LOOMIS: A Fan Fiction Bridge by Mike Edwards

Part Five. Michael.

21

The boy did not speak, or even acknowledge Sam's words. He did nothing at all in fact. No shifting around in his chair nervously, no screaming obscenities at him, he did not even seem to be breathing until you inspected more closely.

Sam cleared his throat. "So, Dr. Wynn tells me you're six years old," he said, trying to make a connection. "What are your hobbies? Comic books? I can probably get you some of those. I want you to feel comfortable here." As Sam spoke he got the distinct impression that the boy was barely even aware of his presence. Sam had never gotten such a feeling from a person in his life, child or adult. "Do you like motorcycles? I happen to own one. Maybe I could ride it out here sometime and show it to you!"

Nothing.

Sam spent two hours with young Michael, trying from every angle to break through and reach him, to no avail. The boy had no reaction to anything the Doctor said, he only sat, staring vacantly out the window. By the time Sam left the room his head pounded with frustration.

Okie As he made his way back to the main floor Dr. Wynn emerged from his office to meet him. "So?" Wynn asked. "What do you think?"

Sam rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Any history of aggression?"

"His parents told us he was a normal little boy until last night, quiet."

"What happened?"

"They came home, started toward the house when the boy stepped out the front door holding a kitchen knife and covered in blood. Hasn't spoken since." Dr. Wynn could tell by Loomis' body language that he was flustered. "No history of abuse, no issues at school... truth is nobody knows why he did it."

Sam looked at Wynn, then down the long hallway. "I'm going to need more time with him."

A look of relief came over Dr. Wynn. "Anything you need."

By the time Sam got back to Chicago it was almost 1 AM and his eyes knew it. He pulled into the hospital and got into his own car, started the engine and sat back in the seat. Doesn't make sense... something must have happened to trigger his actions.

Sam pondered and pondered as he drove home and laid down. I have to help this kid. The others are every bit as important but this boy is the first I've met that has already succumbed to his demons... demons. What demons could a six year old have? He laid in bed thinking until the Sun came up, with no new answers.

This would simply take time.

As 1963 drew to a close, Sam spent nearly every evening at Smith's Grove, completing his shifts in Chicago then making the drive to Smith's Grove to talk to a boy who would not respond. He brought several comic books in along with a toy motorcycle and a set of jacks, none of which sparked any form of recognition in the young boy. By the last week of December Sam had been coming to Smith's Grove for two months and still little Mike Myers hadn't said a word. At night he would close his eyes but would never get up from the chair and lay in his bed.

He simply never moved unless he was being transported by John and Jay the orderlies from one part of the hospital to another. He never resisted the guards or the orderlies. When they reached under his arms to get him to stand, he stood. When pulled by his triceps he would walk wherever he was being directed, then once seated again would do nothing but gaze out the nearest window or at the closest wall. It wasn't until New Years Eve that there was any unprovoked movement from the boy at all and after this night, many of the doctors would submit that they, the boy, and everyone around him was safer when Michael was catatonic.

The day room on the third floor was much smaller than the one on the main floor, providing only a few board games and a deck of cards with several missing from the deck. Down on the main floor there was a New Year's party in full swing for the young patients much like was no doubt happening at the Chicago facility, but the only ones to inhabit the top floor dayroom here at Smith's Grove were Sam, Dr. Loraine the graveyard shift resident, the two orderlies and Michael, who sat in one of the chairs vacantly gazing out the windows at the rising moon.