SciFrac
WIP me into shape!
I know the tradition is 1000, but I've trimmed off a zero to speed things along. Anywho, this is my current chapter one for a psychological drama with a paranormal element introduced later.
I've received mixed reviews on this ranging from "dump it" to "essential". At the moment, I want to dump it because the next chapter starts 27 years later. Let me know if you consider this a dumpy prologue, or a story.
Dig in.
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They all expected the boy to die. Blood filled his bandages. The morning rains lifted as paramedics ripped the gurney from their ambulance and burst through emergency room doors.
Nurses piled into hallways with gas tanks and rolling instruments. The child lay motionless, rushed down tight corridors into sterile, ready hands. A slower team wheeled his presumed mother to the morgue.
Doctors churned through pre-op procedures. A nurse removed his jacket, his T-shirt and jeans cut off. Hospital staff recoiled at the sight. Even the surgeons cringed.
The young victim faded on a frigid metal table. Nurses punctured both arms with IVs while others prepped surgical tools and halogen lamps. Beeps of life-support pinged against the tile walls. No one could identify the child, yet death approached.
A nurse layered blankets over his swollen body and packed ice around his head. When the operation launched, the battle began.
Surgeons barked and argued over strategy. Curses flared, egos flared, but the crew continued despite expectations. The boy required bone graphs and x-rays, volumes of blood, neuro-specialists, cranial reconstruction, a faint spark of pale hope, and the earnest prayers of all Heaven’s omnipotent gods.
But he lived.
In nine hours, doctors transformed the boy from victim, patient, to survivor. Word spread fast among the nurses working recovery, “I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” and soon every hospital employee gasped at the same unnerving truth: this boy didn’t exist. Nor did the female driver. Not on paper. Not in school records. Not in any government database.
No family members visited. No cards or flowers arrived. Not one inquiring phone call. The boy lay limp, day after day, unclaimed and nameless.
Not completely nameless. A nurse saved his jean jacket when she read the back tag, and placed it in his closet for safe keeping. Staff never confirmed or denied their suspicion, but everyone assumed the name written there in permanent blue marker was his.
Although police conducted extensive interviews, identity of the two victims eluded them. Reports confirmed the accident details- two cars, two victims, yet only one driver. An obvious hit and run, but the responding officer never saw a second driver. The criminal escaped.
Detectives pleaded in local newspapers and television. People posted signs on area telephone poles and public cork boards. Information trickled into various news outlets, and though police followed every lead, nothing significant materialized. Missing names and vague physical descriptions plagued the department for weeks. The crime lab hit dead ends. The car plates returned either stolen or unregistered.
Over proceeding weeks, the boy demonstrated encouraging signs. “He’s awake, get the doctor.”
Sean, they called him, tapped his index finger once for yes, twice for no, and medical tests painted a hopeful prognosis.
By now his room swelled with candy bouquets, flowers, balloons, and colorful over-sized poster cards from local elementary schools. A customary response from the compassionate Texas town.
People guessed the boy’s age at twelve, possibly younger. His thin, frail frame and jaunt features skewed their estimates, but he and the woman shared similar features. At least in photographs. Within six weeks, the hospital released her body for cremation. Police kept her DNA samples, finger prints, and dental records, although none of them matched any catalogued description.
One afternoon, a police chief visited the hospital to question Sean after he’d recovered enough to eat solid foods. The doctor agreed to let them speak, but warned him of difficulties with traumatic brain injuries. She inquired about progress in the investigation, but the chief had nothing. “Never seen anything like it. That’s why I’m here.”
“How could this happen, Chief?”
“Don’t know. The Mindton Blue are working on it, and I’m sure we’ll piece things together, ma’am. Could I see him now?”
They stopped inside Sean’s room; the balloons removed, the flowers had died weeks before, and now only the children’s cards lay piled against the far window. A weighty, white-dressed woman sat hunched next to Sean’s bed. As she spoke to him, Sean peered over her shoulder at the tall authority darkening his doorway.
