Driving to work at 6 AM, slowing down to avoid the homeless people gathered in masses next to the Quik Trip, speeding up to pass street sweepers, just wanting to get there, to start this day and be done with it. Parking in the hospital's employee parking lot, entering the West Entrance, which in the hospital's color-coded system of entryways is dubbed the Blue Entrance.
The day proceeds in the usual way, endlessly walking corridors, pretending not to notice people wandering around in glassy-eyed states, families gathered in mourning, the wide, fearful eyes of paper-skinned old people wheeled on gurneys, their fears in no way aided by the endless, mindless chatter of orderlies. After one day here, all of this became so easy to ignore.
But down in the cage where these things are done, extracting blood from a recliner, reality intrudes. The usual precautions are taken, of course, gloves and a gown, but this chair hadn't been tagged, so presumably this blood is not tainted.
There's just...so much of it, in the seat, on the back, on the foot rest. This person, whoever he or she may have been, was not just brought in, fresh from an accident or a shooting. This person sat comfortably in a recliner, out of bed, feeling better, when all of this blood came from somewhere.
What became of this phantom bleeder? Is he okay? Did she die?
The extractor does its job well. Soon, the only trace of blood is a stubborn dark line along the edge of the seat, the only reminder this had ever happened.
