Behind The Mask (Nurses Book 2) Read online

  It was, after all, their prisoner that defiled and mutilated me. Not to mention murdered a bunch of people. But I still have issues ahead of me that the state doesn’t cover, plus the pile up of past due bills is the only thing keeping me here. The elevator comes to a stomach dropping halt and the doors wheeze open. It’s then and there that I decide I will be taking the stairs from now on. I refuse to get stuck on this thing if I can help it. Being confined is not for me.

  “Cori, so glad you could make it. I’m so excited for you to start. Did you get your fingerprinting done ok?” Samantha, an extremely bubbly blonde smiles brightly at me.

  I fake the smile, trying to take a fake it till you make it kind of stance. “Everything went fine, I’m glad to be here.” There is zero emotion in my voice, I can’t help it. There is no emotion left in me, at least not a happy one.

  “Good, well let’s get you set up with everything and then you can shadow me for the day if you want. You’re already an established nurse, so this should be second nature for you. It’s just procedure and paperwork that you need to learn.”

  Walking down the hallway I hear multiple TVs playing whatever the patients are watching. The noise comforts me in a strange way. At the prison, the men only had the luxury of one TV in the common area for hundreds of men, and the guard chose what they watched. So I guess the multiple sounds is what is comforting. Samantha explains to me that this is an 80-bed rehabilitation hospital of sorts.

  Old and young, men and women, no discrimination shown. These are all veterans. Veterans that have either lost a limb or have had surgery and are having a difficulty recovering. These are people who have seen it all, lived it all, and could tell the tales. Thankfully, there are no truly sick patients, these are all ones that are having a little bit of a hard time adjusting. They explain it as a step-down unit, a step down from the hospital.

  “Ok, as you can see this is all pretty standard. I know you worked at a prison for awhile, so I’m sure that you guys had your own procedures. Here we just make sure that we document, document, document. Plus, remember that these guys and gals have been through a lot, and some of them are angry with the world. Don’t take it personally.” Samantha, bubbly as ever, seems like she sees the bright side of everything, one of those glass half full people.

  “I won’t.” It’s all I can offer her. I understand being angry. I understand losing something that was a part of you, the toll it takes on a person mentally.

  Walking the halls after Samantha turns me loose, I come across the run of the mill patient that has lost a limb from diabetes, most of them older men. They sit in their wheelchairs in the halls and shoot the shit. Some stare at me as I walk by, and some don’t even attempt to acknowledge me, preferring to breeze on by without a second glance.

  “Hey, sweet thing, what’s shaking?” a grizzled old man yells at me after I walk by him. He’s missing a leg and the other foot, I keep on moving because there is no way this guy is calling me sweet thing. “Hey, hold up. Haven’t seen you here before, names Allyn, with a Y. Why? Because my momma couldn’t spell. The ladies, though, they call me the Flounder Pounder. I’m sure you can tell why.” He wiggles his bushy eyebrows at me and cackles as he wheels down the hallway, well more like sliding down the hallway towards me. He’s using the handrail to pull himself along.

  I can’t help but crack a half smile. I have a feeling about this man, he is going to be a firecracker, but I like it.

  “Well too bad for your momma, but, at least, you got a unique name out of it.” Raising my voice so he can hear me, even though he is moving closer, I can’t tell if he is hard of hearing or not. I ignore his “flounder pounder” comment. No need to stir that pot, no matter how funny it is. But “flounder pounder” is something I will have to share with Damian. He will get a kick out of it.

  “Naw, not too bad. The woman was a saint, God rest her soul. So, sweet cheeks, what’s the name?” He has finally made it in front of me and he extends a hand out to shake mine. I look down at his outstretched hand and I immediately turn an about face and walk away. I’m not trying to be rude to him but too many people have wanted to touch me today.

  “The name’s Cori.” I slow my walk so he can catch up.

  “Well, Cori, you need anything you see me. I keep everyone in line around here. I think we are gonna be good friends. You look like you could use a good friend.” Oh, boy. This guy is gonna be a pain, but at least I didn’t offend him by not shaking his hand. I’m not a rude person, or at least I didn’t use to be, but I pick and choose who touches me.