The nurse continued prodding him with questions, “I know it’s difficult, honey, but please try. Anything will help.” The boy returned his eyes to the painting on the opposite wall, and sunk into the bed another inch.
She begged. “Nothing? Not even your name?”
He withdrew again. He curled his toes underneath the blanket at the end, and pulled his arms under the cool white sheets. He heard her voice and recognized the words, but his answer scared him.
The nurse repeated slower, “Sean Hasten. Is that name familiar?”
The doctor and police chief stepped in closer to the boy. The chief stood behind the seated nurse, and after a silence, the officer introduced himself, “Hi son. I’m chief Berryhill.”
Sean fixed his eyes on the painting across from his bed. The warm colors and playful sloops of yellow softened the room. That looked pretty.
“We’re trying to identify you and the woman driving. Have you seen her pictures?” The chief held out a large envelope. Sean eyed the manila file, then clinched tighter and pulled the covers up to his neck.
The nurse turned to the officer and lifted Sean’s jean jacket from her lap, “This is all we have.” Berryhill knew that already.
The boy twiddled some fingers under his sheets, and drew a silent, deep breath.
Berryhill leaned in and inspected Sean’s eye left uncovered from the bandage wrapped around his head. He was healing nicely.
“A phone number maybe? Anything?” the chief continued. “We need to contact your family son. Perhaps a guardian?”
“Your grandparents? Or a neighbor?” the nurse added. The burly woman reeked of old cigarettes and gaudy perfume. Sean’s eye bent toward the painting again; his mind an empty canvas.
The nurse shook her head. She slumped back in her chair, pulled both feet under, and fiddled with a stainless lighter in her front pocket, “That’s all we ever get.”
The doctor wrote a note on her clipboard. Berryhill straightened up then leaned to whisper, “You contact Child Services?”
Doc nodded yes.
The three adults agonized over the curious little puzzle bundled before them. Sean studied the painting across the room, but not a single thought entered his mind.
I've received mixed reviews on this ranging from "dump it" to "essential". At the moment, I want to dump it because the next chapter starts 27 years later. Let me know if you consider this a dumpy prologue, or a story.
Dig in.
-----------------------
Chapter 1: The Aftermath
They all expected the boy to die. Blood filled his bandages. The morning rains lifted as paramedics ripped the gurney from their ambulance and burst through emergency room doors.
Nurses piled into hallways with gas tanks and rolling instruments. The child lay motionless, rushed down tight corridors into sterile, ready hands. A slower team wheeled his presumed mother to the morgue.
Doctors churned through pre-op procedures. A nurse removed his jacket, his T-shirt and jeans cut off. Hospital staff recoiled at the sight. Even the surgeons cringed.
The young victim faded on a frigid metal table. Nurses punctured both arms with IVs while others prepped surgical tools and halogen lamps. Beeps of life-support pinged against the tile walls. No one could identify the child, yet death approached.
A nurse layered blankets over his swollen body and packed ice around his head. When the operation launched, the battle began.
Surgeons barked and argued over strategy. Curses flared, egos flared, but the crew continued despite expectations. The boy required bone graphs and x-rays, volumes of blood, neuro-specialists, cranial reconstruction, a faint spark of pale hope, and the earnest prayers of all Heaven’s omnipotent gods.
But he lived.
In nine hours, doctors transformed the boy from victim, patient, to survivor. Word spread fast among the nurses working recovery, “I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” and soon every hospital employee gasped at the same unnerving truth: this boy didn’t exist. Nor did the female driver. Not on paper. Not in school records. Not in any government database.
No family members visited. No cards or flowers arrived. Not one inquiring phone call. The boy lay limp, day after day, unclaimed and nameless.
Not completely nameless. A nurse saved his jean jacket when she read the back tag, and placed it in his closet for safe keeping. Staff never confirmed or denied their suspicion, but everyone assumed the name written there in permanent blue marker was his.
