W.A.R. 4-2 Take Time with a Wounded Hand

W.A.R. Part Four - Rehabilitation

(2nd edition)

Chapter Two - Take Time with a Wounded Hand

by Jeff Wilson

I walked down the darkened corridor of the hospital. The hallway seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. It was dark and gloomy. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I slipped into the restroom and I quietly washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection smiled back at me. My bleary green eyes were tired and bloodshot.

"Here you are," Dustin said as he opened the door. He closed it behind him.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"I don't know. You tell me, asshole," Dustin said with a smirk.

"Huh?" I replied.

"Don't play dumb with me. You already told everybody one of my secrets. You better not tell anybody about Mike or I'm going to kill you."

"I'd never do that!" I protested.

Dustin unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants, exposing his huge cock. It was bigger than his arm!

"What are you doing?" I asked nervously.

"I'm going to make sure you never tell anybody. Get on your knees, bitch!"

"I don't understand..."

Dustin grabbed my shoulders and forced me to kneel in front of him. "You better suck my cock or you'll regret it!"

"No. This isn't right," I cried.

"Suck it, faggot!" Dustin forced my head closer to his crotch. "Do it!"

"No!" I cried. "Dustin stop!"

He forced me to my feet and slapped me across the face, "I warned you, faggot."

He spun me around so that I was facing the mirror. He ripped my pants open and exposed my butt. "Please stop!" I begged.

I felt a hot searing pain as Dustin drove his beast into my ass. I screamed in pain. "You like it! Don't you, faggot?"

In the mirror, I could see the two of us as he ravaged me. In desperation, I tried to punch him. He quickly held my right arm behind my back. He was laughing at my cries for help. In desperation, I punched his reflection in the mirror. It shattered into a billion pieces, and Dustin was gone. Everything was dark, and it was like I was kneeling on a stage in a spotlight. I could hear the sound of laughter, but I couldn't tell who was laughing or how many people there were. All I heard was laughter.

I could still hear the laughter in my head when I woke up.

It wasn't Dustin's laughter, of course. He was thirty miles away in his home in Donora. I was still in a hospital bed in Pittsburgh, waking up from my third terrifying nightmare of the night. My clothes were soaked through with sweat. My left arm, of course, was still in a cast.

Each dream had ended the same way. I always ended up smashing that mirror again. The first nightmare, my dad beat the shit out of me and smashed me into it. The second nightmare, Ganon from Legend of Zelda threw me through it. Of the three dreams, this latest one had been the most disturbing. I didn't know what kind of drugs they had me on, but I didn't want to be on them anymore if I was going to get raped in my dreams! I couldn't get back to sleep again for a long time afterward.

When the morning came, a nurse came and unhooked my iv and then in the most uncomfortable part of the whole experience, she removed the catheter. My piss smelled like saline for days afterward because they'd pumped me so full of the stuff. For the first time since I'd collapsed on the bathroom floor, she helped me to my feet and I was able to get out of bed and walk around a bit. The cast on my arm was very heavy and kept my elbow bent at a ninety degree angle. While I hated the way I looked wearing it, I was happy that the nurse gave me a sling to help support the weight of the cast.

Mom, Dr. Reilly, and Brett came to my room around noon. They brought me some clothes from home to wear. It was then that I realized just how much I was going to have to depend on people for help. My mom had to help me get dressed! I couldn't put my shirt on. I couldn't even put my pants on by myself without help. They brought my glasses from the Barnharts' house too. I'd forgotten all about them in all the excitement of that day. I'd brought them with me to wear after the party since I couldn't wear my contacts after being in the pool, but never put them on when we left in such a hurry and then I left them there. Since there was no way I was going to be able to put my contacts in without my left hand, it looked like I was going to be stuck wearing the glasses for a while. Once I was dressed, I at least felt a bit normal again, and not like a doctor's experiment gone wrong.

Mom handed me a bottle with pain pills that had my name listed as "WA Roberts" and explained that I should take one every four hours if I felt any pain. "But not more than that because I don't want you to go and get addicted to them. They're very strong!"

"I'm not stupid, mom. I can read an instruction label," I informed her. I quietly scanned the label's to see if nightmares was one of the side effects. It was. I determined then that I wasn't going to take the pills if I could help it.

The nurse came back with a wheelchair to take me outside. I informed her that it was my arm that was broken, not my leg. But she insisted that it was hospital policy, so I sat in the chair. Brett asked if he could push me, but our moms both said no because they didn't want to find me at the bottom of a stairwell.

"Let's go see your father before you go," mom suggested.

