In the diverse landscapes of America, from Minnesota's heartland to Chicago's bustling streets, Joseph A. Sackett's early years unfurled. But it was his two-decade-long journey in the military's special operations that profoundly shaped him. Within these years, he witnessed humanity's darker shades, glimpsing the fragility beneath society's facade, understanding how swiftly it could crumble to its knees.
Joseph's writing is an extension of this fascination, a canvas where he paints the vulnerability and resilience of mankind. He draws from his experiences, crafting narratives that reveal society's weaknesses and the indomitable spirit that arises in response.
You can read more from Joseph right HERE.
WHISPERS OF THE NOCTURNAL CAREGIVER
by
Joseph Sackett
Evening shrouds the hospital in a quietude that’s almost sacred. My name is Evelyn, and I’ve been working at St. Mary’s hospital for some time now. My footsteps echo faintly against the polished floors as I navigate through the familiar labyrinth of hallways and rooms, each one a cocoon sheltering its own fragile patient on the verge of death.
As I meander through the stillness, I see Room 312 and its occupant, Mr. Granger, whose withering frame and trembling spirit have become a poignant part of my midnight rounds. His eyes, fogged with the passage of countless years, always fixate upon me with fear and recognition as I enter his dimly lit room.
"Good evening, Mr. Granger," I murmur gently, my voice intertwining with the faint beeping of the monitors.
His voice calm, "Not again, please…"
My gaze, soft and seemingly benevolent, met his, offering a counterfeit reassurance as I gently soothed his silvered hair, "Hush now, Mr. Granger. It's only your medicine, it’s just to ease your pains and guide you into sweet dreams.”
Mr. Granger’s eyes, now glossed with a sheen of tears, find mine in a lingering, desperate connection. "Why do you keep coming in here at night? Just leave me be, please..."
I stare at him, a gentle sigh escaping my lips, thinking he must really be starting to lose his mind. It seems every time I come to his room, he mutters those same words.
"I'm just here to help you get your rest, Mr. Granger. That is all, nothing more. Everything will be fine." I run my fingers through his hair one more time, my touch a whisper against his skin, an attempt to ease his spirit into a semblance of peace. I watch, my expression an undisturbed calm, as his eyes reluctantly close, surrendering once more into a drug-induced slumber.
Silently, I retract my hand, lingering for a moment longer in the shadowed tranquility of the room, his muted, fearful pleas echoing faintly amidst the rhythmic pulsations of the heart monitor.
The next day at the same time, I make my way back to Room 312. Mr. Granger has the sheets pulled up to his face, fear again evident in his eyes, though this time it seems heightened, nearly tangible in the dim room.
"Mr. Granger, it's okay. You know I'm just here to assist you. Just as I do every night," I whisper gently, intending to soothe his fraying nerves.
"Just leave me please. Just go..." he pleads.
A pang of something resembling sorrow grips me, even though I’ve seen this deterioration before. Some call it the unraveling of the mind. Others, a plunge into an abyss of dreaded anticipation. I've witnessed it unfold in numerous patients; in their fretful glances, restless nights, and pleas into the void. Somehow, my methods always brought them peace. A serenity in eternal rest, away from their plagued existence. Perhaps, I wonder, if it's Mr. Granger's turn to find this reprieve.
"Leave me be you demon!" Mr. Granger spits the words at me like venom.
Surprise flickers across my expression. "Now why would you say that to me? I'm here to help you."
"You’re an abomination to mankind! A damn demon woman..." His voice trembles.
”Hush now, Mr. Granger, everything is going to be okay," I murmur, reaching a hand out to calm him, although I feel a disturbance in the practiced calm I’ve always maintained.
Mr. Granger, with a surge of energy that seems to defy his frailty, reaches for the panic button, pushing it with a desperation that sends a piercing bell through the silent hospital corridors.
"Help! Help me!" His voice is a scratchy plea, almost drowned out by the blaring alarm.
I hear the approaching flurry of footsteps, and the clatter of equipment. "Now why would you go and do a thing like that?" I sigh, a flicker of irritation seeping through my words.
Nurse Cheryl bursts into the room, eyes wide as she surveys the scene. I try to speak to her, to explain the chaos she’s walked into, but as the words leave my mouth, she walks right through me, a shiver down my spine the only acknowledgment of our crossing paths.
My eyes widen in startled realization as Cheryl, undeterred by my presence, rushes to Mr. Granger's side, soothing him with gentle words and a comforting hand, ignoring the space I occupy. An unsettling chill envelops me as I begin to comprehend the reality unfolding before my eyes. A reality where my existence in this world is but a fleeting whisper, an ethereal echo, traversing the realms between the living and the dead.
My eyes drift toward Mr. Granger, who continues to stare, seeing into the abyss that I’ve become, his eyes wide with a terror that mirrors my own internal chaos.
"That nurse, Evelyn. She keeps coming into my room!" He stammers,
"You know she's been gone for some time now, Mr. Granger. After the police found out what she was doing to all you patients, she took her own life. She's no longer with us, Mr. Granger. Now relax.” Cheryl says with ease.
Her words sting like a bitter wind. A convoluted reflection of my being stares back at me from a mirror on the wall - eyes clouded, the pallor of decay permeating through once soft skin, and a grisly hole in my temple, narrating the ghastly end I met.
Am I an abomination? The question looms, not demanding an answer but merely existing as an acknowledged darkness within.
My gaze once again finds Mr. Granger, the man who is forced to endure my haunted visits. A rotting smile stretches across my face, a ghastly reassurance born from the void of emotion I now inhabit.
"Everything is going to be fine. Everything will be okay," I murmur, my voice a ghostly lullaby lingering amidst the beeps and sterile scents of Room 312.