She walks from cell to cell, delivering each patient their lunch, just like she does every day.  The duty itself is highly repetitive.

Open the slot in the door.  Hand in the food.  Close the slot.  Move on to the next.

The creaky wheels on the food cart holding each meal for the patients was in desperate need for some oil, but yet never received the attention it so desperately needed. 

The gray walls and tile floor in the dimly lit hall way contrasted greatly from the white walls in the brightly lit cells of the inmates, each one sealed off by a metallic iron door.

Then there were the patients themselves.  All of them, in order to even be landed in such a place, were, on some level, insane.  Mentally unstable.  Unable to function in society.  Some had a crazy look in their eyes.  Others had chronic spasms and mumbled gibberish.  But none of them never tried to speak to her, except one. 

This one particular patient was the typical patient; crazed, yet dazed, look in his eye, the periodic spasm, and the overall picture of being unkept, most likely from gripping his hair in his dry hands.

Every day, without fail, he always asked the nurse the same question with an odd and mischievous little smile stretching his shiny lips.  And every day, without fail, the nurse handed him his food and moved on to the next inmate, never responding to his seemingly innocent but creepy question.

"Do you want to know what I can do with my slimy lips and crusty fingers?"