Moving to the Open Space

As funny as it is seeing a grown man faint (poor Mervin), there's nothing funny about hearing sirens and seeing flashing lights, and knowing you're the cause of all this madness.

There's also nothing funny about being poked and prodded and fussed over by an endless stream of paramedics, nurses, and doctors.

You'd think they've never seen a zombie kid before.

The worst part is the whispers and concerned mutterings happening nonstop outside the door to my hospital exam room. It's almost like white noise, but far less relaxing.

It fucking sucks when everyone's talking about you, but no one's talking TO you.

Not that the doctors and too-cheerful nurses aren't also talking when they're in earshot, but that's talking AT me. Showering me with platitudes and "you'll feel better soon"s, and "it's all right now"s, while their eyes are simply horrified and definitely telling me the exact opposite.

Eventually, the doctors let the police get to me, and I realize why I was given a private room.

It's for my interrogation.

Officer Nolan is a stern white guy in his late thirties, and it's hard to tell if his military-style buzz cut is a choice or more a matter of hiding a receding hairline.

In his defense, the officer doesn't treat me like an invalid or a five-year-old, and for that, I appreciate him. His voice is sympathetic, but serious, and he seems to actually look at me, not my bruises and bandages.

Most importantly, his eyes aren't shadowed with pity, like everyone else's.

I figure he's probably seen worse.

The woman from Child Protective Services, Ms. Pryce, doesn't have the pity look either. She doesn't have any look but tired. Her frizzy hair is falling out of a bun, and there are dark bags under her eyes. I doubt she's even learned my name; I'm just one file in a thick stack spilling out of her briefcase.

I don't mind, to be honest. I don't want her attention, or anyone's for that matter.

All I really want is sleep.

And to play soccer, but that's just my go-to. If I'm awake, I'm either playing or wishing I were playing. If I'm asleep, I'm dreaming about playing. Or, I'm having a nightmare and I wake up wishing I'd dreamt about playing.

Life's pretty simple when you only have one hobby.

Unfortunately, Officer Nolan seems quite adamant about me staying awake and staying in bed, so it looks like both sleep and soccer are off the table for now.

For the first thirty minutes of my "interview," I manage to get away with nods, head shakes, and the occasional mumbled one-word response.

It's easy because he's only asking the obvious questions: Is my name Aidan Kane? How old am I? Why was I at school? How long had I been there? How did I get so injured? Do I want him to call my family?

That one finally elicits a strong response from me: "No," I answer firmly.

He notices the bite to that particular answer. "Is there a reason you'd rather not speak to them?" he asks.

I turn away and look out the window. There's a spectacular view of the woods outside the hospital, but I don't really see it. I don't see anything except the shadows of cruel smiles and enraged glares from my so-called "family."

Officer Nolan clears his throat, forcefully. I drag my eyes back to him.

"Listen, Aidan. I need you to talk to me, here. Something horrible happened to you. You almost died."

'Ha,' I think, 'almost?'

A sound bubbles up to my lips, something between a laugh and a sob, and I try to catch it, but it escapes, then expands to fill the room like that one tiny sound was a whole tragic symphony.

Officer Nolan pierces me with his most grave expression. "You need to tell me who did this to you. Damage like this?" He gestures to the bandages covering most of me. "It doesn't come out of nowhere. You aren't their first. You won't be the last."

I can't keep his serious gaze, so I look away again, this time up at the ceiling, but that's worse because now I don't have his intense eyes to focus on. Instead, all I can see are the faces of the other kids who I know have had run-ins with my asshole teammates over the years.

He's right. I wasn't the first. I just got it the worst.

I rub my eyes and bite back a groan. All I want is for this interview to end, but the officer's not finished. He barrels on, as if he can tell I'm about to crack.

"You think you're being strong, being brave, by not giving us the names of your attackers. But you're wrong. Keeping quiet isn't brave. It's what they want you to do. What they expect. And it's how they'll get away with it and keep doing this, until one day, they actually kill someone."

I want to tune him out, but I know he's right. I know because they did kill someone, and I saw their faces while it happened, and it didn't bother them.

{Forwards know when to pass. They know when it's necessary to call for help.}

With the words from my System ringing in my ears, I finally give in.

I give Officer Nolan the names.

He dutifully writes down each name, but once I'm finished, he puts down his pen and notebook, comes right to the side of my bed, and crouches to my eye level.

"Thank you, Aidan." He says it with the most serious, sincere expression I've ever seen.

Jerkily, I nod, then I turn away so I can furiously wipe away the tears trying to escape.

Without comment, the officer returns to his chair, and picks his notebook back up, as if nothing happened.

Once he's finished writing his notes, he assures me they'll all face serious consequences for the torture they put me through. I want to believe him, but it's enough I managed to get the words out.

I can't believe I got the words out.

Guilt curdles my stomach, and I'm angry at myself for feeling guilty for turning in the people who felt no guilt while beating me senseless.

But I can't help it, and I know that means I must be crazy.

Finally, Officer Nolan stands to leave. He goes to pat me on the shoulder or something, but something in my expression warns him that's a bad idea, and he pulls back.

I'm grateful. I feel like the tiniest touch might shatter me into a million pieces.

"Will that be all then?" Ms. Pryce asks through a disinterested yawn, already gathering her files and briefcase. Without waiting for a response, she power-walks out the door and disappears.

