Never Alone

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Damien's hand waved over the sensor that opened the hospital doors at the end of the hall. "Thank you," Ken said, softly but politely from his wheelchair at Damien's side. He looked up briefly and Damien answered him with a nod of his head. I could tell that Ken was a proud boy. Being in that chair clearly was sucking the life right out of him. His shoulders were wider than any I'd seen on a kid our age and his thighs stretched out the gym shorts that were pulled up over the sleek cast on his leg.

Dr. Crimm slipped her jacket off again and I watched her hang it over her arm like she'd done the last few times. All the doctors I'd ever come in contact with wore their white coats as if they were a requirement for the position. They acted as if we wouldn't believe anything they said unless they were wearing them and then once they were on, we shouldn't ever question a thing coming out of their mouths. I heard somewhere that studies have shown we humans tend to believe more of the things we hear when they come from someone wearing a medical coat, even when we know nothing about that person's training, so it was very interesting to me that she took hers off as quickly as possible.

The chair fascinated me; I'd only ever seen them but never rode in one myself. Normally I would have slowed down, but Dr. Crimm lead us down the last nearly-empty hallway to the back exit of the hospital at a brisk pace. Damien looked over at me with a look that said, What the fuck?I shrugged, not quite sure why we were in such a hurry.

It was dark outside, but the black SUV sat beneath the bright glow of the hospital lights. Just beyond the orb, nothing could be seen. When we'd driven up to the place, it had been through miles and miles of darkness, our headlight beams showing row after row of growing crops. I always imagined Texas as farms and green land, but at night there was something lonely and eerie about the place that made my stomach jittery. The hospital was in what I imagined was the main town square and there were signs I could read now as we stopped at the blinking red light smack in the middle. I'd been tucked into the back seat on the way in, but now from the middle row I could see the hand-drawn posters cheering on the high school football team. The boy who wore the number six jersey seemed to be a local legend. His jersey was flashing on the TV screen in the small shop window and also at the tiny café. I squinted my eyes to see the image of him, arm back, ready to throw the football, painted on the wall outside a shop that was advertising a sale on washing machines this week only. Blonde curls spilled from beneath the helmet as big blue eyes stared down his opponent. Those blue eyes looked determined and now they were familiar.

"You're number six." I said quietly. I turned my head to look at our latest group member and watched as his jaw ticked from the seat behind me. His casted leg was propped up straight across the folded-down seat in front of him, his size alone intimidating but his chiseled features threatening in their own way. Only the closer I looked, the more I could see he was broken. If there was a warrior in him, he was cowering in the corner somewhere.

Ken nodded his head once and then cleared his throat. "I was."

Damien leaned forward and began to study all the images plastered across the small town. The story painted all over was incredible. The idolization, the expectations, and the pressure. It was everywhere. I felt it myself as we pulled out of that town. I felt the way it had started to wrap around my insides, gripping my organs and strangling them until I wanted to flee from that place. Ken just sat there, speechless, his head hung in defeat and disgrace as we drove away. Suddenly those cornfields and dark open roads didn't feel so vast.

We crossed over a small bridge I hadn't paid much attention to on the way in, but this time I saw something that caught my eye. A single candle was burning at its entrance and as our headlights lit up the railing guiding the cars along the road above the creek, I could see a makeshift vigil of sorts. Only the person who was being remembered wasn't dead. I knew that because he was sitting beside me. Deflating balloons spun depressingly in the warm night air over signs begging Number Six to get well soon. Signed letters and dirty teddy bears dressed in football jerseys were tacked to the old post near the bridge. Every item might as well have been sitting on my chest for the weight I felt there when I saw it. Every tiny dying flower, every poster in a child's writing, every football and pompom I saw weighed me down, like lead on my lungs.