  “Thanks for that, but I’m ok, I’ve got plenty of friends.”

  “Well tough shit, you’re getting a friend, and that’s that. See ya around Cori, my dear.” With that, he turns his wheelchair and wheels away, whistling.

  I don’t know why but his words give me a little brighter light in my day. It’s not much, but it’s a small beacon of hope that maybe life won’t be so bad here.

  I walk through the halls, evaluating my surroundings to familiarize myself with my new work environments. I see lots of different types of people just milling around, some give head nods, some openly gawk. But nobody says anything out loud. This seems more like a group home than a rehab unit. People treat this place as if it is their home, with posters on the walls and decorations on their doors. Hell, I think I passed by a poster with some chick sprawled naked on a car in one of the rooms, probably Allyn, he seems like the type.

  The smell in this place can only be described as flowery stale. I’d imagine cheerful Samantha probably brings in fresh flowers for the patients. She seems like that girl, the want to please anyone in any way she can. She makes me miss working with Olivia. Olivia had this sarcastic sense of humor that just meshed well with me. This bubbly bullshit certainly ain’t me. But the air here, it seems as if the windows need to be opened to let this place air out. I wonder if the windows are even able to be opened.

  Patients or as they are called here “residents” are milling about in the halls, along with the various different rooms. Physical therapists are making their rounds, and according to Samantha, there are five here on staff, along with therapy assistants. They are constantly trying to get patients to walk or do something that would better their lives so they can eventually leave this place. It all seems so happy here, no disruptions, no violence. If they are wanting me to spread some kind of cheer, though, they hired the wrong nurse.

  Turning from one hallway to the next, I notice with the exception of the medication rooms that all of the doors are open. Residents seem generally okay with having their doors open and are welcoming to company. A lot of these people seem to be genuine friends, which I’m sure adds to the homey feel of the place. Coming to the end of the hall I see a closed door, and loud music is playing behind it. Not wanting to be rude I knock, but I assume that it’s someone’s office with music going that loud. Probably some new age physical therapist, who believes rock is “therapy.”

  “Go. The. Fuck. Away! I don’t want any of your ‘we support you, kumbaya bullshit.’ This place fucking sucks!” Well, then. That was rude as shit. Who the fuck does he think he is? I consider knocking again but decide against it.

  I walk away, still floored by someone’s reaction to a knock. The further my steps take me the angrier I become. The old Cori would’ve never accepted any man to talk to me that way. The old Cori would’ve put him in his stupid place. The old Cori would do a lot of things, but I’m not the old Cori anymore. I am the new Cori, a shy, meek little thing that seems to be afraid of her own shadow. But then again, monsters always wait in the shadows.

  “Don’t mind Knight, he’s angry at the world and himself, but not you. He will come around one day. The angry ones always do.” Turning around I see Samantha is coming out of a patient’s room, wheeling a med cart out of it.

  “I’m not worried about him. But his name is Knight? What kind of name is that?” I know it’s rude of me to ask, but my filter left me a while ago, and this dic
khead just made me mad.

  “Yeah, that’s his last name. A lot of these guys just go by their last names because that is what they were called by in the military. I take it you never served?”

  “No, my poppa was in the Army, along with my uncle Curt. So, I never really got to deal with it. By the time my poppa and nina had my youngest uncle, poppa was already out. My uncle who served died many, many years ago.”

  “Oh, well, you will learn all kinds of things working around here, including the military jargon and their ways of life. Knight is just bitter and hates the world over his circumstance. Don’t take it personally. You won’t have to deal with him too much, hopefully, he gets out of here soon.” She doesn’t sound too upset at the thought of him leaving this place. I get more of the impression that this Knight guy is a pain in the ass.

