It started as a nightmare. I walk into the hospital he's in. he's sleeping and his parents are by his side. The father doesn't even look at me. The mother recognizes me, she gets uncomfortable at the sight of me, she probably thinks I'm the one who did this to her lovely child. She says nothing but looks at me with hate. I look down at him. He's sleeping, I've never seen him sleep. He looks strangly peaceful. His lip is bleeding, his left eye is swollen, he has bruises and cuts everywhere, his leg is in a cast, he was clearly beaten half to death. I know who did this.
His parents go to the cafeteria to get some food. His mother turns to me before leaving, tears in her eyes, she gives me a silent "don't hurt my boy" look. I stare back. Him and I are alone now. I take his right hand in mine, careful to not open a stitch. I go to kiss his hand, then remember he wouldn't want me to so I hold his hand close to me. I stare at him, his mangled body. Rage and fear grow in me until I cry, then someone walks in. I gently place his hand down and wipe my tears away.
It's his best friend. I stand up to great them and identify myself but they don't seem to notice me (understandable). They yell out his name and sit on the left side of him, weeping at just the sight of him. I stand awkwardly. I'm not sure what to do but I know I don't want to leave. Eventually they notice me, looking up at me with confusion. I state my name "w- we've met once, briefly, a- a while ago." I stammer. They think for a moment then recognition flashes in their eyes and they stand up "yeah, I remember you. sorry I-" "I get it" I cut them off.
We both sat back down, the energy in the room was charged. There was hatred in the air. I know who did this and I'm sure they do to. Neither of us knew what to do. There was nothing we could. We both had this silent understanding of what likely happened- and that nothing can nor will be done about it. I'm not sure how much time passed but his parents walked in, holding some of those disposable paper cups that you get from a café or cafeteria. They slightly perk up at the sight of his best friend. I've always been jealous of that, of people who can get parents to like them. They talked for a bit then all looked back at him. The sleeping boy who's been laying for hours. The boy with blood crusted all over him. Bruises, cracked and broken bones, swelling just about everywhere. I can tell his father is trying not to cry. No man should have to see his child like this. His best friend is trying not to cry for the sake of the parents. But the mother is weeping in the fathers arms.
Eventually we're all sat back down, silent. Until his father speaks, the first time I've heard him all day. "What happened?" He looks like a helpless child, a raccoon that doesn't understand why washing cotton candy doesn't work. I again am silent but the best friend isn't, "I don't know. They were just found like this. No one knows." A good liar. No one saw it happen. No one KNOWS what happened. But we know. The thing we feared the most happened.
The doctor comes in, "Are you the parents?" She asks to the now standing father and mother. They nod. She says that my friend will make a full recovery. She kept talking, I stopped listening.
Over the course of the next few days I visit him, everyday. He's mostly sleeping, I talk to him, read to him, and do work on my computer next to him. His parents visits are much more brief. They have jobs, I get it.
This dream only happened once or twice but the thought of it happens constantly for more than a year. I can't protect him. If this happens theres nothing I can do. Everyone who knows what happened will lie. Even he will say he don't know who attacked him or he doesn't remember.
-Dead Man
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