Behind Closed Doors | Frank Castle

1

I had always imagined that by twenty-six, I would have my life figured out.

I would have a career I loved, an adorable blue house with lots of pets, and enough money in my savings account that an unexpected expense wouldn't send me into a mild existential crisis.

Instead, I have a nursing degree, three houseplants I'm actively failing to keep alive, and a collection of takeout menus held together by a magnet shaped like a taco.

It's not exactly what I'd pictured, but it's nonetheless mine.

Apartment 4A is small, slightly overpriced, and located in a building with an elevator that makes a concerning noise every time it stops on the third floor. It was my first, and realistically only, option when I left Woodstock, Virginia and came to Queens. But, I've turned my lonely apartment into a home.

My alarm went off at 5:15 every morning, which gave me just enough time to get ready for the day, walk to the subway, get on the train, and make it just in time for my 7 a.m. shift at the Bellevue Hospital.

But this morning feels especially hard to get out of bed.

I stare at the ceiling.

There are very few things in life that can make you question every decision you've ever made quite like a 5:15 a.m. alarm.

I reach for my phone, silenced it, and consider calling in sick.

Calling in sick because I was tired seems morally questionable, but calling in sick because I was tired after three consecutive twelve-hour shifts seems reasonable.

I compromise by getting out of bed.

By 5:30, I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror trying to convince myself that I look like a person who is qualified to take care of other people.

My dark hair is still damp from my shower, so I quickly pull it into a braid. I dab concealer underneath my eyes, brush a little mascara through my lashes, and decide that was enough effort for one morning.

My pale skin still looks tired.

So do I.

I pull on my navy-blue scrubs, slip my badge onto the neckline, and check myself in the mirror one more time.

Twenty-six.

Nurse.

Adult.

Technically.

I step out of the bathroom, realize I'm still holding my toothbrush, and stare at it for a second.

"Great start, Sophie."

I toss it back into the cup, grab my bag, and head for the door.

I'm halfway down the hallway when I realize I forgot my coffee.

I turn around.

Of course I did.

5:47 a.m.

I do a final walkthrough of my apartment to make sure there's nothing else I'm forgetting before I grab my bag and rush out the door, accidentally slamming it shut.

Today is Thursday, which means it's the last day of my stretch, and the most exhausted I'd be all week. I only realize this due to the fact that the sweet, old lady sitting beside me on the train nudged me awake halfway through the ride. 

Bless her because God knows I would've slept through my entire ride, and probably would've been robbed in broad daylight.

By the time I make it to the hospital, I have coffee in one hand, my bag in the other, and approximately twelve seconds of patience left.