One
Gabriella
Death doesn’t scare me.
I’m drawn to it. My interest has everything to do with my experience. Because people always fear what they don’t know. And I know all about death. I’ve waded into its shallows, felt its icy grip around my throat. Watched as its tentacles pull a soul from this world to the next.
Accustomed to death as I am, it seldom manages to surprise me.
Which is why I catch my breath as I stand frozen in the dark Brooklyn alley, staring at a corpse slumped against the doorway.
I see death every day. But usually, it’s not before I even walk through the door to work.
I sniff the air for decomposition. The ever-present stench of rotting garbage mixes with the briny air from the East River, but I don’t detect the sharp cheese, sickly sweet, cheap perfume combo that accompanies a dead body.
I look left and right, searching for a responsible party, but find nothing except the usual overfilled dumpsters, skittering rodents, and one flickering overhead light. I don’t see any hitmen or a getaway car. No police sirens in the distance searching for a missing person.
I get close and squat for a better look.
A man. With his chin to his chest, a swath of longish hair covers his face, and although I can’t make out his face, his size and clothes confirm he’s male. Light brown hair trimmed short around his neck and ears tells me he’s a regular at the barber, but the expensive smell of his cologne makes me think probably a salon. I push the silky locks aside to catch a glimpse of his face. His lips are full and wide, giving off serious Harry Styles vibes. Those lips are framed by a powerful jawline and a prominent chin that is tipped with a tiny indentation. His eyebrows are dark, placed wide on a strong forehead, and the guy has eyelashes for days.
This kind of beauty deserves to be preserved in a museum. A diorama with him as the centerpiece surrounded by silk upholstery, top-shelf booze, and cigars. The Wealthy American Male. Ego Erectus. Most notable characteristics include serial dating, machismo, and toxic masculinity.
Lucky for him, there will be no preserving this gorgeous creation in a museum, because I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I fan the air between us. “Yep, definitely breathing.”
I do some fancy footwork to step over him to get to the door. I consider leaving him out here until the garbage trucks show up and wake him naturally. But considering the crime rate in this area, he may not be safe left outside.
I give his shoulder a shove. “Hey.” His head rolls on his neck. I shove a little harder. “Wake up.”
No response.
I hit the eight-digit code on the door and prop it open. “Come on, big guy.”
I hook him under the arms and attempt to drag him inside, but he’s heavier than he looks, and unfolded, he appears much taller too. I grunt and slide him back with clumsy steps. His legs fall open, and his fancy polished shoes skid against the concrete floor. His head lolls to the side and exposes the column of his neck. Unsurprisingly, his throat is also insanely attractive.
“Shit, Gabby, let me help you.” Evan, one of the RNs, takes my place and drags the man inside as if he weighs nothing.
“Over here.” I direct him to follow me down the hallway to an empty room. “Put him on the bed.” I pull back the comforter. “But be careful.” It would be a crime to disfigure this pretty face.
Evan shoots me a skeptical eye. “I don’t think Rita’s going to be okay with us giving a bed to some drunk you dragged in off the streets.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning.” I grab the man’s ankles, and together we hoist him onto the mattress. “He’ll be gone before she gets here.”
Evan places the man’s dangling arms at his sides and then folds the man’s hands at his chest, placing him in the death pose.
“Nice touch.”
He grins at me from over his shoulder. “I thought so.”
“He’ll be safe here until he wakes up.”
“Yeah? Then what?”
I shrug. “Then he can go home and hopefully make a generous donation to City Hospice for our spectacular service and care.” I tug off his shoes, noticing how they slip easily from satiny socks. “These shoes alone look like they cost enough to fund this place for a month.”
“What if he doesn’t wake up?” He walks out of the room and holds the door for me to follow.
“Then he’s in the right place.”
The alley door isn’t typically used for receiving. The main entrance is off of Union Avenue and used for visitors and guest arrivals. The back door is exit only, where our patients are wheeled out, covered in a sheet, and taken to the morgue.
“You’re here.” Annette, another one of the RNs, greets me with a grateful smile. Her eyes look tired, but not so much from lack of sleep, more from working around the dying. It takes a certain kind of person to tolerate the heavy weight of what we do, and I’ve always felt Annette would be better suited for something lighter, more hopeful, like labor and delivery.
“Long night?”
“Aren’t they all?” She grabs her bag and smooths back some hair that fell loose from her ponytail. “Walter’s waiting for you.”
A trickle of relief warms my chest. I never know if, when my shift is over, I’ll see a patient alive again. When Walter showed up weeks ago, he was still communicative. He loved to tell me old war stories. A few days ago, he got quiet, and now he never opens his eyes.
I grab my book and head straight for his room. He likes stories of heroism, so I picked up a book at the library, and even though I’m not sure he can hear me, I read.
A few hours later, I make a visit to the room where I left the handsome drunk. I expect him to have woken by now, but he hasn’t moved from the supine position we left him in.
A soft snore comes from his parted lips. Even with a day’s worth of dark stubble on his cheeks, his skin looks smooth and blemish-free. A pang of envy twists my gut. This guy must get facials regularly.
Satisfied that he’s still breathing—
He moans, and I jump back, afraid I’ll get caught studying him up close.
I’ll look like a creeper!
His eyes squeeze tighter, causing tiny lines to show around them. He rolls to his side, one hand slips under the pillow, and then he settles. His breathing evens, and I wonder if he passed out again.
“Hello?”
No reply.
Yeah, I think he went back to sleep.
“My head,” he groans as he rolls to his back and jams his fists into his eyes.
“You’re drunk.” Just in case he’s unaware.
His entire body becomes unnaturally still as if the sound of my voice hit the pause button on his motor skills.
“Shit,” he mutters with a sigh for punctuation. His legs move slowly, knees bending and bobbing beneath the bedding as if he’s testing the effects of gravity.
He cracks an eye, opening one just slightly before closing it and working the other. He gives up and throws his forearm over his face. “Can you please turn off the light?”
I dim the bulb but keep it bright enough to see clearly.
Minutes pass as he gets his eyes open and his brain online. He feels around the bed, grips the sheets, rubs his face, and finally pushes himself up enough to see me. His eyes are tiny slits, and I watch those crescent moon shapes widen substantially when he takes in my face.