The Coma Doll

After finding the hardtack and protein bar, I barely slept.

Every time I shut my eyes, I pictured her ripping one open the second I left—just lounging, snacking, like the whole coma thing was a joke.

The next few days, I tried to act normal, but walking into her room felt like wading into thick air. I started watching her—waiting for a slip.

One afternoon, while rubbing her foot, I pressed harder near her sole. Her toes curled. Just a twitch—but real. She froze again fast, like nothing happened. But I knew.

After that, I'd whisper during bed baths, "Ms. Stein, I know you're faking. If I'm right, give me a sign."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

But her breathing hitched—just enough to keep me hooked.

The next day, her parents came.

Desmond Stein looked every inch the power exec—tailored suit, eyes that missed nothing. Matilda had this effortless, polished grace, like she walked out of a lifestyle magazine.

They always showed up with fancy supplements and flowers, smiling for the staff.

"Head Nurse, is Sienna still the same?" His voice was low, commanding.

Ms. Deinert flipped into customer-service mode. "Mr. and Mrs. Stein, her vitals are steady. We're following every order. But..." She sighed like she practiced it. "Still no sign of waking."

Matilda's eyes glossed over. She walked to the bed, grabbed Sienna's hand, and her voice cracked. "Baby, when will you wake up? I miss you so much."

I stood off to the side, trying to read the scene. Were they clueless—or part of it?

After they left, Ms. Deinert pulled me into her office.

"Vivian." She handed me a coffee, her voice weirdly gentle. "How's the job?"

I took the cup. "It's going fine. Thanks."

She sipped her own. "You've seen Ms. Stein's condition. Her parents expect miracles, and that pressure rolls downhill."

Then her smile thinned. "Sometimes it's smarter to turn a blind eye. You're sharp—you understand."

My fingers tightened around the cup. She wasn't being nice. She was warning me.

"But—"

She cut me off. Smile gone. "Her case is being handled by professionals. Your job is just to care for her. That's it."

Her tone dropped, sharper. "Curiosity killed the cat. Around here, silence keeps you safe."

I didn't say a word.

Message received: play along—or walk.

That night, I was back on night shift.

Around 1 a.m., I spotted Ms. Deinert leading another man into Sienna's room.

Different guy this time—short, greasy, the kind who made your skin crawl.

My stomach dropped.

So it wasn't a one-off. This was routine.

Just as he stepped inside, Ms. Deinert didn't walk off. She turned and motioned to me.

"Vivian, come here."

No clue why, but I moved.

"Ms. Stein might need turning. Go help. And remember—don't look where you shouldn't. Don't ask."

Her voice was smooth, but the threat under it was heavy.

I got it instantly.

She was pulling me in—making me part of it. Something she could use against me later.

I wanted to say no. But her stare froze me.

So I took a breath and opened the door.

A dim lamp glowed. The guy had tossed his coat and was already on her, hands everywhere. Sienna lay there, eyes closed, dead still—letting him do whatever he wanted.

When he saw me, he frowned but kept going. "Help me turn her," he muttered, pulling lube from his pocket.

My stomach flipped. I swallowed the bile and stepped toward the bed.

Right as I reached to help, I saw it—Sienna's lips moved. Barely.

A whisper, soft as breath:

"Get me out of here. Or we both go down."