Buttocks pumping like pistons, I stride through my drug round, racing against a clock that demands insulin at four thirty exactly.

Like the expert cocktail makers, I pour, mix, crush and dissolve with economy of movement. Ok, perhaps a tiny flourish to show how fluid my expertise is, just in case someone is watching. That’s the business, sort of back of house stuff but the front of house performance requires an approach tailored for the individual.

I know these people. I am the expert. I give drugs. And it’s rare that anyone refuses, as I slow to a glide, 'all the time in the world for you in particular', face arranged for maximum 'trust me', 'buy your car from me' I am like the ‘uncle’ so good with children and he’d do anything for them.

I kneel to allow the resident to focus on me, as I exude persuasion. Rushing this bit may frighten them into saying no. I want them to take the drug, ingest the drug. I watch. Soothing words of 'just what the doctor ordered', may harden to a staccato 'don’t you spit that out', mother no nonsense words as I spoon vile tasting concoctions into mouths open in surprise. "Who is this?" I hear their brain thinking."Is it Joan’s girl? She seems to know me. Nice to have a visitor."

For some who may question what I give, 'don’t you keep me alive,' I can usually say “this is just to keep you comfortable while you are alive,” or I can say, “this one is for your heart you must have this one” (See! I offer a fully informed choice. I give them the information of which tablet they can refuse if they want death, if they are strong enough to resist my selling beguiling technique.
I must tell you that refusal of medication, means more paper work for me, and a sad little R for “Refused” in the space that usually says I have achieved my selling target.

As I, automaton like, do the dance of the Drug Round, my mind wanders around the rigid parameters I have set myself, so I make no mistakes. I triple check names, dose , drug, time and more. The checking is done along a conduit direct between my eyes and hands. If something doesn’t look right, my hands suddenly stop and wait for my thinking brain to come back from its wandering, to give further instruction.

I give drugs. I am the maestro of giving.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...