by Brianna G. Harte
Gazing at my son for the first time in far too long, I could hardly hold myself back. While delighted that we could finally embrace, sorrow took residence in my face. He looked the same as he did all those years ago, besides the scars on his forehead and arms and the bruises on his neck. Even his clothes had not changed. Standing no higher than my waist, Harrison likely had still been just shy of turning eight. I wished for tears to roll down my face. I yearned for him to tell me he was alright. And yet, I could not deny the truth.
We were both gone to the world of the living, and he, he left far too soon.
I recalled the hospital when lights illuminated every corner and the offices ringing incessantly. Monitors lay to the side of the hallway. Bewildered was I when nurses ignored me, doctors rushing from room to room. Most doors closed off the patients from the halls filled with an inconsistent flow of people. Upon seeing a small child, my mind immediately flew to my own. I began to ask doctors where little Harrison was. None of them listened. I tried to ask nurses. No luck lay there either. Careful to avoid people, I walked briskly to another side of the hospital, hoping to see my husband in recovery. Perhaps he would know where our son was. I slipped through the area with a large sign laying overhead “Mentally Ill”.
The wing was far smaller than the other, with perhaps twenty rooms at most close together with far fewer objects lying about. As a nurse entered a room, a glimpse of a man strapped to his bed caught my eye. I wondered if, when relieved of the horrid feelings that may have plagued his mind, he would be able to walk as I could. A young woman in her thirties or forties paced across the tile floors. Aside from the loose, one-piece smock she had to wear, she seemed normal. Her blonde straight hair draped over her shoulders and back, making her seem rather washed out.
“Excuse me, but have you seen a tall man with a dark scruffy beard, somewhat muscular stature, and deep tan skin?”
She did not respond, continuing on her way.
“Well then, have you seen a little boy about seven? He’s got light brown hair like me, blue eyes, and is about this tall,” I said, raising my hand up with the palm facing downward.
Still no response from her.
“Hey,” a voice came from a nearby room.
Leaving the young woman, I approached the door left ajar. Inside lay an old man also in one of the soft grey smocks that did him no justice. His face was worn and his grey hair nearly matched the clothes.
“What is it?” I asked. “Have you seen my husband or son?”
Copyright © 2016 Brianna G Harte. All rights reserved.
After not writing any stories for a while, I began to miss it. Thus, I began to write! Here’s the beginning to a story from the other side, branching off from another story I began not too long ago.