The first nursing home I ever worked in was an ostensibly cosy affair. It housed a mere eighteen residents, and was run by a middle-aged man suffering a breakdown. Due to his having been kicked out of his family home by his wife, he now also lived in the building. His name was Jeff and he slept on the floor of the converted attic room. Encircled by three decrepit elderly women that neither moved nor spluttered a syllable, but stubbornly refused to die. They were nicknamed The Flowers in the Attic.
Like I say. It was cosy.
One night shift, at around three o’ clock in the morning, a resident named Lilith rang her buzzer. This was not unusual; indeed, this was at least the sixth time Lilith had rang her buzzer since I had commenced my shift at ten o’ clock. I instinctively boiled the kettle and made my way up the stairs…
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