Ryan was tired of these shit jobs. Mopping someone else mess, and cleaning someone else’s trash. And for what? Minimum wage? How the hell could Jasco, his own brother, even think of this as an honest living? Manual labor was cruel to a man of his years, like lead shot spilling by the second across his back. And of all places, why a hospital?
The night brought little comfort, unlike the busy grocery stores and malls he’d grown used too when night brought the promos of lucid tranquility. The hospital had a pulse, a life its own. The building breathed with the stench of stale, sterile air that fed upon the unfortunate sick. It wasn’t picky, as those both ill and wretched with misfortune equally sufficed its ravenous hunger. Ryan was simply another appetizer.
Avoiding small talk was made easy in the hurly burly of the ER. Ryan passed unnoticed as men and women were wheeled through the halls on stretchers, their broken bodies bleeding all over his freshly washed floors.
“Car accident,” the ambulance paramedic informed as the doctor checked the patients’ heart. “Three car pile up involving two midsize cars and a bus roll over.”
“Heart rates dropping,” the doctor said as pulled the patient to her station, the patience gender hidden beneath pools of torn flesh and gore. “They just keep coming!”
“The bus rolled over on the second car,” the paramedic explained. “We’ve still got the people in the bus coming.”
“What a night.”
Ryan watched, mop in hand as patient after patient was wheeled across his labors. Let them clean their own floors, he though to himself as he made his way to the elevator for the next floor. What a night indeed.
Babies cried in their plastic tubes, cursing their creatures for exacting them into this world of light and alien faces. Some longed for the warmth of the womb, while others pleaded for the nourishment of their mothers’ breast. Ryan tuned the tightly cocooned pests easily with the roar of the vacuum as he cleaned the lobby.  Then it accrued to him, the irony of life and death, of miracles and curses housed under one name, St. Rosemary’s Memorial Hospital.
Fists pounded against the glass, hoping to break free as the car filled with water. There was little time; night had already swallowed the dark depths of the lake. Now the water was ready to devoir. He slammed his hands harder, his fists moving as if in slow-motion cinema as
The lobby was closed to visitors, leaving most of the lights off for the night in the gift shop and main hallways and reception areas. Maybe it was the smell that accosted him so, mixed with the askew still that hospitals are not accustomed to. It was sterile, in every sense.
Ryan’s took a breather, rubbing his cafe as he sat on the lobby bench. He could feel his pulse warm, beating underneath his jeans. He popped open his Vicodin, chasseing it with a shot from his flask. Whiskey burned his throat and cooled his tongue as it rushed the way down to his empty belly.
The pain was Jasco’s fault. Ryan could be home now, soaking up Social security and eating welfare checks. Wasn’t as if he didn’t own anything, the trailer was paid for, and the social was more then enough for lot rent. It didn’t matter anymore; at least Ryan had his nip.
The last stop before lunch might not have been the wisest before a meal. It wasn’t the dead he that bothered him, there was little they could do. It was their condition, their blunt disfigurements and macabre slumber that stirred his stomach. It was a blessing to find all had been put away as he gingerly opened the door. All was organized, the tools polished and prepped for the next days butcheries, the tables washed for the slabs of meat to be cleaned and carved.
Ryan peaked through the window, trying to peer through the darkness of the room as he swallowed another bitter nip from his leather flask. He pushed open the door, gingerly reaching for the light switch hidden in the pitch that seemingly painted the walls. A soft click and the lights flickered on. The cold florescent blinked as they groggily awoke. Tables adorned with chrome gleamed in white light, while the steal doors of the coolers gave little reflection.  Ryan wheeled his mop and bucket in, and began at once to work on the lime green tile.
The ammonia stung his nose, and watered his eyes as he mopped the floor with the hospital’s own sterol mixture. The dead slept in their frozen beds, unmoved by the slapping of foamy mop and tile. As he cleaned, the pain in his leg began to tingle, burning beneath his pants as it traveled down from his cafe to his toes. Ryan stopped a moment, leaning against the cold chrome prep table. He flinched as his hand touched its surface; dead people had once been spread across its top. He sipped his flask, rubbing his leg as the pain grew warm.
