The Underworld Circus

The Underworld Circus: Chapter 1

Charlie Rockwell stood at the far edge of the hospital parking lot, near a row of palm trees, smoking a cigarette.

The Sacred Flame Hospital was a little run down to look upon, but it boasted an excellent staff. Or at least it had, back when Charlie's mother had been a patient. Fifteen years could bring a lot of changes.

Fifteen years had certainly brought a lot of changes for him. He was no longer a little boy hovering between denial and despair about losing his mother, but he now vividly recalled what that had been like. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

He crushed the cigarette on the ground and deposited it in a nearby bin.

As he crossed the lot, he was aware of the comings and goings of the other people. In a city of 40,000 people, it was not a surprise that they were all strangers to him. Even though he had never seen them before, he knew things about them. The woman being pushed in the wheelchair ahead of him, for example, was not long for this world. When he bypassed her, Charlie gave her a smile, hoping her last few days would not be filled with too much pain.

He entered the building and made a bee line for the elevators. The smell of lemon-scented cleaner was strong, but it did not cover up the smell of ill health and death that plagues all hospitals in varying measure. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside, hitting the button for the third floor. The music over the intercom was some kind of smooth jazz, which seemed fairly inappropriate for any scenario he could concoct taking place at a hospital.

Charlie stepped out onto the third floor, walking straight past the nurse's station. He walked with the purposefulness of someone who knows exactly where they are going.

The door to 319 was left ajar just slightly. He pushed it all the way open, entered, and closed it behind him.

The room was dimly lit, filled with the rhythmic beeping of machines tracking heart rate, the soft whoosh of the device regulating air flow for Diane Lovelace. She was a wisp of woman now, mostly likely eaten away by whatever disease plagued her. Her hair was long and thin, her face lined, her eyes closed. She was only forty-two, not much older than his mother had been when she died.

Charlie glanced down at the medical chart hanging from the bed. It said DNR. Do Not Resuscitate. There would be no grand measures taken, no one rushing in with a crash cart, no one to demand questions of him. Perfect.

When he looked up, her eyes were now open, focusing on him. That was okay. Sometimes they woke up, sometimes they didn't. He actually found he liked when they woke up, because he could at least know the last thing they saw was a kind face.

"You," Diane said in a weak voice that still had a strong rural southern accent. "You're younger than I expected."

Charlie gave her a gentle smile. "I get that a lot."

Her eyelids fluttered. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he said. "Life itself is the painful part. This is like going to sleep after a long day."

"That does sound nice," she said.

"May I hold your hand?" Charlie asked.

"Yes."

Charlie took her withered hand in one of his and closed his eyes, focusing his will power. When he opened them, Diane Lovelace was no longer a solid-looking being, but slightly translucent, filled with soft, pulsating lines of light. There was a troubling dark mass in her abdominal area. Cancer, he guessed. Just like his mother.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I think so," she said.

Charlie leaned forward and tapped her forehead gently. Diane let out a quiet, ragged sigh, and went still. The machine tracking her heart rate made the flat line sound. The pulsating lights in her body began to pull themselves to a central location, until it was all a jumbled ball of light in her chest.