Free Silence for the Dead by Simone St. James

Matron was looking for a reason to dismiss me.
She’s told you to clean the bathroom. So stop jumping at sounds and bloody well clean it.
    It took another half hour with a scrub brush to clean the bathtub, and by the time I finished, I was wet with sweat, tendrils of hair coming from my braids. My sleeves—even though I wore them at the shorter, elbow length, as always—were edged in black at the cuffs, and I had wet smears on the chest and front of my apron. My arms shook with the strain of scrubbing, and I could smell myself, the rotten smell of the mold mixed with the pungent odor of sweat.
    But the lav was clean. I dropped the brush in the empty bucket and ran my forearm over my eyes. I suddenly felt like weeping. Nothing was worth this—nothing. This humiliation, this disgusting work under a woman determined to break me. I’d sold my pride, bartered my soul for a job. But what did it matter? Who cared about the pride and the soul of one stupid girl? I didn’t even have enough train fare to leave.
    In the wall behind me, the groaning started again, far off and low. I gripped the bucket and raced for the door, away from that horrible sound that seemed to crawl up my spine, to grip my brain. I had to get out, get out.
Don’t let him wake up, don’t let him wake up, don’t let him—
    Paulus Vries was not outside the door. He’d had to go back to the kitchen, leaving me alone in there, if he’d ever stayed at all. I closed the door behind me and set down the bucket, the sweat on my body and neck icy cold. My head throbbed and I looked around the dim corridor, part of me surprised to find I wasn’t actually in our old flat, dizzy with exhaustion from a sleepless night. I was only in the east wing of Portis House, in a hallway lined with the men’s bedroom doors, quiet now as all the patients were down in the common room, the last of the twilight fading into darkness. I could no longer hear sounds in the walls; but whether they’d stopped, or I could just no longer hear them, I had no idea.
    My eyes burned with some unnameable emotion, and my legs felt weak. I was still standing there, trying to gather the strength to take a single step forward, when someone came toward me down the hall. It was a heavy, skirted silhouette—Nina, I already knew from the slouch of the shoulders.
    Her doughy face looked alarmed, her eyes frazzled behind her glasses. “Kitty—for God’s sake. Where have you been?”
    My voice croaked. “Matron’s orders.”
    She glanced down at the bucket and the blackened mop. “Oh. Well, she could have picked a better time, I have to say. West’s legs are hurting him, one of the others needs a headache powder, and I’ve just realized I never collected the supper dishes from Patient Sixteen. If the kitchen tells Matron, she’ll kill me.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” I heard myself say, as if from far away. “I’m finished now. I’ll get the supper dishes for you.” When Nina paused, her expression uncertain, I pushed on. “Don’t worry. I have clearance. Boney just told me tonight.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYes, of course. You go get the headache powder. I’ll collect the dishes and bring them down.”
    â€œI suppose that works. It’s the fourth door to the right.” She turned and hurried back the way she had come.
    I approached Patient Sixteen’s closed door, my bones aching and a shrill, painful sort of excitement in my spine. I walked in without knocking.
    The room was dim and quiet. A single lamp burned on a table next to a narrow bed, but the bed was empty. My gaze traveled over the washbasin, the dressing table, and the single chair. These were also empty in the reflected light, tidy and uncluttered but for a set of dishes stacked on the dressing table. I blinked, my eyes becoming accustomed to the dark.
    â€œYou should have