Based off of a random assigment.
Genre: Horror
Setting: Hospital
Topic: A lost boy
A tepid little boy tittered, teetering on the edge. The edge of what, you may ask (mind your own business, I would tell you). The edge of sanity (many would soon assume so)? The edge of vanity (what does that even mean)? The edge of life...and death (why the pause, huh?)? I could answer you, but us meeting face to face is something God (like I believe in him) hasn’t deemed appropriate yet.
Either way, there was the little boy - teetering.
He fell into a hospital.
I softened his blow like a billowing blanket wrapped around a newborn and gave him the gift of sight once more. Usually, I strip the soul and bury their eyes. Usually, the processes, the job, is a simple one. Cease the beating, drain the sight, smother the soul and the cycle of life is once again whole (I even made it rhyme, kind of, to help teach the newer recruits). Hide in the shadows (we are the shadows), look for the signs (don’t worry if they’re divine), and carry on, carry on, carry on.
But I am the aboriginal. The first cast cut from the ray of the sun. The tapered blanket fraying at the edges. And I choose to give this boy sight as is my right.
He fell into a hospital and he drifted. He glided, his unlaced sneakers tracing his path along the cool marble, from the brightly lit white doors down the oceanic blue hallways. He felt nothing. Or, at least, I know he felt nothing. Not like you and I anyways(I always found that funny. That I could...feel).
I am he and he is I, now and now only. Not forever, not for eternity, but now and now only. And then I will be I once again and he? He will be nothing.
He floats like a ghost caught between this world and the next (ha) through many men and many rooms and is soon lost. He was too young to be lost in the world, too invincible, too bullet-proof, so it’s only fitting that he experiences the void of hope voyaging through his veins that many I seize often do. But since he can’t feel, since he isn’t him, I enjoyed the sight only on a superficial level. Pity.
He was lost in his surroundings and lost in this assured dream. What else could justify what the poor boy saw? No one waved hi (or cried out in dread), no one asked him if he was lost. It had to have been a dream. A nightmare in which his vision was shifted almost a perfect 90 degrees.
He could see and he could think, I guess. But he couldn’t think about what he saw and he wouldn’t remember if he thought (not like it mattered).
He swayed around and around before I stopped him in front of the closed chrome elevator doors. I lifted him into the air and up through the ceiling to expedite the process.
I could’ve sworn he saw his reflection in the closed chrome elevator doors. I could’ve sworn he felt something when he saw his freckled nose and crooked smile smile back at him at a near 90 degree angle.
He panicked (I was worried this would happen. They can only stay sedated for so long) and grasped at his neck. If he was he and I wasn’t privy, he would’ve cut his hand on the jagged bone. If he was he, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to try and snap his snapped neck back into place.
But he is I and I am watching. Watching the poor little boy try to piece his broken neck together again in mid air as I continue to hover him up and above the roof - towards the second floor.
I shove him towards the door where he lay, where he is he and he see his parents . He sees them collapse and clutch at the bed, but he can’t hear them. Not the he he is now nor the he he sees on the bed, with tubes tearing through his veins to no avail and his crooked neck matching his crooked smile.
He hurls towards his parents for comfort but he is no longer there. He is once again at the beginning of the hospital, no longer lost.
He is facing the brightly lit white doors where he and I are one for one more mere moment; until I am gone and vanished like the dark of the night once day dawns anew, and he is....
Well, frankly, what he is is dead.
