On an unremarkable day, in an unremarkable town, with frankly unremarkable people, doing unremarkable jobs, Layla Bennet briskly paced to the end of the ward. She had rushed through the drizzling weather to get to her workplace on time, between her occupation as a palliative care nurse and the miserable weather, her day was definitely going to be unpleasant. Finally she arrived at her destination, the last bed on the ward belonging to a young boy just 17 years old, an age which most would agree doesn't belong in her ward. He seemed to be sleeping at a horrifically uncomfortable angle, his neck hanging over his chest freely , then again he would be uncomfortable no matter what with his cancer ridden body. Still, she decided to do her best to help out and prop him into a much more relaxing position but as soon as her hand touched his skin she flinched back. He was cold, dripping with sweat and his skin stiff. Rigor mortis had already set in and so she knew, not only was he dead, but he had been dead for hours. Protocol was soon followed as she called for her colleague and after confirmation he was indeed dead, at 9:07 am Alexander Hurst was announced dead. Layla could have sworn, after her sentence ended, a frozen deathly wind blew past her face. With no living family and no friends it seemed he would leave little behind other then the chilling memory she would never forget.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.