The beeping noise hummed under the sound of frantic voices. Consistent, like a dripping faucet, it wore on Steven’s nerves.
What is that noise? Steven opened his eyes. People in green, blood-covered hospital suits stood over him with surgical tools, preparing to do something to his body, but he didn’t know what. He could hear them faintly, and their faces were covered with bright white masks so he couldn’t tell male from female, or doctor from nurse.
All he could really hear was that consistent beeping noise from the heart monitor. And then it happened. The beeps became slower, slower, slooooooower. His twelve-year-old heart was slowing by the second.
Steven still hadn’t realized that, somehow, he could see everything perched from his spot right above the operating table. How did he get there?
“What are they doing?”
It looked like they were trying to save his life or something, but he wondered how that could be when he felt fine. “He’s bleeding out. Get the clamps,” one of the nurses yelled.
He scanned the room—green tiled walls, bright white lights, and extra surgical equipment stood near the bed where his body lay on the white sheets. A flutter of activity took place near the upper part of his body as nurses passed tools, followed quick commands, and overall moved in synchronization as though this entire act were a dance.
For some strange reason, they were still trying to save his life, but they actually walked straight past the “real” him. A glance to his left found his mother and father both crying behind a large plate-glass window. His father’s face radiated shame, while his mother kept on banging on the glass, mouthing the words, “Save… him… please.”
Who was she talking about? She couldn’t have been talking about him. He was sitting up, feeling fine, and watching everything. Steven’s face wrinkled in confusion, until one of the doctors lowered the window shade, blocking out the view of his parents. Steven slowly glanced behind him, and shock exploded from every corner of his mind. His own reflection glared back at him. He looked exactly like the Steven he remembered and, at the same time, looked nothing like the Steven he had been for twelve years.
Jumping further away from the table, he soon hovered in the upper corner of the room as questions whirled in his mind. How could that be me? I’m standing right here. It was painful to see himself lying on an emergency room table as doctors feverishly worked on his body, trying to get his heart back to a normal speed. Now he knew the reason for his parents’ tears. But how did he get like this? How did Steven end up on that table? Steven wasn’t in a gang, so that couldn’t have been it. There were no accidental shootings at school that day, so that was out of the question.
Steven was startled by the loud beeping sound, which suddenly switched from a beep to a flat, solid tone.
“He’s flat lining. Get the paddles.”
A nurse disappeared and a few seconds later, a loud bursting noise came from behind him. He turned around and quickly moved out of the way as a nurse rolled in the cart with electric shock paddles. The nurse splattered liquid on the paddles and placed them on his chest. “Clear.” She paused, then added, “No pulse, Doctor.”
“I need more. Give me three cc’s of—”
Steven hovered there, witnessing how fast everything was flashing before his eyes. “Ouch, what the—” Although Steven wasn’t connected to his body anymore, he could still feel the shock every time the jolt of electricity passed through his body. He also felt weak, as though he were fading, drifting away.
“Clear.”
Steven lowered to the ground.
“We’re losing him…” one of the nurses screamed.
What happened to me?
“Clear!”
“Run!”
That one word would keep Steven up all night.
“If he somehow gets into the house tonight,” his mother said softly while stroking his head, “I want you to run. Run as fast as you can, as far as you can. Just get away this time.”
She had said those words some thirty minutes before he brushed his teeth, slipped on his green and blue plaid pajamas, and went to bed. Her full lips trailed a tender kiss on his forehead, leaving a thin print of burgundy lipstick as a reminder of a goodnight. The goodnight that happened right before he saw the flowered robe covering her full figure disappear from his bedroom into the dimly lit hallway. Right before the fear in her tear-filled, dark brown eyes could strike worry in Steven’s heart. She didn’t have to say who “he” was. In Steven’s mind, “he” was synonymous with evil. And evil, at least in their house, was synonymous with “Dad.”
But Steven hadn’t listened to his mother. He lay in bed, wide-awake, eyes shifting swiftly in each direction, waiting for something to jump out. In his heart, Steven realized that he couldn’t leave anymore than she could; anymore than she had ever tried. Who would protect her if he left her alone?
Steven was stronger now, almost as tall as his dad. He’d even taken karate classes and definitely knew how to take a man down. So why hadn’t he lifted a finger when Hector came bursting through the door? Why was he trembling in the corner of the living room like the last leaf on a snow-frosted tree, watching a
n instant replay of another world champion Southside of Chicago fight? Why? He’d stepped in front of his mother once before and it didn’t matter. It would only happen again tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Watching didn’t matter. Watching was normal. Steven had heard the second verse of the same song so many times. And by now, he could definitely sing it from memory.
Angry blows rained down on his mother’s body, purple bruises welling up where smooth, dark brown skin should be. As the living room became another battleground of curses and screams, Steven now understood exactly what his Aunt Vinah meant when she said, “When the shit hits the fan, you don’t want to be standing downwind.” Steven, at twelve years old, could tell anyone that upwind wasn’t all that great either.
As his parents fought, every bitter word, every single blow, was like they were aimed directly at him, hurting him worse than any whippings his mother had every given him. It was always about money. Always about responsibility. Always about the fact that drugs were more important to Hector than his family. If Steven had never been born, maybe… things would’ve been different? At least, he wouldn’t be around to see whether or not that was the truth. He couldn’t stand to see this happen to them. Mainly, it was painful for him to watch bad things happen to his mother. But, staying in a bedroom listening wasn’t much better.
Steven sunk down even further into the corner, under the painting of Lake Michigan and the portrait of silver-haired Grandma Mildred, hoping that she was able to see and hear from her place in heaven, the torturing words slicing and stabbing the soul of a twelve-year-old boy. He always picked the corner of a room to keep safe. And so far it had worked. He had learned from experience that flying objects didn’t land in corners. No way! They whipped in and out like a boomerang and either landed on the floor near his feet, or sailed back into reach of one of his parents. Watching his parents fight was as unreal as a video game or an action movie. Only this was one episode he couldn’t turn off and didn’t want to watch. And, oh, how he wished he could simply change the channel. How he prayed that he could.