Trial 47

The morning shift forgot my coffee again. Small thing, but patterns matter. We have been over this plenty of times; consistency keeps the mind from slipping.

7 AM

I check the charts before rounds. In room 204, we have a new patient. Male, 78, severe dementia. I underline severe, even though the precision scares me. I am running out of time to prove something, to cure this, to fill in the blanks of research. The air smells like coffee gone sour and antiseptic, the scent of mornings I don’t remember leaving.

Adorna, our charge nurse with hints of shadows under her eyes, waves to me from down the hall. “This is Willow,” she says softly, “she will be shadowing you today.” Willow smiles like she’s already sorry. Something about her smile tells me she won’t know me for long. I give her a quick nod, and then I make my way into room 206, where charts and test results paper the walls like mold that learned how to spell.

The smell of ink, urine, and sanitizer has settled into my skin. I stopped noticing when that happened. The man in 204 is awake when we enter. That’s unusual; mornings are slow for this ward. Though I do not participate in name-calling, I have heard the research subjects on this ward referred to as “the moon keepers”. I glance down at my clipboard, and I notice the scratches and dents from the hands before me.

“Good morning, Mr Elias,” I say. The name scratches at me, familiar in a way I can’t place. He doesn’t respond. His eyes flick once toward me, then back to the window. I jot a note down about delayed recognition, though I’m not sure whose delay I’m describing. Willow lingers by the door, hands folded. “He looks calm,” she whispers. Her voice sounds far away, like she’s speaking through the intercom.

I nod, listening to the hum in my ears. I ask the patient a few standard questions, “Do you know where you are, do you know what time it is, do you know who you are?” The words hang between us like echoes waiting for a source. He begins to speak softly, loud enough to be a whisper traveling in my ears, and I jot it down on my paper. My pen bleeds through, I’m not sure when I got this color.

I flip the page, but there’s no new sheet beneath; the notes repeat with the same handwriting, looping like static. It must be a filing error. “You alright, doctor?” Willow asks. “Fine”, I say. It sounds rehearsed. The subject blinks slowly. His lips part, and with a rasp voice, he whispers, “you….wrote this already.” My heart drops and I freeze. “Pardon?” He gestures weakly toward the clipboard. “It’s all written,” he gets louder and more irritated by my confusion. I look, but there’s nothing on the page expect my own name sprawled across the top. I must’ve wrote it when I came in.

7 PM

The hallway smells sharper now, more chemical. I note the change on my pad. Possible issue with ventilation system. Willow’s gone, most likely on break, but the other nurses move past me like shadows. None of them look directly at me. In the staff lounge, the coffee pots full again. Steam curls from it, even though I never saw anyone refill it. I pour a cup anyway. The handle burns my fingers, but when I check, the coffee’s cold. I find myself back at room 204. I don’t remember walking there.

Inside, the beds empty. Charts cover the mattress in neat, clinical piles. I flip one open. The patients name reads “Dr. Elias Ward, Male 74. Severe dementia.” I laugh. It’s just a filing error. I’ve told them before the database here is ancient. Still, my pulse climbs. The notes describe my schedule, my medication dosage, my responses to testing. I want to keep reading, but the letters won’t stay still. They slip, the ink trembling like it’s afraid of me.

A voice comes from behind me, “you should rest, doctor.” It’s Willow. She’s holding a small paper cup with three blue pills inside. I can feel my eyebrows furrow and, “I don’t take these,” slips out of mouth like routine. Willow lets out a sigh, and it feels oddly familiar when she gently says, “you do, honey,” while she nudges the cup of pills towards me, “every morning.”

I sit down before I’ve realized that I’ve moved. The chair groans, the same way it always does in my lab. My lab? My office. No, wait.

“Dr Elias, it’ll help with the confusion. Please allow me to help you,” Willow speaks with honey and confidence. I catch a glimpse of her badge while she hands me another cup of water. It says “visitor”.

The lights dim without anyone touching them. I tell myself it’s the facilities energy protocol, automatic timers. I jot it down. I have to record these things, what what scientists do. Somewhere down the hall, a voice calls my name. It’s low, slurred. I follow it, shoes squeaking. Every door is half open, and every room looks exactly the same; same charts, same coffee cups, same stains.

When I reach 204 again, the bed’s no longer empty. There’s a man lying there. Tubes, wires, eyes open. I step closer. He blinks.

I do, too.

Our movements sync, perfect mirror. He whispers, “you’re late again.” My clipboard slips from my hand. There’s a crisp thud while I catch my breath. I begin to pick up the scattered papers, when I notice something that doesn’t quite make sense; they’re all blank except for the last.

“Trial 47: Patient remains unaware of condition. Recommendation is continued observation and healthy sleep habits.”

I look up to ask who wrote it, but the bed is empty again. As a wave of exhaustion hits me, I climb into bed just to rest my eyes.

6 AM

The morning shift forgot my coffee again. Small thing, but patterns matter. We have been over this plenty of times; consistency keeps the mind from slipping.

7 AM

I check the charts before rounds. In room 204, we have a new patient. Male, 78, severe dementia. I underline severe, even though the precision scares me. I am running out of time-