Exhausted, I slump back into the flat, scratchy hospital pillows.

Officer Nolan looks like he wants to say something else, but with a sigh, he gathers his extensive notes and moves to leave as well.

Before I can be too glad it's over, however, a harried-looking doctor enters the room and hands the policeman a new file. The doctor glances at me, and I can tell whatever she's sharing isn't pretty. She practically drags Officer Nolan into the hall for yet another white noise whisper session.

When he comes back in, something's changed in his eyes. It's still not pity, but it's dangerously close to it. Near-pity, mixed with anger, and grave concern.

He doesn't sit this time.

"Earlier," he says, "right after you arrived in the ambulance, I wanted to talk to you. But I couldn't. It wasn't just the doctors keeping me from talking to you sooner. I wanted to wait for Ms. Pryce from CPS to arrive because I wanted there to be some sort of guardian figure present."

I nod. I've seen crime shows on tv. I get how it works, mostly.

"A nurse is catching up to Ms. Pryce right now, to bring her back here."

Great. She's so helpful. I can't wait.

"Aidan, I think that you're old enough to know. That maybe you deserve to know," he begins, and I want to tell him he's wrong. Whatever it is, I can tell already, I don't want to hear it.

I deserve not to know.

But I don't stop him, and he tells me anyway. "You had your ID on you when you were admitted, so we quickly figured out who your family was. You're a minor. You shouldn't be alone in a hospital. We called them. Kathy and John Martin."

I flinch at the mention of my aunt and uncle.

He notices, but is kind enough to pretend he doesn't.

"You see, we wouldn't have needed Ms. Pryce if your guardians had come," he explains, and I realize what he's getting at. "I talked to them myself."

'I'm sorry,' I think, looking down at my fingers nervously fiddling with the sheets.

"After repeated questioning, they finally admitted they hadn't seen you since Friday. But they never filed a missing persons report. When I asked them why..." he doesn't finish, but I can hear the anger and frustration in his voice.

"They laughed," I finish for him.

It's not a question.

"Yes."

I nod, unsurprised.

"They seemed to think you routinely run off for days at a time. That you go looking for trouble. That you've been a delinquent ever since your mom died." He doesn't sound like he believes it, which convinces me to look at him again.

I shake my head. "No," I say quietly.

Now it's his turn to look unsurprised.

"They said they couldn't come to the hospital because they couldn't rearrange their whole lives just because you got yourself injured. I explained you didn't do this to yourself, but that didn't seem to matter to them."

Of course it didn't.

Officer Nolan has to take a second to choke back the anger he couldn't keep from showing on his face. It's a novel experience for me, having someone be angry on my behalf.

It's not the worst feeling in the world.

Finally, he gets himself in check enough to say the words I dread hearing, "John Martin said he'd be coming to pick you up, once it was convenient to his schedule."

The faint blood in my cheeks drains, and my fingers grip the hospital sheets so tightly, my knuckles turn white. My breathing comes in gasps, and I'm afraid I'm going to hyperventilate.

"Aidan. Aidan, look at me."

I look at him.

"They hurt you, don't they?"

No. No, I can't do this.

I shake my head, violently. It hurts, but I barely notice.

"Cigarette burns aren't the work of schoolyard bullies," Officer Nolan says quietly. "Your x-rays show broken bones and scars that are several years old. But there are no medical records on file to say you've ever been admitted for treatment."

"No," I croak. "I'm clumsy. It was never bad enough for a doctor."

He opens the file. "You've broken almost every rib in your body."

My breath hitches, and I can feel my cousin's kicks, my uncle's punches, my aunt's frying pan or rolling pin or whatever was most convenient for her to grab and hit me with.

"I fell," I whisper.

"The burns?" he says next.

I hear my uncle complaining that the ashtray's too far away for him to reach. I bring it to him, thinking that might put me in his good graces, earn me a night's reprieve.

Instead, he decides the ashtray is too dirty. My skin is more convenient.

"Playing with matches," I say.

"We both know you're lying," Officer Nolan says, and I can't breathe. "You're protecting someone else. Someone closer to you than those boys at school."

Terror spreads through my veins like ice, and I'm shivering, but also sweating, and I can't let go of the sheets, because if I let go I'll disappear and nothing will bring me back this time.

I don't want to say anything else, can't say it, won't say it. It will only hurt my family, and that will only eventually hurt me.

They'll find me.

They'll hurt me.

I can't. I can't.

"I can't," I gasp, choking.

{Find help. Create the open space. Move to the open space. You can't score, you can't play, if you're trapped and blocked at every turn.}

It's impossible. I can't. I CAN'T.

{If you do not believe you can do it, then you cannot,} the System admonishes. {The first step is removing the barriers that keep you from making the plays you want. Do not fear. Act. Move to a better position. Move to the open space!}

Grimacing, Officer Nolan moves to leave.

"They hurt me," I blurt out, and this is it, I'm never going to be safe again.

But I was never safe before.

"Who?" he asks gently.

"My aunt and uncle. My cousin. My…my f-family." I choke on the word like it's ash.

Officer Nolan rushes to my side and looks me right in the eye. Fury flashes across his face, but so does pride. He's proud of me. "That is not family, son. Those people are not your family. Family doesn't hurt. Those people are trash, and I'll make sure they get what they deserve."