Trying To Heal

Chapter Six

SONG: Justin Bieber, Chance The Rapper - Confident

❀

Derek Matthews

With a serrated, deep-seated inhalation, I silently open the door for the first time in such a long while. The odour of chemicals. Steadily, chary, I revolve to confront the indestructible dismay. She is confined to a harmonious rest. Peaks and troughs, a breathing mask cover her chapped lips. Her skin is pale and rejuvenating, and her lashes bristle and flutter in rapid eye movement. The blanket is up to her collarbone, her gold heart pendant glistening like a sun. On the desks beside her, are congregated cards, flowers, and offerings to her well-being. The nurses changed her bandages — fresh white.

Vulnerable and wounded, it is so painful, it is difficult to respire. Suddenly, the temperature heightens. The air is too humid to tolerate. Sliding off my trench coat, I fold it within an arm, sitting on the plush, the cushioned chair beside her coma.

I stare at my bandaged palm. Aunt Marlene was perturbed the second she saw it. Tanner, too. They assumed I tumbled into those dark days. Is it self-harm? I never meant it consciously. In fact, I never felt the pain. No, the effort I achieved is too gracious to go to waste. My sober days are not for nothing. I trekked these tracks to an eternal paradise, that eternal light.

But I realise that I am still trying to heal, as the healing journey is a long process.

You are abusing your power. No. I am not. You are using it to your advantage. I should not do it. Yes. You should not. I should do it. Yes. You should. They deserve it. Fuck, I want to. Fuck, do it. I want to so, so badly. Do it. It is about time that someone should stop it.

Perfectly justified.

***

Whilst I slept over at Luke's apartment, I frequently visited the orphanage.

Harlow Branson is nine-years-old. She has albinism. Her brother, Parker Branson, is fifteen-years-old. The last time I was close to his presence, he was somewhere hiding in the gardens and smoking weed. Their father died. Their mother abandoned them. Their neighbour noticed their forsaken state and called social services. From there, they were transported here. They discovered their mother had also died due to a disease three months ago.

There are nine orphanages in Edgewater. Nurses usually work here. The rest are nuns and there are two priests. Father Stychel recently started working here. There are ninety children in this orphanage, all beautifully taken care of.

We saunter the corridors to a wide, open space. The walls are curvature and engrained of mosaics.

"Derek!"

"Derek!"

"Derek!"

A grin squishes my cheek. I buckle to my knees to get attacked by five kids, their arms tightly embracing me. My frame slightly topples, a palm stabbing to the flat floor to uphold stability.

Tareq El Hassan is seven-years-old, from Morocco. He pulls away, sternly folding his arms. His skin is a fusion of beige and almond, his hair jet-black and tight of coils. Thick and long lashes, his irises were the first feature I discerned — a beguiling pair of hazel.

His facial muscles scrunch into a cute, angry expression. "You're a day late."

"I brought books for you all to read." Req surveys the presents. I smear a dusty blemish off his shirt. "Christmas is close. You should write a letter to Father Christmas."