Silence. And then, as quickly as there had been nothing, there was something. The vibrations of footsteps thundered off the walls. They echoed off, into the infinite corridor. There was light reflecting off the newly mopped hospital floor, but still the corridor was dark-as if no matter what happened in that small room at the end of the hall, no good could come of it.
A small boy guided by his parents moved hesitatingly down the hall. Their shadows passed slowly behind them-drifting, dancing, turning about-and then suddenly, they stopped. A mother, simply dressed, wearing black pants and a white t-shirt, bent down to speak to the young boy. She turned her head and brushed the chestnut hair out of her face. But her face, in this setting, seemed to be lost in the echoing darkness of the hallway. As I watched, her face seemed to disappear, but I could tell that she was speaking. And not speaking lightly-No! Speaking of a truth that would not ease the nervous young lad, of a truth that could, and would, send the boy-just barely eleven-off into a deep, dark chasm of terror.
"Paul, we need to go into this room for a test. They have to
take blood out of your arm," said the mother. I knew, as soon as she uttered this, that the boy would be off-off into another place, a place I once knew, but now, after thousands upon thousands of trays of needles, had escaped. He would be screaming and crying, and I, too, having just heard the news that would bring this boy into a terrifying spin of agony, would be screaming and crying-only no one would hear.
He began to run. Faster and faster he ran. The vibration of footsteps thundered off the walls. And echoed, into the infinity of the hall. There was, most likely, little more on his mind than escape.
"This can't happen!" screeched the mother, as she followed down the endless white hallway. She voiced my own sentiment, as I lay motionless in my bed.
"If they catch me then they'll take my blood!" yelled the boy. They'll stab me-it's a sharp silver spike! They'll keep hurting me until they have enough. I hate them! I hate them! They can't have my blood! No! Never!"
The father, a tall man, with legs much longer than those of his boy, took a few quick paces and was again with the child. He scooped him up by the arms, and was careful to avoid a mighty blow from the fuming, pint-sized prizefighter. Quickly he turned with the boy into the room at the end of the hall.
The old, wrinkly nurse with the platinum hair was wide-eyed, but close-mouthed. I alone could hear the words in her head: "Damn, another little brat. This could take a good half-hour-he'll be squirming. As soon as I get him down, I'll just stick it to him."
After all this, surprisingly little effort was needed to place the boy down into the chair. He had completely frozen-not a single muscle in his body twitched. His hair stood on end, and the lids of his eyes were held tightly open, as if they had been glued to his skull. His skin, now blue, was stretched over his small frame and dotted in small goosebumps. A bead of terror trickled down the boy's forehead and into his eye. Was it that same drop that continued down the boy's cheek? Or was it the mark of sadness that had overcome him, as the needle plunged into his tensed arm?
The blood oozed from his arm for less than a minute, but to him it must have felt like years. And after those years of torment, he screamed a cold, silent scream. The vibrations thundered off the walls of the room, echoing down the hall into infinity, through my own memory, and then-silence.
Copyright 1999
A small boy guided by his parents moved hesitatingly down the hall. Their shadows passed slowly behind them-drifting, dancing, turning about-and then suddenly, they stopped. A mother, simply dressed, wearing black pants and a white t-shirt, bent down to speak to the young boy. She turned her head and brushed the chestnut hair out of her face. But her face, in this setting, seemed to be lost in the echoing darkness of the hallway. As I watched, her face seemed to disappear, but I could tell that she was speaking. And not speaking lightly-No! Speaking of a truth that would not ease the nervous young lad, of a truth that could, and would, send the boy-just barely eleven-off into a deep, dark chasm of terror.
"Paul, we need to go into this room for a test. They have to
take blood out of your arm," said the mother. I knew, as soon as she uttered this, that the boy would be off-off into another place, a place I once knew, but now, after thousands upon thousands of trays of needles, had escaped. He would be screaming and crying, and I, too, having just heard the news that would bring this boy into a terrifying spin of agony, would be screaming and crying-only no one would hear.
He began to run. Faster and faster he ran. The vibration of footsteps thundered off the walls. And echoed, into the infinity of the hall. There was, most likely, little more on his mind than escape.
"This can't happen!" screeched the mother, as she followed down the endless white hallway. She voiced my own sentiment, as I lay motionless in my bed.
"If they catch me then they'll take my blood!" yelled the boy. They'll stab me-it's a sharp silver spike! They'll keep hurting me until they have enough. I hate them! I hate them! They can't have my blood! No! Never!"
The father, a tall man, with legs much longer than those of his boy, took a few quick paces and was again with the child. He scooped him up by the arms, and was careful to avoid a mighty blow from the fuming, pint-sized prizefighter. Quickly he turned with the boy into the room at the end of the hall.
The old, wrinkly nurse with the platinum hair was wide-eyed, but close-mouthed. I alone could hear the words in her head: "Damn, another little brat. This could take a good half-hour-he'll be squirming. As soon as I get him down, I'll just stick it to him."
After all this, surprisingly little effort was needed to place the boy down into the chair. He had completely frozen-not a single muscle in his body twitched. His hair stood on end, and the lids of his eyes were held tightly open, as if they had been glued to his skull. His skin, now blue, was stretched over his small frame and dotted in small goosebumps. A bead of terror trickled down the boy's forehead and into his eye. Was it that same drop that continued down the boy's cheek? Or was it the mark of sadness that had overcome him, as the needle plunged into his tensed arm?
The blood oozed from his arm for less than a minute, but to him it must have felt like years. And after those years of torment, he screamed a cold, silent scream. The vibrations thundered off the walls of the room, echoing down the hall into infinity, through my own memory, and then-silence.
Copyright 1999