I Fell in Love with Hope(61)

He covers his head instinctually, his elbows beneath his chin, arms covering his ears. One of the taller boys without hair on his head steps on his shoulder. Sam whimpers unwillingly, his teeth stuck together, his muscles braced. The shelves cast shadows, the lack of light outlining shapes and blurred actions.

Nothing obstructs the boys’ words as they spit cruel taunts. Where are your horns and fangs? They hit him again when he won’t answer, prop him up against the wall, and hold him down. Why do you get your own room? Why do you get special treatment? A little boy, one even younger than Sam, watches. Don’t touch him, he says. He’s smaller than the rest, trying to tug the older boys away, guilt on his tongue. Don’t touch him, he could kill us. It’s dangerous. We could die. Sam flinches as if he’s been hit again.

The boys aren’t done with him. A sliver of action, of life from him, is enough to keep probing. Another tries to grab him by the collar. I grab his hand and push him away. He stumbles back into his herd, the other boys following.

I stand in front of Sam.

The children, two of them in hospital gowns, the rest in their own clothes, are all sick, just as he is. The oldest will die soon. The pale green of his skin is telling enough, and he’s been here the longest. Another has more meat on his bones, but his wrist is shaky and his eyes bulge. His fist is damaged from hitting. He swallows hard and though I can’t tell you how I know for certain, I know he will pass away within the next few weeks. The rest will leave soon, patients of intermediation, small scars, and treatments that the outside world can tolerate.

We’ve never spoken, but I know them. I’ve watched them.

They aren’t cruel. They let cruelty consume them. It quickly spits them back out at the sight of me. I don’t frighten them. They don’t know me. What frightens them is that, like everyone else, they feel like they’ve met me before.

My gaze, my silence, my unwillingness to move is deterring enough. They disperse, running out of the room, almost knocking shelves over in the process. Their scurrying sends a shivering breath through Sam as if he’s been holding it since they started on him.

Once they’re out of sight, I kneel down, cast aside his hair, and look at his wounds. He clings to his stomach, wincing when I go near it. His lip is split, a swelling pit gathering color on the side of his face.

“Don’t move too much,” I mutter. Sam nods, his tongue poking at his lip. The coppery taste makes him frown and I’m almost too relieved that his biggest discomfort is the bitterness.

I carry him back to his room. We’re roughly the same size, but for the bravery I lack, I’m stronger than I look. I feel an urge to squeeze him, to show my relief. Instead, I am tender. I hold him with care, the way you hold a box or a tray of food.

Sam whispers an apology into my shirt, saying thank you.

I tell him to be quiet.

He is for a few steps.

“Why do they hate me?” he finally asks.

“They don’t hate you,” I promise him.

“They hurt me.” His voice cracks. “Why do they hurt me?”

“Because they’re weak,” I explain. “Hurting you gives them power. Or at least an illusion of it.”

“They want power?” Sam asks. “Like evil kings and queens in fairy tales?”

“No.” I shake my head. “More like… Sailors,” I say, turning into his room. “It’s easier to pretend you, someone as small and weak as them, is the enemy when there’s a whale circling the boat.”

I place Sam gently back in his bed. I ask him if his stomach still hurts. He nods, squinting. I tell him I’ll go get help. He whines when I try to leave, but it fades at the end. His eyes start to close, fluttering, his consciousness slipping into the back of his head.

“Sam?” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s gone, a fit overtaking him. He must’ve hit his head in the closet. A seizure wounds his nerves, convulsing through him.

I yell for someone, anyone, propping Sam on his left side. I yell so hard my throat tears. And when the seizure ends Sam’s heart stops.

—

I can leave my body as I wish. That is how I can tell you things you think I shouldn’t know. It is how I can be a narrator even for the scenes I am not a part of.

Like people to the three thieves, a body is merely something through which I can be perceived. All I have to do is be completely still, and then I travel. Into the wall, the ceiling, the windows, anywhere at all. I can spectate as any part of this place, not just the hospital, but the stretch of its influence.

In the basest of terms, I am a soul like all those Sam likes greeting. I’ve always been able to watch, to see, but I’ve never lived. I don’t have a life, as people do. I am a narrator. Narrators watch.

But I became greedy. I’d had far too many violent, bloody tales to tell. It was through Sam that I learned how to create peaceful ones.

It’s been thirteen days since the woman I was sure would pass away got better and it’s been thirteen days since Sam fell unconscious.

The door creaks open, letting in a thin cut of light as the woman walks in. It draws right to Sam, bypassing my shadow in the chair next to him.

The woman wears sadness beneath her mask. With her gloves on, she hands me two sweet breads wrapped in wax paper. She tells me she made them for him, for when he wakes up.

The woman, in her kindness, made a mistake just now.