Page 25 of The Night Shift

Any normal person would probably question why I’m trying to take off my top in their bathroom in the first place. But not this guy. This guy’s way too drunk and way too eager.

And lucky for me, it’s about to cost him his life.

He hurries to open the door and the second he does; I slam my elbow into his face. He falls to the floor, crying out in agony, while clutching his nose.

“Hands on your head. Get in the bathtub.”

“Wh-what?” he sobs as I approach, watching me with wide, terrified eyes. “What the fuck!”

I take out my scalpel and hold the shiny blade up, right next to his face.

He looks confused for a second. “What the fuck, you fucking bitch!”

He tries reaching for my scalpel and I simply sidestep, dropping the blade into my right hand as I strike him hard across the face with my left. A cry of pain rips from his lips.

“Was that motivation enough or would you like me to repeat myself?” I ask politely.

“Please!” He squeezes his eyes shut, like a pathetic child thinking he’s invisible.

“Open your eyes,” I say.

He doesn’t.

His silence gets on my nerves. I grab his hair and yank his head back. “Open your fucking eyes or else I will cut your eyelids off your pathetic face and make you eat them.”

He shakes in fear, his body trembling and eyes fluttering open. “Please! Wh-what’s happening…who…who are you?”

Ugh. How original. “If I tell you my name, there’s no way you’re walking out of here with a pulse.”

“What?” he asks in a tiny whimper.

Is that the only word in his vocabulary?I twirl my scalpel between my fingers and his eyes widen with horror. “It’s Holly. Holly Moore. What’s your name?”

“Help!” he screams. “Help! Somebody!”

“Not to sound like a total cliche, but there’s no one around to hear you.” I’m actually not very sure about that part, but I’ve always wanted to say it like how they do in the movies.

“Help!”

“Stop it.”

“Help! Please! Somebody, help!”

“I said stop screaming.”

He doesn’t. He keeps calling for help and the shrill sound pierces through my skull, making my head throb. If he keeps this up, I’m going to cut the bastard’s tongue into tiny pieces and feed them to the stray cats outside.

I place the scalpel on the bathroom floor and once again slap him across the face. Hard. “What part of stop screaming do you not understand?!”

Tears feverishly pour down Johnny’s cheeks and he begs, whimpering. Something incoherent.Save me, help me, no, stop. All that usual bullshit.

“Hands on your head. Get in the fucking bathtub.”

“P-please…Please don’t hurt me …”

“Why are you crying? I haven’t even done anything yet.”

More tears. He tries to stand up. “Please…” he says again.