Troyler short stories

blind faith - part 2

The hospital is never silent at night. There's always nurses moving, patients talking in their sleep, or worse, screaming.

Walking now through the shadowed corridors, I pause at the doors to one of the wards. Sleep pulses behind my eyes but I push it open, quietly stepping through.

There's a hum to the space as I softly close the door, a mixture of rustled sheets, unintelligible whispered words and muffled whimpers. A light breeze whistles against the tall windows to my right, and a distant scraping of rusty iron echoes from outside.

Moving forward, I try to keep my steps light, pressing the metal of my keys still inside my pocket.

I know what I'm doing, even as my brain attempts to deny it.

My eyes scan from bed to bed; the backs of shadowed lumps, shapes of propped up legs, shimmers of sweat on sickly foreheads. Continuing down the long room, my heart jerks when I see John, eyes skipping forward to the drawn curtain beside him. John is curled on his side, injured leg outstretched, hands clasped before his face, and I can just about make out the outline of a flower, leaning from between his palms towards his nose.

Taking a small breath, I pad over to Tyler's bedside, fingers gently brushing down the gap in the curtains. I presume the curtains are there to block out unnecessary light, and feel a pang of despair at the thought. If I'm honest, I've been unable to shake my encounter with the soldier all day. Unlike any patient before, I've been drowning in questions. Where are his family? How was his childhood? What is his future? But I excuse my actions now as only checking to see if he'd got his change of clothes.

Slowly pushing the curtain aside, I cringe at the squeaking of its hooks on the rail. I had hoped to peer in and leave again immediately. No more, no less.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see Tyler's body as I'd left it; on his back, facing the ceiling. Except now he has blankets drawn over his legs, and I can see the blue collar of the hospital pyjamas. I should leave it at that, but as my gaze shifts to his face my heart stalls.

His brow is crinkled, expression disturbed. There's beads of sweat at his hairline, lips shivering with uneasy breaths. His right hand is weakly clutching at his chest while his left is pushing down his blankets.

Dropping the curtain from my grip, I approach both in a rush and with caution. Hovering awkwardly, I wonder what it is exactly I'm planning to do. This is beyond my duty, beyond even that of a nurse, who would only come running if he were endangering himself. I don't let myself question why I so desperately wish to help him, for that is a rabbit hole I've been avoiding all day.

With the hope to ease his sleep without waking him, I grab the rag on his bedside and kneel down to his side,  softly meeting his brow with the fabric. Delicately, I brush the heated skin, focusing intently on his every reaction.

"Shh," I find myself hushing, heartbeat elevated. "You're okay. You're safe."

There's a hitch in Tyler's breath and I start in alarm. But then his head sinks a little further into the pillow as his body relaxes, his hands stilling where they rest on his chest. Smiling in relief, I brush his forehead once more and place the rag back down. Turning back, I glance over his body, watching the movement of his breath, and bite my lip. I dare not even think of what his dreams were.

"Shh," I repeat, eyes trailing back up to his face. Tentatively, I reach to touch his forehead with the back of my hand. His skin is fiercely hot, and I fear for his health. He needs to cool down. Panicking slightly, I look around for a solution, until my eyes fix on his shirt.