Lunch Break

     “What? You have hemophobia? How funny. No wonder you got fired from Hope. What kind of doctor is afraid of a little blo—“

     “Bye!”

     Before she could get another word in, he was pushing the cart out the door, repeating, “lalala. I can’t hear you!” obnoxiously loud over and over again until he was sure he was out of earshot.

     Great. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The sound of the cart’s wheels rolling seemed to trigger a sort of frenzy amongst the inmates. The sound of shaking bars and grubby hands beating on walls intensified instantly, making Randall think about investing in some ear plugs. They would certainly make the workplace a little more pleasant.

     His brows furrowed in confusion when he saw the old man kneeling down, looking through the cubbyhole of cell 1A. He was hitting his hand with his fist, and he could see the inmate doing the same through the small hole. It took him a while, but he eventually registered in his mind that they were playing rock, paper, scissors. He was always creeped out by how attached Joel seemed to be with some of the inmates. He almost treated them like his own children.

     “Ahem.” Randall coughed into his hand, trying to get the old man’s attention without disturbing the nutjob in 1A.

     “Oh, Doc. What took you so long? They were all getting a little restless while waiting for you,” the old man said with a crooked grin, plucking one of the food trays off the cart and passing it through the hole in the door of cell 1A.

     “There was a small mishap in the kitchen. No biggie,” Randall reassured him, though he did hope Ann was alright. He didn’t treat her well, and he knew that, but he was only playing. Besides, she was a prude and needed to learn to live a little.

     The old man pushed the cart to cell 2A, but before he stuck another tray through the hole, he looked over at Randall. He stared back at the old man for a short moment, uncomfortable with the look he was giving him. Those beady, squinting eyes were practically staring him down. “You have a little something on your cheek. Right there,” he finally said, pointing at his face.

     Randall wiped the cheek in question with his fingertips and looked down at his hand, only to find… blood? He fell silent as he lightly ran his thumb over the viscid liquid on his fingers. It was a beautiful color. Shiny. Crimson. Red as the sunset. Just the sight and the feel of it brought back memories of home.

     All the little bugs he squished the green guts out of, the squirrels he had caught and snapped the necks of so he could watch the red liquid run. Like a waterfall, only much more pleasant.

     He brought his fingers to his lips and tentatively licked it, enjoying the metallic taste that spread over his taste buds. The inmates had started an uproar, but he didn’t notice. All outside noise was void. It no longer existed to him. He was enjoying his peaceful trip down memory lane.

     Such as memories of the hospital he used to work at. Hope. What a wonderful place. Ann was always curious as to why he was let go, but he would never tell. He wasn’t let go. The entire establishment was torn down. Why? Thanks to him of course.

     He loved Hope Hospital. There were so many patients; so many living sacks of blood. They came to him, searching for relief from their illnesses and injuries, and that is what he gave them in exchange for their blood: relief.  Relief from the stresses of life. Death was a gift he was sure all of them were grateful for. But some people didn’t like his gift and tried to track him down. But he knew they were coming, so he left. Looking for a scapegoat to pin the “crimes” on, they shut down the hospital.