Flaw Ch. 1
By Jetstorm X
“His condition’s stabilized. He’s still unconscious from the anesthesia, but
there are no signs of any head trauma. Other than the broken ribs, a dislocated
right shoulder and some loss of blood, I think he should be fine after some
time.” The doctor said. I could care less though, about his opinion of Tom
being okay. I see the condition he’s in. It is a d*mn grueling sight to behold.
The tubes running through him, the respirator, the bruises on his face… doesn’t
look d*mn fine to me. I feel the blood boiling in my veins. I’m about to burst
at any minute now…
“He’s lucky to have survived.” The doctor adds. “The condition we found him
in was very bad.”
Lucky? This is lucky? I turn to the doctor, bearing my teeth at him. He’s a
short man, probably 5’2”. Stumpy fellow. He seems surprised by my reaction. I
ask him what I had asked myself in an angry tone of voice. “This is lucky? LOOK
AT HIM!” I scream. The doctor jumps backwards in shock, stuttering, probably
saying “sorry” or something. I can’t make it out. He then says, “I’ll leave you
alone,” with trepidation. He quickly exits the room. After watching him leave,
I calm down. I want time alone with Tom. I got my wish. I then look at Tom
again.
The sight is still hard for me to digest, but I force myself closer to the
man that brought me up. All this standing leaves my feet tired, especially with
these boots on. I look around and find a chair pushed underneath a small desk
to the right of the bed. I grab it, and pull it along side the bed. I sit in
it. Feels uncomfortable, and cold, like what you’d expect from “hospital
furniture”, if you can even call this steel cold chair “furniture.” The room
just gives off a hospital stench.
With both of my hands, I grab a hold of Tom’s right hand, which is wrapped
in bandages, along with the rest of his body. His palm is small in comparison
to mine. Much bigger. I look at him, and I am reminded of the day we first met.
I was abandoned as an infant. The orphanage folks told me I was found in a
dumpster…my parents had gotten rid of me like a piece of garbage. I grew up,
for six or so years in the Morris Heights Health Center, located in the Bronx.
During my stint there, I remember I had no friends. Don’t know if it was my
personality or what… I do remember that, being a kid. I was the quiet type. The
girls said I had cooties, and the boys said I was a strange freak. Didn’t
bother me much though. They made fun of me the whole time I was there. I didn’t
have a name, so they called me “No-name.” Every night, during bedtime, I could
hear some wisecrack about “the strange No-Name.”
Then one day, on that rainy October, where he walked in, soaking wet. I
remember he looked at me, and I returned the gesture by doing the same. He was
in a brown trench coat, carrying a black leather case. He had gray slacks, and
very nice suede shoes, that were now ruined. His combed over full set of brown
hair was now as wet as the pavement outside, as was his goatee. He is tall and
skinny, and he sort of reminds me of a human Pink Panther. His frame, the way
he walks, even his face reminds me of him.
We looked at one another the whole time. He smiled. I merely looked at him
as if I was dead. He walked up to me, followed by one of the nuns. Her name was
Sister Ann, I think. I didn’t pay much attention to her, even though she
extended her hand to me. Now that I look back, she was a great person.
I remember the man and her talking, and I heard my name called out, or
rather, lack thereof. “He doesn’t have a name.” Sister Ann said. “The kids call
him ‘No-Name.’” The man looked at me again, for a few seconds. He then kneeled
down.
“Hey there,” he said. His breath smelled like relish and mustard. “My name
is Tom.” He spoke softly, almost whispering. “I’m gonna be your new father.” I
don’t know what struck me, but I remember throwing a tantrum. Maybe I had grown
accustomed to this run-down place and didn’t want to leave. Or maybe because my
parents abandoned me, and I felt scared that the same would happen again. I
don’t know. All I remember is I ran away from him, and cowered in the far
corner of the room, in a ball. The kids gawked at me, pointed and laughed at my
sudden outburst.
Some time later, Sister Ann walked up to me with all my belongings in a box.
I was still in the corner, trying to hide myself from the rest of the world.
She said that I had to leave now. “A kind man is taking you in. You better
accept, otherwise you may be unfortunate not to have someone who cares for
you,” she said. I didn’t listen. I remember I had to be dragged by my ear by
Sister Ann. She led me to a beaten-to-ugliness brown Daihatsu station wagon
parked outside. Tom then arrived, holding the box in his hands. He opened the
right side door to the back seat, and gently placed the box inside. He closed
the door, jingling the keys around. He stopped, then he looked at me again. He
extended his hand to me. “Listen, I know you’re scared,” he said. “But I
promise you that I’ll be a great foster father.” I looked at his hand, then at
Sister Ann, who encouraged me to shake his hand by slightly pushing me towards
him. “Be respectful and shake his hand,” she said. I did just that, so I could
impress her. His hand dwarfed mine. He was a big guy then.
Now, as I look at him, he seems tiny. He seems weak now, defeated, as he
lies in this bed. I can feel tears falling from my eyes as I look at him, and
reflect on our first meeting. “Y…you kept your promise,” I say, sniffing. “You
were a great foster father…no, a great father.” I could see from outside that
it was getting dark, and that visiting hours would be over soon. I looked at
him once more, and noticed something. The bruises, the marks, everything… they
were in precise locations. This wasn’t a beating done by some thug; a
first-class fighter did it.
I squeeze his hand tightly. “Whoever did this to you, they will pay dearly.”
I rise quickly from my chair. I gently place his hand and arm to his side, and
looked at him once more. I close my eyes and walk out of the room, out of the
hospital.
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I lay in my bed, looking up at the ceiling. Thoughts begin to form in my
head…
“Why did Tom leave without telling me?” “Who did this to him?” “Will I ever
find the b*st*rd that did this to him?”
The one question that kept running in my mind though was, “Can I win?”
Well, can I? I’ve always thought of Tom as an incredible fighter, and an
even better wrestler. But, after what I’ve witnessed today… no. I will find who
did this to him, and I will crush them.
My eyes begin to feel heavy, and no matter how much of a struggle my mind
puts up to keep them open, it fails. Everything is black.