Night Shift

Jemima rubbed her forhead. It ached just above her left eye but she couldn’t understand what the cause of the pain was. Last thing she remembered, she was sitting at her bus stop after finishing her shift at the diner. It was the late shift again. She hated the late shift. The diner always seem to bring in the creepy crawlies, you know, folks who just gave off a vibe that made you feel you needed to put your guard up. She waited on a woman that made her feel that way tonight, but more so than usual. She wore medical scrubs, had her curly brown hair twisted up in a clip, but over the course of the day, her hair had loosened into tendrils around her oval face, turns out she had a lot of grey. She wore glasses across a freckled nose and tired, sullen eyes, dark circles draped beneath them. Jemima thought she looked as though she’d been crying all her life. She looked to be around 45 or 50 years of age. Something about the woman made Jemima feel sorry for her, but she’s so dangerous. Why does she seem so dangerous? Her badge read that she was a Plastic Surgeon at the local hospital.

"What the heck is a Plastic Surgeon hanging around this late at night?" Jemima wondered. "Are they on call like Obstetricians? "

Oh well, it didn’t matter to her enough to ask. She didn’t want to think too much about the woman. She’d look over at the doctor sitting alone in her booth, she’d be careful to look through the corner of her eye, and everytime she did, the doctor would be staring at her. Just blatantly staring with a small smirk on her tired face. Jemima sighed and looked at the clock. 3am. Time to clock out and go home. Thank God. Jemima walked over to the doctor to giver her her check.

“Here you go. Take care.” she slid the check across the table to the doctor. The doctor reached her hand up and grazed Jemima’s fingers with her own. Jemima was startled by the touch and looked at the doctor with wide eyes. She was rubbing her fingers against her thumb as if she touched something viscous.

“Cold hands...but a warm heart, I’m sure.” A look of mischief washed across the doctor’s face.

“Oh...yeah.” Jemima laughed uncomfortably. She turned quickly and walked to the kitchen, grabbed her belongings, clocked out, and headed to the bus stop. She sat down and took out her phone to text her mother, let her know she was on her way home. A sharp pain penetrated her kneck, like a wasp sting, then Jemima saw the syringe fall on to her lap and a hand clapped over her mouth. She recognized the touch. It was the doctor. Jemima felt in her bag for her mase, but blacked out.

She wasn’t alone sitting in the waiting room. Other girls of Jemimas age sat in the waiting room of the office of Doctor Wanda Brently, Plastic Surgeon, or at least that’s what the placard read on the door. Jemima noticed a picture of the doctor with her arm around a young girl who looked as though she and Jemima could be sisters, twins even. The other girls in the waiting room did too. One girl had the picture girls hair, another her lips, the other her eyes, and the last girl her exact skin tone. There were pictures of the young girl all over the room, actually.

"Is that her daughter?"Jemima thought.

Jemima got up from the chair to make a run for it, but fell just as soon as she did. Her ankles were chained and bound to the floor, just like the other girls.

Just as Jemima sat back down in her chair, a nurse opened the door to another section of the office and walked out. As she did, she put reading glasses on her wrinkled nose. She wore her curly gray hair in a clip just like the doctor and even had the same facial features. If she were a betting woman, Jemima would win big. She was the doctor's mother. The woman carefully read the name tags stuck to the girls shirts.

“Skin, there you are. Come with me, dear. We’ll get you put all back together.” the old woman unlocked the chains from the girls ankles and escorted her toward the back section of the office.

Jemima looked down at her name tag that read “heart.” And wait, what did she mean “put back together.”?

The girl with the skin looked back at the other girls, fear in her eyes and courage too. She looked at the older woman, then twisted loose from her grip. She ran toward the door, but fell dead once the woman put a bullet in her skull.

Everyone screamed.

The girl with the name tag “hair” vomited. Jemima watched in shock as the old woman placed her 22 back in her pocket, grabbed Skin’s ankle, and drug her to the back section of the office; blood trailing behind.

“Beautiful, bold, but dumb as a box of rocks. Don’t worry dear, we’ll get you put all back together.”