  The day flew by kind of quickly, with learning the paperwork and Samantha actually letting me do the afternoon medicine pass. Going room to room to hand out pills and not have to wear a flak jacket and spit shield is a welcome respite. Not the worst first day that I feared. Everyone seems pretty decent, although I’m not looking for friends. I have enough friends with Olivia, Damian, and Jack. They are more than enough, always pushing me to get myself back to the way I used to be. Little do they know that old me died the night of the riot. In her place is a cold, lifeless zombie devoid of any emotion. I’m ok with that. When you are that way you don’t feel the pain only the numb. The numb, I suppose, is better than nothing.

  Pulling up to my little two bedroom ranch house, I see Damian and Olivia rocking on my porch swing. The height and size differences between these two are astounding. She is like me, short, squat, and tiny. He, on the other hand, is like a damn tree. Tall and strong, he is easily a head taller than me. With tattoos running up and down his arms, he looks like he could be the criminal we once thought he was. Of course, he wasn’t, he was undercover prison police, but it still doesn’t stop him from looking the part. He’s rubbing Olivia’s belly as if it is the most cherished thing in the world. She’s over halfway through with her pregnancy. A little girl that I’m sure will be perfection with their genes. This is going to be one truly blessed baby. Of course, they have Jack who just turned nine, but this will be different. It’s Damian’s first biological baby, and it’s the first time Olivia has had someone who wants to stand beside her. Her ex was a chump. So glad he isn’t even in this state anymore.

  “What are you guys doing here? Where’s Jack?” I’m suspicious of them being here. Not in a bad way, but in a want to talk way. I’m hoping that this isn’t a ‘we are worried about you’ kind of talk. I hate those, I mean I get it, I’m not the old me. But you be violated in such a personal way that it has ruined you for anything good in the world. Oh and yeah, have your face carved up and scars left on your body from bite marks and knife slashes, then see how quickly you need an intervention.

  “Oh, he’s with Damian’s mom. We just came by to see if you wanted to have some company?”

  “Um, yeah, ok. I just got off work, so I haven’t had a chance to clean up.” Since everything, I have turned completely awkward with personal interaction. Another thing I blame him about.

  “It’s ok Cor, we just wanted to see ya. How was your first day? Everybody treat you ok?” Damian says. He’s a man of a few words except when it comes to Olivia. He’s one of those guys that when he speaks, you listen.

  “Yeah, everything went fine. The people seem nice enough, some of the old timers are dirty old men, but not in a creepy way. One even told me his nickname was the Flounder Pounder.” Damian tries to hide his smile, but Olivia can’t help it, she full on belly laughs.

  Walking in, I immediately feel a balm to my cracked soul take over. My house is a safe place. If I need to scream, I can scream. I can cry. I can let it all out of me. But it’s also a source of loneliness. I don’t have anybody waiting for me when I get home. Nobody is excited to see me every day. Maybe I should get a cat, even then, most cats aren’t happy to see their owners.

  “Cori, we really didn’t come over here for anything in particular. We just wanted to ask you something. We were wondering if you would be the godmother to Elle when she is born.” Olivia seems to be walking on eggshells around me lately. I’m sure it’s due to everything, but she never has to censor herself around me. I have told her that before, but she is too kind hearted to not. I never want her to feel as if she can’t talk to me, she’s my person in life.

  “Of course I will, Liv, you don’t even have to ask!” I’m truly happy for her and Damian. They are two of the good ones, and he has been a godsend in Jack’s life. Hell, he has been a godsend in all of our lives. He’s constantly fixing something in my house or cutting grass for me. When I was staying with them he would sit outside my door to help the nightmares go away. He is a rock for everyone it seems, and he’s not just a friend, he’s my family. The brother I never had but always wanted. He has stepped into that roll with ease, forming a quick and tight bond with me.

  Darkness is all I feel. It’s all I know and all I ever want to know. Fuck yeah, it’s lonely, but fuck everyone. I don’t need them to do shit for me. Fuck! That’s not true, ever since I landed in this place, I’ve needed help. I’ve needed physical therapists and occupational therapists, head shrinkers, and regular docs. Fuck, every time I turn around— or wheel around I should say— there seems to be some other guy with a piece of paper from some ivy league school telling me what I need to do. But fuck them, all they want to do is tell me what I need to do. But let me tell you, I can tell you what I want them to do.