As his leg throbbed beneath his clothes, the lights began to blink. Ryan shot up, putting aside the pain for a moment of panic. The lights continued their fluttering. Ryan moved from his perch, limping to the door. As his hand grasped the handle, the lock within clicked, Ryan jerked at the knob, thrashing the door to no avail.
“Hey!” he yelled, his voice chocked with phlegm and liquor. “Hey! Let me out! The doors locked! Somebody!”
The lights answered with silence, painting the room in darkness. Ryan’s efforts grew dire.
“Hey!” Ryan shouted, fever pitch in his tone. “Let me out!”
As he peered through the chicken wire glass, the lights in the hall failed. Darkness was a cold companion.
“Hey!” Ryan’s voice grew horse with each outburst.
Numbness swelled in his palms as he beat his weight against the door. Then the lights fluttered again, illuminating the room with cold white light. Ryan turned to greet the room in a sweat of fear, liquor and terror perspiring from every pour. He grabbed at the cross the hung by his chest, searching his mind for scriptcher. None would be had as the room fell silent.
Ryan stuck to the wall opposite the freezers, moving towards his mop. There was no other exit but the one he came. Maybe the stick could give some leverage. As he reached for the handle, there came a din to the silence, a breath soft and barley audible in the thunder of Ryan’s own choir of sounds.  Ryan held the mop close, unscrewing the head from its shaft.
“Who’s there?” A prank, Ryan wondered. “Where are you? This isn’t a game.”
Ryan was not about to fall prey to some game of his expense. He paused, waiting for the din to guild him. The breath sounded again from the third cooler down. Ryan was quick to open it, and appalled by his finding. A boy, his color stolen by death lay blue and lifeless on the sliding table. Ryan prodded the corpse with a gentle nudge of his mop handle. The boy was surely dead. Ryan gingerly peaked his head into the chamber from his the table emerged, looking for any sign of the prankster.
As he poked his head into the darkness, the boy took a breath. His chest rose and fell, as air passed his frozen lips. His heart gave not a beat, nor did blood move through his lifeless body, only his lungs worked the air to and fro. Ryan pulled his head from the space, unsure of were to look next, when the din came again. His eyes met with the somber emptiness of the boy’s vacant stair as he drew another breath. Ryan shot back a step, falling to the floor as his foot slid in mop water.
From the boys’ dead lips, sounds churned from within as his vocal chords struggled to regain function. Muscle memory was lost in death, birthing sounds that curdled and hung sharp in the air. Then, words came forth, whispers and whimpers at first, but audible none the less. If not for Ryan’s face, his jaw might have fallen off.
“I,” the boy’s frail voice chocked. “I killed him.”
Ryan knelt beside him.
“I fucking killed him,”
The room began to breath. Its walls glistened with perspiration, as it heaved heavy breaths that stank of stagnant water and human bile. The boy continued his ranting. Ryan lit with confusion, his heart racing, his mind sobering. The room was warm as condensation quickly grew against Ryan’s face and chest as he stood beside the boy. Ryan whipped his face as he watched the room breath life and listen to the dead child speak.
“I fucking killed him,” the boy said again, his gaze unmoved, empty, and lifeless. “I didn’t mean to. I swear”
“Didn’t,” Ryan started, dumfounded. “Didn’t mean what?”
“I fucking killed him.”
“Who?” Was it fear or sweat that percolated against the back of his neck?
“I didn’t mean to. I swear.”
“Who did you kill?” This was getting old fast.
“He was my best friend. I fucking killed him.”
“How?” Now they were getting somewhere.
Ryan sipped another warm nip as he pulled up a steal stool beside the dead child. The dead spoke with in dry, hollow tones that swung through the room like a hang mans noose as they echoed from corner to corner.  If Ryan was going crazy, he at least he had nip.