Play Detective

Circumstancial

She took his small hand again without breaking her eye contact with his. She had never seen eyes so decadently dark. When it came to eyes, she liked to imagine as she would as a small girl God painting every eye to his liking- and how they were unique. It seemed God spilled the black ink for the pupil far beyond the lines and bathed the iris in obsidian shine.

They were red-rimmed, his face pinkening garishly to his cheekbones. His lips were bitten and wet, the corners quivering every now and again. The neck on his fleece nightshirt was overstretched from causes other than his well-formed (yes, that was important. She had seen many an oblong skull and a pinhead in her day) head. It exposed his collarbone which was defined and set back into his chest like a bird's skeleton. He was delicate and very fair-skinned, it was a wonder he wasn't obviously sickly. Still, she harbored suspicions he had caught a fever.

"Let's go the infirmary. I can stay with you if you want."

He didn't answer, but held her hand with more effort and kept her pace rather than be dragged along.

Sister Mary Monica was known by most staff to be a very patient (hence the name) and caring old Sister, taking on not an individual "project" child, but watching out for every child under her eyes when she would venture out. She would volunteer for sweeps as often as she could, and enjoyed comforting and helping the wards. Even at 88, she worked competently so she would be exhausted at the end of the day, which was risky for an old woman.

The late nights were a labor of love, and she found a virtue in making a boy feel less like a child, an object, and more like a being, like the soul God had sewn into the soil for a purpose and was expectant to meet again after a life well-spent, or well-redeemed.

Walking with her he admitted he felt less lonely, and wanted someone to hold his hand and walk with him forever in silence. The company was all he wanted. The presence was everything. Getting attention was an elementary tactic, infants would employ the same means, but he thoroughly enjoyed getting what he wanted.

A wave of drowsiness lapped against him as he closed his eyes. He quietly cursed the fatigue- sleep was merely a pain taking up too much time. He wanted to see everything that went on around him... Maybe when he was older.

It wasn't very often then he thought about getting older. It was a fact nevertheless.

He looked at the skirts striding with him; the nun wasn't shuffling about crippled, and that in itself was remarkable. Before long of watching the hypnotizing swishing, they were in a more sterile appearing part of the building housing Nursey's office, the infirmary, and (mere speculation) her bedchambers and private bathroom not to be confused with that of the infirmary. The Sister's shriveled hand reached to rap on the door before a woman appeared wrapped in her blue housecoat and a kerchief tied around her brown hair. Nursey was blonde, and slept in button down pajamas with bottoms.

"Hello, Melinda."

"She had business in London. It's Nancy. What... Who is this?"

He was sucking on the end of his thumb gently, and looking up at the woman with a kind of curious expectation. He didn't want to be sick, and he tried to remember if he threw up or something to signify that he was sick. Sure, he felt hot and choked and nasty, but he just wanted to go to bed and forget anything happened. Being dragged around wasn't fun anymore, and he remembered why he didn't want her to see him.

"I found him crying in his bed, wrapped around his stomach like he was in pain. Melinda- oh, I'm sorry- he wouldn't tell me anything, but I need to get to the sisters. He needs to be talked to..."

"Sister, he doesn't talk. But, I'll check him out, thank you."

The Not-Nursey had a Scottish accent so thick you could hit it with a hammer. The nun nudged him away from her, his tears drying and his face fading back into it's ordinary paleness. Nursey took him by his hand into the infirmary office, leaving her bedroom, and turning on one warm lamp. She directed him to sit in the flatulent vinyl chair beside it, and rifled through her drawers in the light that looked like fire. She found a thermometer and a washcloth, and walked back to him, wearing a stagnant and rehearsed smile.