In this firsthand tale of secret vendettas, a nurse with a sinister side shares secrets of retaliation against those who crossed her within the hospital walls.
This medical fiction tale is one of a collection of stories that are like “Final Destination” meets “The Monkey’s Paw” (W. W. Jacobs, 1902). As such, they are tragedies that appeal most to readers who enjoy the inexorable pull of a story arc that leads to doom. The technical details surrounding the event are drawn from real cases in the US OSHA incident report database or similar sources and are therefore entirely realistic, even if seemingly outlandish.
I know that the other staff in Ward 5W called me “Wendy, the wicked witch.” It was funny in an ironic way, because had they known what was in my head, or what I was going to do, they probably wouldn’t have had the guts to call me anything at all. They knew about some of my pranks, and they took note of the “goth witch” outfits I made for Halloween, but that was the sum total of what made them call me the “wicked witch.” They didn’t know what I did to that little snot, Janet.
She was an irritatingly flouncy little fair-skinned beauty who pretended to be a nurse but was there to snag a rich husband. She was one of those nurses with the manicured nails, the $300 hairdo, and the custom-made uniform that fit so well it made me want to retch—or assign her to the patient with the impacted bowel or the one with the gangrenous toes.
For over a month, Janet had filled the air with her perfume and the agonizingly trivial details of her wedding plans. She was always on about their destination wedding at Cabo-somewhere or someplace-del-sol. During her big send-off lunch, which was all salads and low-calorie-zero-sugar-non-GMO snacks, I added some leafy greens and herbs. She chowed down like a rabbit in an organic vegetable garden and took in enough of my special mix to cause phytophotodermatitis in a wildebeest. When we waved her off, she promised (or threatened) to take “thousands of pics” and to send postcards from paradise. Well, she was back before the first and only postcard arrived. Apparently, the destination nuptial holiday was a disaster because, well, welts, rashes, blistering and peeling skin, and pus can spoil the mood.
Then there was the cleaner who I dubbed “Uriah Sweep,” whose unctuous prattle and servile manner hid the fact that he was a nasty little peeper. He also stole candy from the communal room and picked his nose when he thought nobody was looking. It was his peeper activities that put him crossways with me, though. One night on the late shift, I went for a shower in the deserted admin block, waiting for him to press a beady little eye to the peephole he had made. I shoved a bone marrow aspiration needle through the hole and gave the blue plastic handle a solid thump with my palm. When I nipped round to where he was hiding, he was flopping about like he was having a stroke, which he was. I wrapped him in a shower curtain and dragged him to the elevator. After slipping his ID card through the gap on the door to block the sensor, I rolled him into the empty shaft. They didn’t find him until the administrators complained about the stink, and everyone thought it was obvious he had met his end monkeying around. Misadventure, the report said, which I thought pretty spot-on. Nobody was calling me the “wicked witch” for that either.
Over the years, there were so many other cases where I had to balance the scales. It was the snarky surgeon that eventually drew attention. He had a caustic and mightier-than-thou attitude at the best of times, but it was his habit of tearing into the junior nurses that irritated me. He seemed to get a kick out of bawling out the most timorous newbies, smirking if they cried. The thing was that his reputation and curt instructions already made them a bundle of nerves, so they were almost guaranteed to mess up something, like drop a retractor on the OR floor. Look, I get the whole “sacred sterile field” thing and the need for constantly being alert, but there is seldom a need to go tearing into a junior nurse for being nervous. I also get the whole “cute aggression” thing, and that the more sweet and innocent someone is at work, the more you want to push them down the stairs. Sure, they are irritating as heck. We are adults, though, and where would we be if we launched every irritating person down the stairs? In jail, that’s where. Anyway, he was on at this one nurse for dropping a hemostat until she was a sobbing wreck, and then when he yelled at her, she jerked and knocked the whole surgical tray of instruments over. The whole damned OR floor was covered with stuff, and the surgery had to be postponed. He screamed at her like a madman, she bolted, people ran after her… it was a five-ring circus. The assistant surgeon shot him the evil eye; the anesthetist said, “Oh for f***’s sake, William” and stormed off. We were alone, and he was staring right past me, so I walked up, kneed him in the groin, and slapped the mask on him.
Willy Boy was well on his way to hell, but then the anesthetist came back, probably to deliver a sermon on teamwork or something. There really was no way to explain why I was sitting on his chest with his arms pinned by my knees, holding the mask on with both hands while anesthetic gas was blasting. What did I say? “Oops, I tripped and fell on him?” So that’s how I ended up here in this cell.
Of course, once they started digging, there were a few more pieces that lined up, so yeah, that got me 20 years to life. I miss my own place, and nursing, but it’s not all bad in here. The library was a joke, but I got them to order some good books, and I get some medical journals that friends on the outside send me. There is also the gardening. I like gardening, and it’s amazing how they will search your stuff and poke around in your cavities for contraband, but you can drag in a whole plant, and they don’t bat an eyelid. Working in the kitchen is also great; I enjoy making special treats. Mainly, it’s stuff like cupcakes and toffee that the guards and wardens jump for, but sometimes I get to make a special delivery of a custom product. That’s how I got rid of one of the nastier wardens, with a little infusion of jimsonweed in his herbal tea.
Right now, I’m working on balancing the books with a screw that has been getting frisky with the younger members of this all-female vacation club. I distilled something special from a handful of castor oil seeds grown in the prison garden. I think it’s going to be interesting to see a ricin case firsthand.
