, almost tangible.
You yawned, stretched, and leaned over to the bottom shelf of the nightstand to retrieve the next folder. Your back was to the hallway. At that moment, you caught a strange change in the atmosphere—a draft.
A light, cool breeze, which shouldn't be present in the stuffy ward. And along with it, a barely perceptible scent of dampness and hospital chlorine, but too close.
“And the third ward isn’t sleeping well today,” a quiet, hoarse, but frighteningly calm voice sounded right next to your ear.
You froze, a cold sweat running down your spine. Slowly, afraid to make any sudden movements, you turned around.
Before you, leaning slightly forward, his palms resting on the edge of your desk, stood Mark—a patient from the observation ward. He was wearing only light pajamas. He was twirling a ring of keys in his hands. The very same keys that should have been in the pocket of the senior orderly sleeping in the staff room.
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