Lights Will Guide You Home

Claire

7.00 PM and I was back in the hospital, feeling considerably brighter after a nice warm shower and some fitful sleep. I would have been quite content as I sat on the couch reading Jeffrey Archer and sipping on orange juice, if it hadn't been for the poor soul asleep on the bed next to me and the imminent show down I was to have with my father.

Michael had been sleeping for the past 6 hours straight. I could only imagine how exhausted he had been – the sleep would definitely do him good. I got up to stretch my legs for a bit and walked to the window. It overlooked a backyard sort of thing whose details I couldn't really make out because it wasn't lit up properly. I closed my eyes, letting the soft, cool breeze blow on my face. Oh how I wished things would get better!

"Claire?" a small voice called out my name. I turned around, startled.

Michael had woken up. He was struggling to sit up in bed, finding it quite hard to do so because he couldn't rest his weight on his hands. I walked over to him quickly and helped him prop himself up against some pillows. Instinctively, I bent over and kissed his head. "The sleep did you good, eh?" I asked, as cheerfully as I could.

He nodded, smiling a little.

"The doctors said you have to stay here for another day so," I pointed at a couple of books I'd placed on his bedside table, "I got you these so you can read when you're bored."

"I can't draw, can I?" He asked.

I looked at his wrists done up in gauze pads and tape and said softly, "not for a few days, no."

He sighed.

I went back to my seat and picked up my book. I fiddled with it, not quite knowing what to do.

"Claire?"

"Mm?" I looked up from the page I'd been staring at blankly.

"I need to pee," he mumbled, after a while.

"Oh." I looked at the IV tube connected to his elbow. "Um, I'll have to send for the nurse..." I reached out and pressed the bell.

A young male nurse came in and helped Michael finish his business. Once he was done, he was back in bed. He picked up one of the books I'd brought and began to flip through it, simply glancing at the pictures while I went back my book.

"Claire?" he went, for the third time.

He had a quiet, sad look on his face this time. I closed my book. "Yes, dear?"

"...I'm sorry."

I looked into his miserable green eyes. "Sorry for what...?"

"For not listening to you. For not telling you things." He looked down at his wrists, "for this."

I leaned closer and picked up his small hand in mine. "It's okay," I said softly. "It's hard for you, I understand."

"But I'm such a troublemaker. You're worried and bothered all the time because of me. And..." he looked up at my face, his clear green eyes brimming with tears, "you're the only one who's ever been this nice to me."

I rubbed my thumb on the back of his hand soothingly. "We're all here for you, Michael. At Braveheart – everyone wants to be nice to you, help you," I said, trying to make his tears go away, but not quite sure how.

"But you're the nicest." He said childishly. "And I bet no one even wants me back there after all the trouble I've caused," he mumbled, those tears in his eyes threatening to spill any moment.

"Oh, Michael – that's not true! Maria was just asking me how you're doing and she said Jay – the boy you were sharing your crayons with the other day – he was asking about the nice boy who drew Batman so nicely. They love you! And of course we'll take you back... as long as there's no other place you'd rather go back to."

He shook his head vigourously. "There isn't, there isn't! I don't want to go anywhere else!!" The fear was back in his eyes. I couldn't contain myself – I had to try my luck.

"Michael? There's something I'd like to ask you and...," I looked at his small, pale face, "...and, I really wish you choose to answer me truthfully."

"Go on," he said, in a small frightened voice.

"Michael... I need to know what happened to you. I need to know how you ended up like that in the alley that day."

He didn't say anything, his expression unreadable.

"Please. I know it's really hard for you but I only want to help..." my voice trailed off and I looked at him, hoping he would say something.

After a few moments he whispered, "I want to tell you, Claire... but I'm so so scared..." he said, with a small sob.

I squeezed his hand, "there's nothing to be scared about. You're absolutely safe with me, Michael. Trust me."

He gazed at my face for a few seconds, his eyes looking for... I'm not sure what. Reassurance, I think.

"I'll tell you, Claire," he said finally, his voice barely audible. "But will you promise not to tell anyone? Not even Detective Swann?"

"But – "

"Please?" he begged, fear etched on his face. "If they find out I told someone, they'll... they'll...." He stumbled on his words, fear tightening his throat.

This was my only chance. "Okay," I consented.

And so he began.