Deep Wounds

9-18-02-Revision
Deep Wounds
By G Money

         He turned the lights off and locked the door. “How could I be so stupid,” he mumbled to himself as he walked down the steps and onto the street. “Damnit. I should’ve known better.” He sprinted to the hospital.

         The nurse's station was crowded with doctors filling out charts, talking to the nurses, dictating or conversing amongst each other. Others came and went as one Friday night emergency replaced another. He saw his long time friend standing off to one side, looking over a chart.

         “Mike?” He could never bring himself to call him by his medical title, the name too reminiscent of Mike’s father and their childhood.

         The doctor turned. “Hey Ryan. Got my message I see.” Claire had come up in a number of conversations over the past six days. He thought it odd that Ryan would focus on one particular student, but he understood Ryan’s growing concern and struggle to find the best mode of intervention having been there himself. It seemed like a long time ago. The subversive means he had used to get Ryan to his house, the confrontation, his father’s calm, prodding manner that broke through Ryan’s stubbornness and loyalty, a loyalty to a man Mike believed didn’t deserve it.

         “Where is she?”

         “This way,” he said as he led Ryan down the hall. "Second one down on the left.” He pointed as he looked at his pager then hurried back down the hall.

         Ryan quietly went in. She was curled up, her back to him. He saw bloody bandages lying on the table, not yet disposed of. He sat in the chair nearest the door. The signs, the hints popped up in his head as he watched her, waiting for movement.

         He felt hands on him, shaking him, beating him. Voices screaming. Dishes smashing. The pain of shattered bones as he fell down the stairs, only to be picked up and tossed over the couch and through the glass coffee table. Then the relief as he watched blood pour from the gashes and his head, flowing steadily with the tiny slope of the floor. His father standing over him, smiling, while his mother screamed in the background.

         “Ryan.”

         He jumped out of the chair, his fists doubled.

         “Whoa, take easy.”

         He let his fists drop to his sides, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

         “Oh damn, not again,” Mike said, looking at his pager. “I’ll check back with you.”

         Ryan stretched, looked at his watch, then at her. She was still tucked, her back to him. He picked the chair up and carried it over to the other side. He found her eyes open, staring blankly across the wall. He sat down and leaned forward.

         “What are you doing here?" Her voice was flat.

         “Making sure you’re alright.”

         “I am.”

         “Why didn’t you say something to me?”

         “What is there to say?” Her eyes were bloodshot. He saw tiny scars on her cheeks and a fresh slit in her lip that was slowly healing.

         He sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, remembering conversations of his like this. Going in circles, trying to maintain control, burning with the desire for help that was doused with thoughts of shame for not being able to handle family matters on his own.

         “He found me, bleeding on the floor in the kitchen.”

         He felt his chest cave in. “Did it work?”

         “He kicked me to see if I was dead. I moved, so he kicked me harder. It was an accident. I was making dinner and cut myself while slicing a tomato. I passed out as I saw my blood mix with the tomato juice.”

         “Claire,” he felt his stomach turn as she described the scene.

         “I managed to stand at some point and move into the other room. He followed, demanding to know how I could do such a stupid thing, ranting and raving about how dinner was ruined, the damned bastard. So I shot him.”

         He felt his mouth drop open. She smiled, then rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He noticed the other wrist then. The bandage stretched two inches longer than the other one with blood beginning to show, forming a long line down the side of her arm.

         “What happened to the other one?”

         “He sliced it, saying it might as well be even. It’s deeper than mine by a good quarter inch. I took off for the neighbors at that point, collapsing on the front porch as they were leaving for dinner. Their welcome mat is ruined. I’ll have to get them another and apologize.”

         The door opened and a nurse came in with a tray of fresh dressings. Mike stood in the doorway and motioned for Ryan to step outside.

         “Is the one cut a quarter inch deeper?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.

         “Yes.”

         Ryan ran his hand through his hair and stared at the floor. He leaned against the wall and shifted his gaze to his leather shoes.

         “It happens to a lot of kids, more than either of us wants to admit.”

         “How could I have missed all this?”

         “Did many people know about you?”

         “No. It was...too simple. There were so many....excuses. Oh God.” He put his head into his hands. “I wasn’t listening. I just wasn’t…" He turned his head at the sound of ruckus down the hall. A man at the nurses' station was shouting, pounding on the desktop and waving his finger at her.

         "Excuse me sir," Mike said as he approached.

         "Doctor, this woman won't tell me where my daughter is. I am taking her home and away from you idiots. I don’t know what is wrong with you people."

         "What is the name of your daughter?"

         "Claire Bell."

         There was a sudden crack at the sound of the name, and the man stumbled backward, clutching his nose, blood oozing out between his fingers and seeping into the crevices in his hand. A body moved in front of him, arms and fists pumping up and down until Mike wrapped his arms around the body, pinning the arms and fists to the sides.

         "Stop Ryan. It won't help any," Mike said as he dragged him away.

         Ryan shook himself free, heaving with exhaustion and anger. He rubbed his knuckles. Two were split open to the bone from the teeth. Blood squirted out when he made a fist. Mike held onto his arm as he led him down the hall to an empty exam room. Ryan continued to pace as Mike rummaged in the cabinets for gauze and sutures that he set on a table. He laid a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, who sat down on the bed, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

         "Feel better," Mike asked as he started to clean the wound.

         "Yes," Ryan said, wincing. "I should have done that long ago."

         "You're not the emotional type. This is going to sting a little," Mike said as he poured a clear liquid over the knuckles. "He just happened to strike a nerve."

         "A rather tender nerve at that too." Ryan squirmed and inadvertently made a fist, ripping the knuckles open.

         "Okay Ryan. Calm down. Take a deep breath and calm down. You won't be much good to Claire if these knuckle keep ripping open."

         “What does the mother think of all this?"

         "Her mother died three years ago." He looked at him, catching the distant spark as the similarities clicked. "I talked to the neighbors who brought her in. They told me Claire's mother had died for reasons believed to be complications from chemo, not to contact the father and to send them the bill, it was the least they could do.”

          "Send me the bill Mike. Let me take care of it."'
Mike nodded.

         He watched in silence as Mike stitched up the wound and wrapped it in gauze. Mike went back to check on Susan and see if the guard had arrived. Ryan returned to Claire's room. She was curled up again.

         "That was him, wasn't it, looking for me."

         "Yes it was." He sat back down in the chair. Her eyes focused on him. "He won't be back Claire.”

         There was a small twinkle in her eye for a moment. "Thank you." It disappeared before he could be certain.