Although police conducted extensive interviews, identity of the two victims eluded them. Reports confirmed the accident details- two cars, two victims, yet only one driver. An obvious hit and run, but the responding officer never saw a second driver. The criminal escaped.
Detectives pleaded in local newspapers and television. People posted signs on area telephone poles and public cork boards. Information trickled into various news outlets, and though police followed every lead, nothing significant materialized. Missing names and vague physical descriptions plagued the department for weeks. The crime lab hit dead ends. The car plates returned either stolen or unregistered.
Over proceeding weeks, the boy demonstrated encouraging signs. “He’s awake, get the doctor.”
Sean, they called him, tapped his index finger once for yes, twice for no, and medical tests painted a hopeful prognosis.
By now his room swelled with candy bouquets, flowers, balloons, and colorful over-sized poster cards from local elementary schools. A customary response from the compassionate Texas town.
People guessed the boy’s age at twelve, possibly younger. His thin, frail frame and jaunt features skewed their estimates, but he and the woman shared similar features. At least in photographs. Within six weeks, the hospital released her body for cremation. Police kept her DNA samples, finger prints, and dental records, although none of them matched any catalogued description.
One afternoon, a police chief visited the hospital to question Sean after he’d recovered enough to eat solid foods. The doctor agreed to let them speak, but warned him of difficulties with traumatic brain injuries. She inquired about progress in the investigation, but the chief had nothing. “Never seen anything like it. That’s why I’m here.”
“How could this happen, Chief?”
“Don’t know. The Mindton Blue are working on it, and I’m sure we’ll piece things together, ma’am. Could I see him now?”
They stopped inside Sean’s room; the balloons removed, the flowers had died weeks before, and now only the children’s cards lay piled against the far window. A weighty, white-dressed woman sat hunched next to Sean’s bed. As she spoke to him, Sean peered over her shoulder at the tall authority darkening his doorway.
The nurse continued prodding him with questions, “I know it’s difficult, honey, but please try. Anything will help.” The boy returned his eyes to the painting on the opposite wall, and sunk into the bed another inch.
She begged. “Nothing? Not even your name?”
He withdrew again. He curled his toes underneath the blanket at the end, and pulled his arms under the cool white sheets. He heard her voice and recognized the words, but his answer scared him.
The nurse repeated slower, “Sean Hasten. Is that name familiar?”
The doctor and police chief stepped in closer to the boy. The chief stood behind the seated nurse, and after a silence, the officer introduced himself, “Hi son. I’m chief Berryhill.”
Sean fixed his eyes on the painting across from his bed. The warm colors and playful sloops of yellow softened the room. That looked pretty.
“We’re trying to identify you and the woman driving. Have you seen her pictures?” The chief held out a large envelope. Sean eyed the manila file, then clinched tighter and pulled the covers up to his neck.
The nurse turned to the officer and lifted Sean’s jean jacket from her lap, “This is all we have.” Berryhill knew that already.
The boy twiddled some fingers under his sheets, and drew a silent, deep breath.
Berryhill leaned in and inspected Sean’s eye left uncovered from the bandage wrapped around his head. He was healing nicely.
“A phone number maybe? Anything?” the chief continued. “We need to contact your family son. Perhaps a guardian?”
“Your grandparents? Or a neighbor?” the nurse added. The burly woman reeked of old cigarettes and gaudy perfume. Sean’s eye bent toward the painting again; his mind an empty canvas.
The nurse shook her head. She slumped back in her chair, pulled both feet under, and fiddled with a stainless lighter in her front pocket, “That’s all we ever get.”
The doctor wrote a note on her clipboard. Berryhill straightened up then leaned to whisper, “You contact Child Services?”
Doc nodded yes.
The three adults agonized over the curious little puzzle bundled before them. Sean studied the painting across the room, but not a single thought entered his mind.
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