Before I Wake
by Eli Easton
Thanks to my beta reader, Kate Rothwell, for her help and encouragement, and to my husband for his constant support.
~1~
Jonesy
They wheeled Michael into Ward C at midnight on November first. I started my shift at eleven and I looked forward to midnight. That’s when night really began at St. Mercy Hospital. By then the previous shift had cleared out, and things got nice and quiet. I liked it like that, going from room to room to check on the patients, make sure they were sleeping. I answered requests for pain meds or trips to the bathroom. It was real peaceful most nights.
From the moment I laid eyes on Michael, I knew he was no ordinary patient. His hair was a shock of black against skin so pale it looked like he had no blood at all, or it would have if not for the bruising. His lips and nose were swollen double, and blood was crusted around his nostrils. His eyes were closed.
They put him in room C14 with old Mr. Howser. I followed the gurney and watched two orderlies lift Michael and put him in the bed.
The ward nurse, Sharon, took his vitals and wrote on his chart. She adjusted the ventilator that helped him breathe. Michael looked small lying in that bed. His eyes were shut with such weight, almost gummy or something, like they weren’t designed to open. There was a bandage around his head and more under his gown. Sharon flipped through the report and shook her head in disgust.
We didn’t talk in front of patients, not even sleeping ones, so I waited until we left the room.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Hate crime.” Sharon shook her head more furiously now. “Why can’t we just box all those Nazi mother-fuckers up and send ‘em to Mars?”
Sharon said things like that. I was used to it.
“Is he going to wake up?”
“Well, I guess that’s up to him and God. Poor boy’s got three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a punctured lung, two sprained fingers, and bleeding on the brain. He was in surgery for six hours. They don’t know if there’s brain damage or not.”
“Why do you suppose someone hated him that much?”
Sharon gave me a funny look. “Some people just can’t stand anyone being different, Jonesy.”
“I’m different.”
“I know, Jonesy. I know.”
That night I peeked in on Michael a lot, but he never woke up. I tried to imagine what his face was like under all the swelling. For some reason, maybe it was how shapely his arms were; I thought he would look real handsome. I hoped he would heal quickly and I told him so.
***
My shift was eleven to seven. Michael’s parents came just as I was about to leave. When I saw them walk into Michael’s room, I guess I was curious. I took some fresh ice and a towel to Mr. Howser.
Michael parents were small and they looked old, too old to have a son like Michael. They were pinched up like they were chewing lemons. His father held a Bible and his mother a handkerchief and they prayed over his bed.
It was not a nice prayer. It was all about how Michael had sinned and the Lord had seen fit to punish him. I hoped that Michael was so deep asleep he didn’t hear any of it, it made me so mad.
I don’t care what someone has done, you don’t say things like that to them when they’re broken in pieces and fighting to live, especially not if they’re your son.
My Aunt Dee would never have done something like that, no matter how bad I’d been, and I wasn’t even her own child.
They left and I went over to Michael. I leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“A truckload of bullshit,” I said. “Pardon my French. Don’t you listen to them, Michael. All you need to do is get well, okay? My name’s Jonesy and I’ll be right here, so don’t you worry about anything.”
I never said stuff like that to patients, but it wasn’t right when he couldn’t even defend himself.
***
It was getting cold out, so I spent the morning wrapping the rose bushes in chicken wire and stuffing them with straw
by Eli Easton
Thanks to my beta reader, Kate Rothwell, for her help and encouragement, and to my husband for his constant support.
~1~
Jonesy
They wheeled Michael into Ward C at midnight on November first. I started my shift at eleven and I looked forward to midnight. That’s when night really began at St. Mercy Hospital. By then the previous shift had cleared out, and things got nice and quiet. I liked it like that, going from room to room to check on the patients, make sure they were sleeping. I answered requests for pain meds or trips to the bathroom. It was real peaceful most nights.
From the moment I laid eyes on Michael, I knew he was no ordinary patient. His hair was a shock of black against skin so pale it looked like he had no blood at all, or it would have if not for the bruising. His lips and nose were swollen double, and blood was crusted around his nostrils. His eyes were closed.
They put him in room C14 with old Mr. Howser. I followed the gurney and watched two orderlies lift Michael and put him in the bed.
The ward nurse, Sharon, took his vitals and wrote on his chart. She adjusted the ventilator that helped him breathe. Michael looked small lying in that bed. His eyes were shut with such weight, almost gummy or something, like they weren’t designed to open. There was a bandage around his head and more under his gown. Sharon flipped through the report and shook her head in disgust.
We didn’t talk in front of patients, not even sleeping ones, so I waited until we left the room.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Hate crime.” Sharon shook her head more furiously now. “Why can’t we just box all those Nazi mother-fuckers up and send ‘em to Mars?”
Sharon said things like that. I was used to it.
“Is he going to wake up?”
“Well, I guess that’s up to him and God. Poor boy’s got three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a punctured lung, two sprained fingers, and bleeding on the brain. He was in surgery for six hours. They don’t know if there’s brain damage or not.”
“Why do you suppose someone hated him that much?”
Sharon gave me a funny look. “Some people just can’t stand anyone being different, Jonesy.”
“I’m different.”
“I know, Jonesy. I know.”
That night I peeked in on Michael a lot, but he never woke up. I tried to imagine what his face was like under all the swelling. For some reason, maybe it was how shapely his arms were; I thought he would look real handsome. I hoped he would heal quickly and I told him so.
***
My shift was eleven to seven. Michael’s parents came just as I was about to leave. When I saw them walk into Michael’s room, I guess I was curious. I took some fresh ice and a towel to Mr. Howser.
Michael parents were small and they looked old, too old to have a son like Michael. They were pinched up like they were chewing lemons. His father held a Bible and his mother a handkerchief and they prayed over his bed.
It was not a nice prayer. It was all about how Michael had sinned and the Lord had seen fit to punish him. I hoped that Michael was so deep asleep he didn’t hear any of it, it made me so mad.
I don’t care what someone has done, you don’t say things like that to them when they’re broken in pieces and fighting to live, especially not if they’re your son.
My Aunt Dee would never have done something like that, no matter how bad I’d been, and I wasn’t even her own child.
They left and I went over to Michael. I leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“A truckload of bullshit,” I said. “Pardon my French. Don’t you listen to them, Michael. All you need to do is get well, okay? My name’s Jonesy and I’ll be right here, so don’t you worry about anything.”
I never said stuff like that to patients, but it wasn’t right when he couldn’t even defend himself.
***
It was getting cold out, so I spent the morning wrapping the rose bushes in chicken wire and stuffing them with straw
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