monachopsi

two

The smell of stale coffee and a cold, empty house greeted me when I unlocked the door, devoid of the people that made it home. Slumping against the wall and kicking off my muddy Converse, I let out a sigh, a long one that meant a variety of things. Why had my dear mother demanded that I'd be home at exactly ten thirty, not one minute after, when she wasn't even home? And where were my father and sister? Panic started to creep up my throat, choking me and leaving me vulnerable to the fear and trepidation I had so carefully guarded against.  

In a few brisk strides I was in the kitchen, my eyes flicking around in an analytical fashion, searching for any sort of clue as to where my family may be. And why hadn't they called me, or at least sent me a text? Questions, so many of them swam through my head, and all of them didn't have answers and only worsened my melancholy, the melancholy that threatened to overwhelm my senses and cause me to abort my mission to find my purpose, the melancholy that bordered on depression. I pushed it away, again, buried down into my chest where my deepest, darkest emotions and feelings resided. 

My flickering eyes caught a glimpse of a faded yellow paper square and stopped moving around. I walked over to the table slowly, cautiously, hands outstretched with palms exposed as if approaching a wild animal, one with vicious canines that one would not want to fall prey to. The yellow note sat on the table, and, steeling my nerves, I picked it up. In my mother's neat cursive, it said simply - 'Sister in hospital. Come ASAP.'

Of all the times to be vague! I sighed, exasperation crawling into the exhale, and gently sat down the piece of paper. To be sure, I pulled out my phone (a most decidedly outdated model) and scrolled through the conversation with my mother, and then my father. No new texts, not even a phone call or voice message. 

"Must not've been very important, then," I muttered to myself. Even so, she had bothered to leave a note. But notes were mostly afterthoughts, something penned on a piece of paper that usually noted that the writer was supposed to take the beef out of the freezer and let it thaw so they could cook it for dinner, or buy his girlfriend a bouquet of flowers and chocolate because their anniversary was coming up. Not that I knew anything about the latter.  

Thoughts choked me, intending to suffocate and kill the calm, collected me and replace him with the shaking, anxiety stricken me. That would not do, I decided, pushing away the notion of my sweet little sister, blonde hair like spun gold and a smattering of freckles across her nose, stuck with needles and attached to equipment, laying lifelessly on a hospital bed. I needed to get to the hospital. 

 I shook off the angst induced stupor and gathered my things, sliding my feet back into my Converse and shoving my arms back into my coat sleeves and locking the door behind me. I went out the side door, not the front, which I came in through, to the garage and tugged out my old bike. I hadn't used it in forever (how else would I have maintained my pale complexion?), and the front wheel was sagging slightly, but there was no time to worry about that. I slipped it under the gap in my garage and slid under after it, closing it behind me, and hopped on the bike. 

I pedaled like a madman, mentally reviewing the route to the hospital my mother had insisted I memorize a while ago. I had thought it would never be useful. After about five minutes of intense pedaling and burning leg muscles, I was out of my neighborhood and on the main road, which was nearly absent of any other vehicle. Then again, it was only the stragglers, the ones who worked the graveyard shift, that would be driving at eleven seventeen at night (I checked my watch at least six times, which was quite a task while I maneuvered my wobbly bike). 

I forced my legs to pump even harder, eating up distance until I was able to coast, giving my legs a rest. The local hospital was not very far away, hence the term 'local', and my aching limbs were as thankful as I was as I pulled into the deserted parking lot. My parents' car was no where in sight.

"Strange," I muttered to myself, halting the bike and leaning it against a ragged excuse for a tree, probably planted by the landscaping team or even just a hospital employee on a whim. I felt like one of those trees, planted in a foster family without much thought given to the matter, and finally, after so many people got used to seeing me with them once the initial surprise wore off, saw me as part of the landscape, another battered person barely clinging on to a family. They were nice enough, sure, and my new little sister was sweet and we bonded immediately, but there was this sense of disconnection, a detachment from any other person. Being adopted is hard. 

I stood at the hospital doors, the automatic ones that sensed that a person was there and slid open. There was another smaller, manual door meant for after-hours use, but I stood in front of the doors and expected them to open even though visitors were probably not allowed at eleven twenty-seven at night. They slid open, much to my surprise, and I went in. 

There was an overwhelming sense of emptiness in this building, despite its long hallways and five stories that should be crowded with sick people and nurses alike. It wasn't, to say the least. I walked up to the front desk, not expecting there to be anyone, and there wasn't. I furrowed my eyebrows, pulled out my phone, and called my mom.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. Then the robotic lady's voice saying, "At the tone, please leave a message." 

I hit 'End Call' and shoved it back in my pocket, attempting to think logically. I knew that the children's section of the hospital was on floor three, so I tried the elevator (it didn't come) and opened the door to the stairwell. My still-burning legs were not very happy about scaling three flights of stairs, but for my sister, they would have to deal. They did, but not without complaining in the form of pain every time I took a step. It was great, as you can imagine. 

Finally, finally, I the door with 'Floor Three' painted upon it in black paint was in front of me, and I opened it, walking up and down the halls and peeking inside each room. Empty. Each and every room was empty. I strode into the waiting room at the end of the hall.

It was empty, save for the blonde girl, who had made a rather strange appearance in my dream.

"I've been expecting you, Breckin," she said with that sly smile.