I was lead from the Family Room to the Emergency Room. I was crossing my arms across my chest; hugging myself – clutching my hat in one hand. I didn’t want to see my son lifeless. I wanted to see him sitting up in a gurney, embarrassed with a cut, a broken arm or leg. But that wasn’t meant to be. He laid there hospital gown and sheet. The intubation tube still in his mouth, his eyes partially closed and glassy; his hands pale and not returning my grasps – blood covered the floor. I shook him, begging him to wake up. I could feel the defibrillator pads on his torso.
“Tim! Monk! Wake up, please – you’re scaring me.”
I leaned and kissed his head, picked up his and kissed it. I couldn’t accept this. I wouldn’t accept it.
Why? Why? Why?
A felt someone behind me. It was a priest.
I was hunched over my son. I turned my head to face the priest. He was a small man, balding, wearing his black suit and Roman collar. He stood next to an older woman with reddish hair.
“Father there is nothing the Church can give me. I live in a vengeful world and I want vengeance for this. I want the head of who ever did this to my son! I want it on a stick!”
The priest excused himself and took a step or two back and turned on his heel. He left quietly and didn’t protest.
The blonde nurse brought a chair and set it behind me. I could only feel the sting of salt as my tears flowed heavy. I sat down in the chair and was rocking as I held Timmy’s hand. Why did he have to have my hands? Why did he have to resemble me so much? I saw so much blood. I looked down at my hands. Tim’s blood began to dry on my hands. I saw it on the front of my shirt. I felt how it was beginning to dry. I had some on my face from brushing away tears.
No! No! No! No! No! NO!
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