All at once, I felt a swift heat flow through my head. It had occurred to me that at some point I would have to see my father again. The last time I'd seen him, he'd slapped me in the face and said he didn't want to see me ever again. Even though it had been a few days, the pain of that moment returned fresh in my mind. Plus the thought of seeing him all hooked up to medical equipment like some kind of Frankenstein's monster was too much for me to take.

"I don't want to see him," I said.

Everybody seemed to freeze as if I'd just said the most horrible thing ever said. Dr. Reilly and mom stared at me as if waiting for me to explain myself. Brett, who had stopped at a water fountain, had stopped slurping and also stared at me with the water still running and hitting him in the cheek. I felt my stomach twist in a horrible knot of guilt and shame. I felt very alone in that moment, and very very bad.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Reilly asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Well why not?" mom asked.

"Because it's stupid!" I replied. "What difference is it going to make? He's unconscious."

"Billy, that's a pretty heartless thing to say!" mom scolded. "Your father needs you!"

"What does he need me to do, stare at him lying there?" I protested. "He can't see me or hear me so what's the point? I'll come see him when he wakes up!"

"You're going to see him right now and that's that!" mom insisted.

"No, I'm not!" I said stubbornly.

"William Aaron..." mom began.

"I don't want to see him all hooked up to a bunch of machines like some kind of freak!" I said, my voice wavering. "Please don't make me see him like that!"

"Paula..." Dr. Reilly said gently. "If Billy really doesn't want to go, I think we should respect his wishes."

"I really think he should go," mom replied.

"I know. But he has been through quite an ordeal. Maybe we should give him a little time."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," I said. "I just want to go home. I don't want to be here anymore."

"There's nothing he could do now anyway, Mrs. Roberts," Brett added. "We can bring him back up here in a few days when Mr. Roberts is feeling better. The sooner we get out of this place the better off he'll be."

Mom sighed. "Is this what you really want to do, Billy? I really think it would do your father a lot of good if you visited him."

"I don't want to see him like that," I insisted.

"Okay then," mom sighed.

With the issue settled, mom didn't bring it up again. I felt horribly awful about not going to see dad. But really, what could I do? I'm just a kid. It's not like dad was going to miraculously get better just because I stood there looking at his unconscious body for an hour. I really didn't want to see him like that.

Mom and Brett waited with me in the lobby while Dr. Reilly went to get her car. Once she pulled up to the curb, Mom wheeled me out the door and out of the hospital. I almost immediately hopped out of the wheelchair and started walking to the car. Brett hopped into the wheelchair and rolled himself back into the hospital to take the wheelchair back. He even let me sit in the front seat, which was a rarity. Mom hugged me for a long time, and I could tell she was trying not to cry.

"I gave Jenny a list with all your allergies and all the phone numbers. I'll be home as soon as I can. You be good. Don't tear up their house. Be careful with that arm of yours. Don't try to do too much. It needs time to heal."

"I will, mom," I replied. Even though I didn't want to do it, my eyes started to burn.

She released me from the hug and put her hands on my shoulders. "I love you so much!"

"I love you too, mom," I replied.

"Don't drink too much after six o'clock," she said.

"Mom please!" I replied.

I got into the car and instinctively reached for the seatbelt with my left hand. I rolled my eyes at my stupidity and managed to strap myself in with my right hand. I waved at mom and she waved at us as we pulled away. I watched as she became smaller and smaller behind us, and then she was gone. I was on my own with Brett and his mom.

"I'll bet you're hungry, Billy," Dr. Reilly said.

"I am!" Brett cried from the back seat.

"You're always hungry," Dr. Reilly laughed. "People are going to think I don't feed you. Would you like to stop somewhere for lunch, Billy?"

"I don't have any money," I replied.

Dr. Reilly laughed, "Don't you worry about that! You're an official Reilly for the week. Brett will be happy to pay for you."

"Hey!" Brett laughed.

"You said if I let you skip school today you'd help me take care of Billy, didn't you?" Dr. Reilly joked.

We stopped at a place I'd never been to before. It was one of those chain restaurants that tries to make you think the food they're serving is all classic Italian cuisine. Still, it beat McDonalds. As we sat waiting for our food, I couldn't help but feel a bit guilty about not going to see my dad. He almost died. He could have... And there I was still mad at him for slapping me. It was my fault anyway. I'm the one who acted like a jerk for two weeks. I'm the one who got him mad at me. I'm the one who was responsible for the whole mess. Even though I was sitting there with Brett and his mom, I felt very alone.

"Billy, are you feeling okay?" Dr. Reilly asked. "You're awfully quiet."

"I guess," I replied.

