I became more and more uneasy as the day grew older, realizing no one would tell me exactly what happened to me. Knife cuts. Claw marks. An infection. No infection. Just three broken bones. Broken wrists, three rib fractures, and a concussion. I'd be here for only a few hours more, they said, but four hours passed and then five and six and the day was wearing away. Get well soon cards materialized onto the bedside table of the hospital room, classmates payed awkward visits and my parents came back, then left again, replaced by the slow dimming of rooms and dying out of chatter and movement in the hallways.
I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a ragged bandage-plastered face peering at me through puffy, heavily lidded eyes, feebly held up on bare wobbling legs. Fingers locked onto an IV stand like it would catch me if I collapsed. The boy in the mirror stared, and I stared back, slowly blinking. Face slack.
The bathroom door swung open beside, upsetting my now mop-like array of sagging blonde hair and as if jolted from my half-asleep stupor I moved towards the exit. I didn't catch notice of the figure coming in, but they quickly slid past to get out of my way as I made my way through the doorway and out into the hall outside. It might have been my sore, corpse-like movement, or the bandages over my face and arms and legs and wrapped around underneath my hospital gown, maybe even the patches of blood swimming to the surface of thick gauze. The sensation of being in the presence of the injured. I wasn't sure, but it didn't matter. I was out of the mirror. Out of the suffocating atmosphere of the room.
Starch white walls and slick shine flooring collided in my eyes, dazing me. The memory of bloodstained asphalt and the sting of city streets flickered in my memory, darkness replaced with burning brightness, teal blue uniforms, masks obscuring faces, gloved hands and clipboards and stretchers clattering by before I could focus enough to see what they held.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I walked, trying to hear only sounds. Only voices.
Feeling a sudden wave of nausea wash over me, I leaned one shoulder against the wall. Shoe heels clacking passed and receding down the hall, voices brisk and impersonal. It was like I was going deaf, my ears ringing like hell. I tried to focus on one sound.
"In cases like these there's not much we can do unless we have solid evidence against him--"
I heard the stretcher wheels spinning in unison down the hall, words coming almost panicked. I held my eyes shut, then slowly let them fall open.
"Child abuse is tricky like that,"
I watched them approach, vision out of focus, until they neared and I could somewhat make out the small form, contrasted sharply against the stark white bed.
I recognized them.
Dark hair, sickly thin. Precariously balanced between awake and asleep, eyelids just open enough to pierce me with a patch of sky, blue confusion flooding through me, wiping out any other thought or feeling. For half a second, amnesia took over me. I was somewhere else. Someone other than myself. I blinked.
His arms were opened, seared with red. Face bloody and bruised.
"Hey, you.. you okay?"
It was one of the women in uniform, the one pushing the stretcher. The other had a clipboard. Both watching me, faced creased with worry. I was floundering, my words faltering. I was miles away. He was right here. Something in me hurt, not like the injuries from the attack three days ago. A heavy feeling, a sort of realization. An ache. Was it guilt?
They passed me by, just as a shouted name came rushing at me from the other end of the hall.
"Halloway, what are you doing?"
It was the doctor.
I turned my head and watched them fade into the distance and round a corner, mind wandering away down a hospital hallway following a boy I'd maybe known in another life, the echo of a long lost dream slipping away before I could quite remember...
***
It was two days later when they took me home and told me I could go to school again. I could have my life back, or at least as close as possible.
But there was something in the stares I got, the constant concern, the groups coming by to tell me they were so sorry about what happened. My friends held me at an arm's length, picking their words carefully as if they might accidentally say the wrong thing and break me. Like I was fragile. Had they been talking about me behind closed doors, the sideways glances and constantly shifting weight having a deeper meaning than the surface showed?
Clutching the straps of my backpack, I jumped as a hand hit my shoulder.
"Leon, meet me in my office after class alright?"
A twinge of panic. An uneasy smile.
It was the coach, and I knew what he wanted to say before the office door snapped shut behind me, myself standing like a condemned man in front of his bobble-head figure covered desk. A trophy case loomed in the corner as if laughing in my face. The football in his aged hands spun in the air a couple of times before being caught and set down with a small thunk and a purpose.
"You wanted to talk to me?"
"Yep," He nodded and flashed a row of nearly-perfect teeth but for three metallic coated molars glinting in the back row. "Please take a seat."
_______________________________________
A.N. Danger at every turn, comes from the most unexpected places... What will become of Leon? Find out soon, and be sure to vote and comment ❤️
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