Twelve hours on her feet, and Jane hadn’t even had time for a bathroom break, let alone the sandwich still waiting at the nurses’ station. The buzzer sounded again—sharp, insistent.

​

“Jane, Ward Three. Paul’s having another episode. We need a restraint and a sedative.”

​

She sighed, wiping her hands on her scrubs as she trudged down the corridor.

 

Her footsteps echoed, each one a dull reminder of how long she'd been doing this. Years of hard, thankless work—patients in pain, families angry, and management indifferent.

 

Lately, one question kept circling her tired mind: Who looks after the nurses?

​

Inside the room, two orderlies had Paul pinned to the bed. He was thrashing, eyes wild with terror.

​

“He’s in the corner!” Paul screamed. “He’s always been there—since I was a kid! Get him away from me!”

​

Jane approached slowly, syringe already prepared.

 

“Alright, Paul,” she said gently.

​

The therapist entered quietly, closing the door behind him.

 

He perched on the bed’s edge like he always did—collected, calculated.

 

Jane never liked him much. Young, polished, and condescending, he spoke to patients—and staff—as if he were somehow above it all.

 

He probably earned double her salary, though no one ever confirmed it.

​

“Paul,” the therapist said smoothly,

 

“We’re going to give you something to help you calm down. But can you tell me who you see?”

​

“I told you,” Paul sobbed.

 

“The man who hurt me. He’s right there. He never left.”

​

The therapist gave a practiced sigh.

 

“You know we can’t help unless you calm down. Jane’s going to give you something now. You know there’s no one there.”

​

Jane followed Paul’s gaze to the empty corner.

 

She saw nothing—but still, something flickered deep in her memory. Shadows from her own childhood. She had her own ghosts. They never left either.

 

She could still see them in her nightmares, looming over the bed, pinning her down with fear. Even when she woke up she couldn't move. She could still feel the weight on her. 

 

Unspoken things that had never quite gone away.

​

What she wanted most was sleep. Sleep without that weight on her. 

​

She injected the shot. Paul’s body relaxed, his screams fading into slurred whimpers. The therapist gave her a curt nod. Her part was done.

​

Outside, she didn’t go back to the nurses' station.

 

She turned left instead, heading to the boiler room, the one place the CCTV didn’t cover.

 

She fished a crumpled cigarette from her pocket, lit it with shaking hands, and leaned against the warm, rusting boiler.

​

“It’s no life,” she murmured to no one.

 

“Not for me. Not for them. The only ones winning are...” her thoughts trailed off.

​

She took a long drag, and stared at the flame on the match.

 

It flickered like a tiny rebellion in her fingers. Then she tossed it at the canisters that fuelled the boilers. 

​

The fire caught slowly, crawling up pipes and wires. 

 

It spread.

​

And when it was over, everything was gone - just ash and echoes.

​

The patients.

The staff.

The whole damn place.

 

Finally, rest she thought.