"Another sleepless night."
The words slipped from my lips, as I lay motionless on the stiff mattress, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. How long had it been since I last slept properly? Days? Weeks? It didn't matter. Sleep had long since become a luxury—one I refused to indulge in.
The nightmares would come if I did.
My body ached from exhaustion, my mind fogged with weariness, yet I remained awake by choice. If I closed my eyes, I would only find myself drowning in the same tormenting visions, trapped in the cruel embrace of memories I wanted to forget. But the nights stretched on, empty and suffocating, leaving me to question: If opening my eyes only led to a world that drained me, what solace was there in closing them?
Logic dictated that I needed sleep. My body craved it, my profession demanded it. As a nurse, I had a responsibility—to my patients, to my colleagues, to the very institution that consumed every waking moment of my existence. And yet, the very idea of rest felt foreign, a privilege I wasn't permitted to have.
Because of him.
Because of the old man who forced me into this life, shackling me to a dream that wasn't mine.
Nicholas Langlois, the son who was never given a choice.
A faint voice cut through the haze of my thoughts.
"Nicholas, you're needed in Room 24."
Abigail's voice. Tired, like mine, yet firm. I blinked, disoriented, and realized I was already at the hospital. When had I arrived? Had I walked here on autopilot again? It was all the same—a never-ending cycle, an endless repetition of days bleeding into nights with no distinction.
All.
Over.
Again.
I exhaled, forcing down the bitterness crawling up my throat.
"I'll be there."
My voice came out hollow, detached, as if I were merely reciting a script. And in a way, I was. This place—this hellhole—had become my stage, and I, its unwilling performer. Every shift, every patient, every forced interaction—it was all part of the routine, a play I never auditioned for but was expected to perfect.
The irony was almost laughable. The very people I tended to received care, comfort, and healing. Yet I, the one stitching their wounds and soothing their pain, was left to rot in my own exhaustion.
And even if I was granted rest… would it even matter?
By now, I was far too drained to feel it.