"It's okay, you know," she said.

"What's okay?" I asked.

"You don't have to bottle everything up and try to be tough anymore. You've been through a lot lately. I want to help you."

"Look, I appreciate you trying to help. I really mean that. But I'm okay. Really. I don't know what Dustin told you about what happened, but I'm fine. I'm not going to kill myself or anything. I don't need to be supervised or analyzed or anything else. I just need to clear my head and I'll be fine."

"Can I just ask you a few little questions then? Not to analyze you or anything. I'm not your doctor, I'm your friend. I would just like to get a little bit of information from you personally instead of second-hand. It might help you to clear you head if you talk about some things."

"I guess," I shrugged.

"What's the last thing you remember about Saturday night?"

"I remember going to the hospital. I remember waiting in the waiting room. I even remember leaving when Brett and Dustin broke the vase."

"That was Dustin's fault," Brett protested.

"Brett, let Billy talk, please," Dr. Reilly scolded gently. "Do you remember what happened in the restroom, Billy?"

I closed my eyes and tried to remember. "Everything's a blur after that," I admitted.

"That's okay. It may come back to you someday. Or you may never remember. The mind isn't the easiest of subjects. May I ask you about something else?"

"Sure," I replied.

"What happened Friday night between you and your dad?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I snapped.

"I don't ask to be nosy or to analyze you. I've heard your mom's side of the story. I know you had an argument and I know he slapped you. I just want to hear your side of things. It's okay. I won't tell anyone what you tell me, and neither will Brett."

I fidgeted in my seat. "Well, I called him an asshole and then he hit me, if you must know."

"I already knew that!" Brett replied.

"Brett, please!" Dr. Reilly scolded him. "Why do you think you did that, Billy?" she asked.

"I just did," I replied. "I don't know why. I wasn't thinking. I was just mad at him and wanted to hurt him."

She smiled, "Is that something you regret saying?"

"Of course it is. If I'd have known he was going to hit me I wouldn't have said it."

"Are you still angry with him? It's okay if you are. I'm not here to judge you. I'm just a sounding board. Sometimes it makes us feel better to get things off our chest instead of keeping them inside."

"I am mad at him. I've never been so mad at him... I really wanted something bad to happen to him. And then it did. He hurt me and I wanted him to get hurt too. So now I can't even be mad at him anymore because he went and had a stroke. Never mind. It's stupid."

"So are you mad at him for hitting you, or for hitting you and then having something bad happen to him and you think you are expected to forgive him for hitting you even though he hasn't apologized?"

"Both I guess. Mom seems to think I should just forget all about what happened. I can't. He really hurt me. You don't understand how humiliating that was."

"Help me to understand."

"Well, my parents have never hit me before. Ever. It was awful! They always treated me like a person, not like a little kid. You know what I mean? Like, they always treated me with respect. I mean, I know I complain a lot about them and sometimes I treat them like crap, but I know they don't deserve it. My parents are really good to me. Better than I deserve... So when he hit me, it was like all of that was ruined... Like, he's my dad. I'm his kid. He's supposed to love me and protect me. But then he's the one that hits me? How is that even right? What are you supposed to do after that? I know what I said was really stupid, but I didn't deserve to get slapped in the face!"

"Do you think your dad deserved to have something bad happen to him?"

"Yeah, but not what happened to him. I just wanted him to feel bad about what he did. I wished for something bad to happen to him. I never imagined it actually would."

"Do you feel responsible for what happened to him?" she asked.

"It is my fault. I should have been there. I was supposed to work with him that day. Instead, I went to that stupid party and he could have died because I wasn't with him. And I know it wasn't my fault he had the stroke. I know that it would have happened with or without me there, whether or not I'd wished for something bad to happen to him. But I should have been there."

Our food arrived and for a while, that was the end of the conversation. Brett scarfed down his food in record time and I barely touched mine so Brett ate most of mine too. I reflected over what Dr. Reilly and I had talked about while I nibbled on breadsticks. I hadn't wanted to talk about my dad, but I had to admit I did feel better having been able to talk about what was going on. Better out than in, I guess.

After we ate and we were on the road again, Dr. Reilly asked, "Do you know who the hardest person in the world is to forgive?"

"I don't know, Osama bin Laden?" I guessed.

"No... The hardest person in your life to forgive is yourself. But I really think that may be the most important thing you should do, Billy. I sense that you are blaming yourself for a lot of things that aren't your fault. You seem to take a lot of things personally. You see, all the guilt you carry with you is like dirt. If you never wash it off, the dirt just builds and builds until you can hardly recognize yourself anymore. You haven't done anything that can't be forgiven, Billy. I really hope that this week you can find some way to begin that process."

