The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Spoiled
by Naching T. Kassa 

Ann Williams glanced up from the sink and her soapy hands, as Dr. Mason led the elderly woman into the room. Shadowed eyes stared from a pale face. A bald head shone in the harsh fluorescent light.

A younger woman, one resembling the old, followed. Dark hair flowed down her back, concern etched her face. Ann dried her clean hands and glanced at the sheet on her desk, hoping to refresh her memory. She didn’t know their names or what the elderly woman suffered from.

The page revealed all—or almost all. Gladys Sawyer, age sixty-eight, had Stage One pancreatic cancer. The younger woman remained a mystery. Had she met her before? She seemed familiar.

The elderly woman sat in one of the recliners as the doctor approached.

“Same today, Ann,” Dr. Mason said.

“Not exactly the same,” the younger woman piped up. Ann frowned as a memory of the woman’s name popped into her head. Maureen Simmons, Glady’s daughter.

“What is it, Maureen,” the doctor asked.

“The anti-nausea medication. Last time you gave it to Mom, she had a bad allergic reaction. You said you were going to prescribe something else.”

Dr. Mason glanced at Ann, who paged through the sheets in her hand. “Yes, we’re using Varubi. The one we gave your mother last time, after we purged the other medication out of her system.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve mentioned that,” Dr. Mason said. “We’ll take good care of your mom, Maureen. Don’t worry.”

When the doctor had gone, Ann set to work on Gladys’ intravenous line. The elderly woman had declined a port, and it was difficult to insert the long needle through the papery flesh of her hand and into her vein. She missed it completely the first time and was forced to abandon it for the one in Gladys’s opposite hand.

When she’d finished, she glanced up into Maureen’s eyes. The younger woman glared at her.

“I’m so sorry, Gladys,” Ann said, quickly. “This is why we recommend ports. It’s much easier on the patient.”

Maureen mumbled something under her breath. “Easier for you.”

Ann washed her hands, then turned her attention to the IV bags. She hung them on the tree and said, “This is the New Medicine, Gladys. It’ll take about thirty minutes to go in. Then, we’ll start the actual chemotherapy treatment.”

Gladys didn’t answer. She’d closed her eyes, seemingly relaxed. Maureen, however, continued to glower. When Ann turned back to the desk, she could still feel the woman’s gaze on her back.

Ten minutes later all hell broke loose.

“Oh, my God, she can’t breathe!” Maureen cried.

Ann turned to see Gladys gasping for breath in the recliner. Maureen stood above her. “Help her!” she screamed.

The other patients in the Chemo Room looked up in alarm as Ann rushed forward to stop the drip. Within minutes, Dr. Mason and the other medical staff appeared beside her. Gladys didn’t respond to their ministrations.

In the confusion, Ann knocked the IV tree against the wall and somehow, the bags fell to the floor. She quickly righted the tree and returned the bags to it.

When Gladys failed to respond, she was rushed from the room. Maureen, her face ashen, stared after her mother.

“She’ll be alright,” Ann said. “I’ve seen this happen before. They’ll help her at the hospital.”

“What did you give her?” Maureen asked, her tone cold, dead.

“I gave her the New Medicine.”

Maureen glanced up sharply. “Varubi?”

“Yes.”

The woman stared, her gaze as lifeless as her voice. “Your lies…they cling to you. You’re dirty. Soiled.”

Ann reached out to her, but Maureen shook her off and hurried away.

***

Ann soaked in her bathtub, the hot water soothing her body but not her mind. The news of Gladys’ passing had come shortly before her shift ended. Maureen had not returned.

Ann bit her lip, her stomach roiling with anxiety. Dr. Mason had assured her it wasn’t her fault, but she still felt so…guilty.

She picked up a bottle of jasmine-scented soap, poured it on her bath puff, and scrubbed her skin.

How had Maureen known?

The way she stared, it was as though she had seen right inside Ann’s head, as though she had sifted through each of her memories.

She was low on the totem pole, not up at the top with the doctors and administrators. They dealt with the financials and insurance companies. They milked the patients for all they were worth. Ann’s only responsibility was to make sure the patients who didn’t want a port, got one. That they suffered allergic reactions severe enough to make the patient believe it wasn’t medication, but the IV which caused the problem.

Had Maureen seen her replace the IV bag when the tree fell against the wall? Had she somehow known that Ann hadn’t given her Varubi at all?

How had she known Ann was lying?

No. She couldn’t know. She’d been upset. She’d—

Ann glanced down at her arm and startled. A muddy-brown smudge had appeared beneath the puff. She scrubbed at it and more appeared.

The bath quickly filled with mud and filth from her body. The more she scrubbed, the worse it got. Shaking, she stepped out of the tub.

Ann released the water. Once it had drained, she filled the tub again and stepped in.

The moment she reclined, the water grew brown and worse, slimy. She drained it again.

This time, when she filled the tub, she added a strawberry bath bomb. The water grew fragrant, until she stepped in it. The moment she sat down, the strawberry scent grew sulfurous—like raw sewage. She poured a generous amount of soap on the puff and rubbed it across her chest, another brown smudge appeared across her skin.

Ann whimpered as she scrubbed, as layer after layer of brown slime peeled away. She scrubbed until polished, white bone appeared and she could scrub no more.

.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Naching T. Kassa:

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!