Nurse | Chapter 1. [Reward]

Nurse.

By Horatio Husky

Commissioned by Frank

Chapter 1.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights mingled with the distant clatter of food trays and the muted shuffle of slippers against linoleum. Afternoon at St. Cordelia’s Retirement Home was always the same blend of quiet dignity and subtle chaos. Nurse Frank, clipboard in hand and navy scrubs slightly wrinkled from the morning rush, leaned against the nurses’ station desk, eyes flicking between a chart and the approaching form of Dr. Kai.

Dr. Kai looked composed as ever, pressed white coat, a sleek tie with a sensible floral pattern, but there was a rare edge of tension in his brow as he stopped a few feet away from Frank. His fur, a clean, sleek arctic fox white, bristled lightly along his jawline.

“She’s doing it again.” 

Kai said with a sigh.

Frank looked up, giving him a tired but gentle smile. 

“Marie?”

Kai nodded, setting his tablet down with a muted clack. 

“She’s refusing her beta-blockers. Twice this week. And I’m fairly certain she knew exactly what we were trying to do when we slipped them into her Jell-O. She asked the dietary aide if that day’s flavor came in ‘unmedicated.’” 

His ears twitched.

Frank chuckled under his breath. 

“Cognizant enough to be cheeky, that’s for sure.”

Kai did not smile. He crossed his arms, tail flicking with barely contained agitation. 

“Frank, I get that she’s one of the sharper ones, but that doesn't make this less dangerous. Her BP’s been inconsistent for three weeks. If she strokes out because we keep playing nice…”

“I’ll talk to her.” 

Frank interrupted softly. Kai raised a brow.

“She likes me.” 

Frank continued with a reassuring nod. 

“Maybe it’s because I bring her those butterscotch candies she pretends to hate. Or maybe it’s just the ‘young man’s charm’ she likes to tease me about. Either way, she usually listens.”

Dr. Kai let out a long breath, the stern line of his mouth softening just a little. 

“Alright. But if this keeps up, we’ll have to involve her family again. And you know how that went last time.”

Frank winced. 

“I haven’t heard a voicemail scream here that colorfully since I worked post-op.”

Kai gave him a dry look, but finally cracked a tiny smile. 

“You’ve got half an hour before meds pass. Good luck.”

With a nod and a stretch of his neck that popped three vertebrae, Frank tucked the creased paper he held into his breast pocket, tucking it neatly alongside his pens as he turned down the west wing corridor. The floors glowed with that polished fake-wood sheen, the soft scent of lavender and powdered detergent lingering in the air. Sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains at the end of the hallway, painting golden stripes on the walls.

He stopped in front of Room 214. The door was slightly ajar.

“Marie?” 

He called gently, tapping twice before easing it open.

Inside, the space felt like a time capsule, lace doilies, sepia-toned photos, and a hand-knitted afghan draped over the recliner near the window. A small music box on the dresser ticked softly, playing a slow, waltzing melody that gave the air a dreamy, weightless quality.

Marie sat in her wheelchair, back slightly stooped but her amber eyes sharp beneath her rounded glasses. She was dressed in a pale mauve sweater with embroidered roses, her bobcat tail curled neatly around one side of the chair like a shawl.

“If it isn’t the nurse!” 

She said with a purr of amusement. 

“Here to try and charm a tired old feline into compliance?”

Frank smiled, closing the door gently behind him. 

“I thought we agreed: I’m more of a doctor this week.”

Marie sniffed. 

“Last week it was physical therapist.’ Pick a profession and stick to it, dear.”

“Well, I guess I’m still figuring it out.” 

Frank said, taking the seat beside her. 

“But I’m pretty sure I’m not a bobcat. You’ve cornered the market on that.”

Marie tilted her head. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I’m not here to flatter.” 

He said softly. 

“I’m here to talk.”

“Oh no. That tone.” 

She folded her paws, squinting suspiciously. 

“That’s the ‘please take your medicine’ tone.”

Frank leaned back, fingers laced in his lap. 

“Marie… you know you need them. Your blood pressure’s been a little all over the place lately.”

Marie gave a half-shrug. 

“It’s not that bad.”

“Dr. Kai’s concerned. I’m concerned.”

She let out a slow breath, her expression cooling. 

“You’re the only one I’ll even consider listening to, Frank, so if you’re here to guilt me.”

“No guilt.” 

He looked her in the eyes. 

“Just honesty.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The music box continued its soft lullaby, a glimmer of dust dancing in the sunlight beside the windowsill. Finally, Marie sighed. 

“It’s not the pills themselves. It’s… the loss of control. Every time I take one, I feel like I’m handing over another little piece of myself. Like I’m not Marie anymore. Just a patient number and a med schedule.”

Frank’s voice lowered. 

“You’re still Marie. With or without the pills. But what good is holding onto control if it means putting yourself in danger?”

Marie looked down at her paws, fingers curling tightly around the armrest.

Frank leaned forward, placing a comforting paw on Marie’s back before he continued. 

“You know I’m not like the others. I get wanting to feel like you have a say in your life. I’ve felt like a cog in a machine, too. But I also know… sometimes letting someone help isn’t losing control. It’s choosing a different kind of strength.”

She looked up, her golden eyes misting just a little. 

“That’s a pretty speech, nurse.”

“I didn’t rehearse it.” 

Frank smiled. 

“But maybe I should’ve.”

She huffed, a dry chuckle escaping her throat. 

“Fine. I’ll take the damn pills. But only if you bring me something other than that fluorescent lime Jell-O tomorrow.”

