The Coma Doll

Ever since the glucose thing, I'd been jumpy as hell.

Ms. Deinert never mentioned it again—like it never happened.

But the way she looked at me now? Sharp. Like a silent threat.

I kept my mouth shut and buried it deep. Started watching Sienna closer.

Still quiet. Vitals normal.

But little things started standing out.

Her nails? Perfectly trimmed.

Her hair? Clean. Not greasy like every other bedridden patient.

My scalp prickled.

Was she faking?

Once that thought hit, it wouldn't let go.

But I had nothing solid. No proof. No one I could trust.

Every day dragged by, heavy with silence and dread.

Then, a week later—night shift.

Everything changed.

2 a.m. The place was dead silent—I could hear my own heartbeat.

I was sorting charts at the nurse's station when I heard soft footsteps.

Looked up.

A tall guy in a black hoodie, mask, and baseball cap was gliding toward Sienna's room.

And Ms. Deinert was leading him.

The cap was low, face totally hidden.

She whispered something, cracked open the door, and waved him in.

He didn't say a word. Just walked inside.

She didn't follow. Just shut the door gently behind him.

Then she turned—and saw me.

Met my eyes. Calm as ever. Gave this faint little smile, like she hadn't just escorted a masked guy into a coma patient's room at 2 a.m.

Then she strolled over, grabbed a file, and started flipping through it like nothing happened.

My heart was going nuts.

I remembered what my nursing instructor once said—whispers about shady stuff in luxury care homes. The kind no one could ever prove.

Was that what this was?

I didn't wanna finish the thought.

About an hour later, the door opened.

The guy walked out, cap still pulled low. Slowed down a little near the nurse's station—like he looked my way—then kept moving. Ms. Deinert followed him down the hall.

When she came back, face blank as ever, she said, "Vivian, go tidy up Ms. Stein. Change her into a fresh gown."

I just nodded, grabbed the supply cart, and rolled it toward Sienna's room.

The second I opened the door, the smell hit me—cologne and something else. Something gross.

I knew exactly what just went down.

Sienna was lying there, still as ever, like nothing happened. But while changing the sheets, I spotted a few short, curly hairs. Not hers.

My hands started shaking.

'Are they selling off coma patients' bodies?'

All those stories from school came flooding back. My skin crawled.

I fought the nausea and fear, forced myself to finish cleaning her up.

I was about to leave when I saw it—the music box on her nightstand.

Ms. Deinert had told me not to mess with it.

But my hand moved anyway. I popped it open.

No music. Just velvet at the bottom.

Then I saw it—tiny crumbs near the edge. Crackers, maybe?

Heart pounding, I peeled the velvet back.

Underneath: a few chunks of hardtack and half a protein bar.

I froze.

Stared at the girl on the bed, still playing dead.

She was faking.

But why?

What was she trying to pull?

Did Ms. Deinert know?

I looked at her perfect, peaceful face—and felt pure horror.

She wasn't some helpless victim.

She was a monster.