I adjusted my glasses and looked out the window. I hoped that she would stop talking for a while if I pretended to ignore her. She could say all the stuff she wanted about forgiving myself. She didn't know the dark places my wicked teenage mind could wander into. I knew myself too well to forgive myself.

"I guess you think I should forgive my dad too?" I asked.

"That's not up to me, Billy. Only you can decide when the time is right to do that. I know you're still very upset about what happened. We don't just turn off our feelings like a light switch. Give it some time. Maybe you just have to forgive yourself before you can forgive him."

"I don't know if I can," I admitted.

"Can you say a little more about that?" she asked. "Help me understand why you think you can't forgive yourself?"

"I don't know. I mean, I try to be good. I really do. I just want to make people happy. I want my parents to be proud of me. You know? But then I always do something stupid and screw it all up. Everyone I love just ends up getting hurt because of me. I'm the one who deserves to get hurt. Not them. That's why I punched that mirror. I just wanted to make it go away. Maybe if I just hurt myself I won't hurt someone else." Somewhere in my explanation, I began to understand what had truly happened to me. I inhaled a shuddered breath and brushed my eyes with the back of my hand.

Dr. Reilly put her hand gently on my shoulder. "Just admitting those feelings is a huge step for you, Billy. It's not going to be easy to find forgiveness for yourself, but I want to help you find it. But for now, I want you to rest up. It can be very tiring to try to deal with these issues, and just like exercise, if you over-do it you can really hurt yourself."

"Okay," I replied.

When we made it to Brett's house, Brett and I played around in his room for a while. I quickly found out that playing video games was going to be impossible with only one hand. That was depressing. But Brett had a ton of games on his computer that only required me to awkwardly move a mouse. I never realized how dependent I was on being able to use my hand until I couldn't. I mean, how was I supposed to masturbate? Why had I decided to punch that mirror again?

Later in the afternoon, Brett and I walked to my house so I could gather up some clothes and my toothbrush and all of the stuff I would need while I was staying with Brett. It was strange walking into the house with no one in it. It was like life had just suddenly come to a halt, leaving everything where it had been when mom got the news about dad. There were dishes in the sink that Brett offered to wash while I got my stuff together. It was so quiet, dark, and eerie. The air was stuffy and stale, and it felt like the place hadn't been occupied in years. It was as if the life had been sucked right out of the place.

In my room, I cleaned up a bit of the clutter that had been left behind when I had left on Saturday morning. There were a few magazines and clothes lying around on the floor. I tossed the clothes in the hamper and the magazines I threw in a pile next to my bed. I gathered up some clothes and put them in a big gym bag that Brett had lent me. I looked around the quiet room and my eyes rested upon a photograph in a frame on my dresser. I'd seen that picture every day, but on that day it really caught my attention. It was a picture of me and my dad on one of our camping trips. My eyes began to well up just looking at that happy moment in time, captured forever on film. There wasn't anything my dad couldn't do. There was nothing he couldn't fix. Except himself. And now he was lying in a hospital thirty miles away and I didn't even have the decency to go see him before I'd selfishly insisted on leaving him behind.

I stared at that picture for so long that I didn't even notice when Brett came looking for me.

"Here you are," he said. "Everything's cleaned up in the kitchen. I really like that picture of you guys. Maybe someday I'll get to go camping with you. You ready to go?"

"Brett, why is this happening?" I asked.

Brett put his arm around me and I rested my head on his shoulder. With no one else around but him, I was finally able to let go of my pride and I quietly sobbed as he held me like he'd done at my grandma's funeral.

"Aww, don't cry, Billy. I hate to see you cry," Brett soothed. "It's going to be okay. Your dad's tough. He'll be okay."

"You don't know that," I sobbed. "He could still die, or end up like grandma."

"He won't," Brett insisted. He hugged me tighter. "I promise you he won't."

I wiped my eyes and smiled weakly at him. "Nothing's ever going to be like it used to be, is it?" I asked.

"I guess not," he replied. "Whatever happens, we're going to get through it. You know why? Because I'm going to take care of you, babe. I promise. You feel better?"

"Yeah," I replied, "a little." I kissed him on the cheek. "You're a really good boyfriend."

"I know," Brett smiled. "Let's get out of here."

Brett lugged my bag over the hill for me. I loved him so much. He said he was going to take care of me and he meant it. While I missed having my mom and dad around, I was still excited about the idea of spending an entire week with Brett. I could handle whatever life threw at me as long as I had him with me.

Thanks for reading!

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Next time: Dustin's Pride