He stood up with a grin. 

“Strawberry shortcake it is.”

“Fresh.” 

She warned, wagging a finger. 

“None of that frozen nonsense.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

As he turned to go, her voice stopped him.

“Frank?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“You ever feel like the world’s… shifting? Like something just beneath the surface is changing, and everyone’s pretending not to see it?”

Frank blinked. 

“What do you mean?”

Marie stared out the window, her voice suddenly distant. 

“Maybe nothing. Or maybe everything.”

Marie’s gaze lingered on Frank with a warmth that was rare for her, softened but not without its sharp edges. As he reached for the doorknob, she spoke again, voice gentler this time.

“You look like you could use something sweet, dear. Take one from the bowl, would you?”

Frank turned, blinking once before spotting the small glass dish on the corner of her dresser, filled with an eclectic mix of hard candies wrapped in shiny pastel foils. He walked over and leaned down, paw hovering over the bowl for a moment.

“You sure?” 

He asked, teasing gently. 

“Not going to drug me the way we drug the Jell-O?”

Marie’s whiskers twitched with amusement. 

“If I were going to drug you, dear, you’d never see it coming. Now hush and pick the red one. It’s my favorite, and you’ve earned it.”

He gave her a soft grin and selected a ruby-wrapped sweet. The wrapper crinkled delicately as he peeled it open, popping the smooth candy into his mouth as he pocketed the foil.

The taste hit him immediately, unmistakably strawberry, but not like the generic artificial kind he’d expected. It was rich somehow. Not in the sense of gourmet, but emotionally so. It tasted almost like memory. His ears perked instinctively. It was creamy and sweet, faintly tangy, and brought with it an overwhelming, unexpected image: a light pink glass of strawberry milk, set beside a little blue lunchbox with a cartoon dragon on the side. The smell of fresh laundry. The soft, weighty feeling of a nap blanket.

Frank blinked rapidly. The sensation passed just as quickly as it had come, and he laughed, more at himself than anything else.

“You alright?” 

Marie asked, eyes sharp with curiosity.

“Yeah.” 

He said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just… reminded me of something I hadn’t thought about in years.”

Marie simply smiled knowingly and turned her chair back toward the window, as if the moment had passed for her. Maybe it had. Frank lingered only a second longer before offering a gentle goodbye and heading out. The rest of the shift went by in a blur. Medication rounds, a dressing change for Mr. Bell in 219, and a spirited but ultimately one-sided debate with a badger who was convinced that pudding cups had a direct link to dementia.

By the time he signed out of the nurse’s log, the sun had long since disappeared behind the trees. The home was quiet, eerie almost, with only the night staff moving through the halls like whispers. Frank tucked his badge into his bag and stepped out into the cooling night. 

The Atlantic breeze rustled his scrubs and carried the faint scent of salt and pine. His paws ached, and his lower back twinged from bending over Mrs. Carter’s foot bath earlier. He made his way to his beat-up hatchback and drove home with the windows half down, the wind washing away the scent of disinfectant clinging to his fur.

His apartment was small, studio style, but neat and homey. A few potted plants lined the window sill, and a cozy gray couch nestled in the corner beneath a poster of an abstract landscape. The kitchenette gleamed with the subtle effort of someone who tried to pretend they cooked more than they actually did.

Kicking off his shoes, Frank made a beeline to the shower, trying to scrub away the day. But as the water streamed down his sleek fur, the memory of that candy kept resurfacing. The way it tasted like nostalgia. The strange pull of it. Like someone had bottled the idea of being safe, loved, little, and hidden it in a strawberry wrapper.

He shook his head, trying to banish the sensation. It was just candy. Just a weird coincidence.

Probably just tired.

After toweling off, he slipped into a soft old T-shirt and a pair of loose pajama bottoms, padding over to his bed. The mattress welcomed him with a familiar creak, and he sighed as his body sank into the covers. But even with the lights off and the soft hum of his bedside fan, sleep did not come.

Instead, he lay still, eyes tracing the dark ceiling, lost in thought. Marie’s words haunted him, strangely prophetic in hindsight.

“You ever feel like the world’s… shifting?”

Frank turned onto his side, tail curled loosely over his thigh. There was something in the way she had said it, not paranoid, not confused. Almost resigned.

He thought again of the candy. That flash of being a kit. The feeling of soft hands ruffling the fur behind his ears. Of lying on the carpet floor in footed pajamas, sipping strawberry milk from a bendy straw. He had not thought of that in years. Hadn’t remembered the specific scent of his childhood blanket. Or the way his mother used to hum little lullabies as she packed his school bag.

But now it was all so sharp, like the candy had flipped a switch.

He glanced at the wrapper on his nightstand. Still a little crumpled, the metallic pink foil glinted in the half-light. Rolling onto his back, Frank reached out and picked it up, turning it over slowly between his fingers. It felt warm? No, not warm exactly. Familiar. He placed it back down, tucking it beside his phone.

He closed his eyes again, this time trying to empty his mind.

But just as he began to drift, a soft whisper of sensation danced along his spine. A kind of pressure low in his abdomen. Not pain, not even discomfort, just a presence. Like something nudging from within. He squirmed, adjusting his position.

Weird.

He exhaled through his nose and finally allowed himself to let go.

But the last thought before sleep claimed him was not of patients, or paperwork, or tomorrow’s medication rounds.

It was of his mother’s voice, quiet and far away.

Frank did not dream that night.

But the next morning, something about the way his tail curled instinctively beneath the blankets felt off.

Comfortable. But off.