  Laying back on this damn bed, all I can think about is getting the hell out of here. Even though I have no place to go, no true home, I still want out. They keep telling me that once my prosthetic gets in and I can walk again then I can leave. So now I need to get my shit together and do it. But it’s taking too fucking long, and they say it’s because the swelling has to go down and my stump has to heal. Just thinking of having a stump pisses me off further because this isn’t the way life was supposed to be for me. I was supposed to serve my time alongside my brothers, get out and do something with my life, even if I never knew what that something was.

  But sitting in this cold room with the thick, dusty, putrid green curtains pulled closed, all I can do is sit here and think. Thinking is what gets me in trouble, but I have to face the shit that is in my mind head on. It’s been three months since I left Landstuhl in Germany, where my stump got so infected they had to amputate more. Hell, it’s been seven months since I left the Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Or what I call, sandbox hell. It was there that I almost lost my life. It was there in that sandbox that I lost my brothers. While most people would be happy to be home, the sandbox is where I wish I took my last breath. I wish that it had been me instead of my brothers that had died. All I did was lose a leg, but they lost it all. Their families lost it all.

  The only thing I have lost is control of my life and a leg. I’m a dead man walking, well I guess not walking, yet. But I’m a dead man who is still breathing. I have nothing to live for. My momma died when I was young, sending me to live with my grandparents’. Of course, they are gone now, too. I never knew my dick of a dad, I dunno what he even looks like. I may have passed him on the street many times and never known. Fuck him. I never had any brothers or sisters, so nobody came to my bedside when I fought for my life. Many times I gave up and just wanted it all to be over, but I guess a higher power wanted me to stay on this shit hole earth for something.

  In this place, I’m known as the pissed off sullen one. A bunch of old-timers and sympathetic nurses are all that’s here. I sit here in my darkened room day in and day out, never leaving unless they make me. Everyone has their rooms all decorated because they come from this area, but I didn’t come from here. My little town in Kentucky was all I knew before I joined the Army. I got stuck here after it all went wrong. I wasn’t even stationed here. This is supposed to be the best rehab facility that the military has
to offer, but shit, even best can’t make me care anymore. So I sit here day in and day out listening to music. It is the only thing that I have to get me through the day.

  Moving to the edge of my bed and grabbing my crutches, I sigh because I cannot believe this is how my life has turned out. A peg-legged freak. In my mind, I know I’m not a freak. I know that losing a leg is not something that makes me that way. I know it’s nothing to be ashamed about. But I just can’t get over feeling like it’s actually that way. I use my crutches as if it is another leg. It’s my form of balance, the pinch in my armpits is a constant reminder of the leg that I lost and nothing will ever be the same. Callouses on my hands are a show of what once was and what will never be again.

  Because of losing my leg, I’m being medically discharged from the Army. So it’s not my choice to leave, they just don’t want me anymore. Some have been able to go back to work without a limb, but they end up with the desk jobs and that certainly ain’t me. I’m trained to shoot to kill, I’m trained to be a badass, not some pencil pusher. Some have been able to go back to the war without certain limbs but it depends on the type of amputation, of course mine is one that doesn’t fit the criteria. I have no education to get me far, and I barely made it through high school, because I was dumb and liked to fight. So I’m left with nothing: no career, no friends because we all got blown up, no family, and one hell of a pity party.

  In the Army, I was a diesel mechanic. Wasn’t much but I knew what I was doing. I would go out into the field to fix whatever broke down on the side of the dirt road. That’s how I lost my brothers, it’s how I lost my leg. One of our convoys was broke down and when we went to go fix it some fuck ass suicide bomber detonated the car that was close to the downed truck. I lost three of my boys that day, and I came back without all of my parts. Three families buried their loved ones, three funerals I never went to. Three brothers gone in an instant, no goodbyes were said, they were just gone.