Reapers - Thirteen Brothers

XI - Denial (1 of 2)

Delay is the deadliest form of denial.
                           C. Northcote Parkinson

--XIII--

The hospital corridor was already busy when I got out from room 233. I didn't want to be left alone inside my room while Dad settled the bills. Not after all that happened and all I had seen these past few days.

Weakly, I sat on one of the five padded chairs lined on one side of the hallway, deciding to while away time watching passersby—nurses in white, patients in wheel chairs, orderlies wheeling equipment, doctors making their routine patient rounds. 

Any crowded area would be good. At least I could momentarily forget about my fears, my strange experiences, Miss Cruz, Vincent... especially Vincent.

I considered telling Lindsay about what our Spanish teacher told me. Hopefully, Lindsay wouldn't think that I was losing my mind. But I was afraid I couldn't make myself recount the past events without bursting into tears. The slightest sounds and movements made me nervous. Most of all, I didn't want to be alone or in the dark. I was scared something bad would happen.

The flood of thoughts was cut short when the door of room 232 opened. It was my neighbor who came out of the door—a little girl around five—peeping from the narrow gap. I had seen her once or twice, peeking into my room before.

Despite her frail appearance and pale ashy complexion, her blue eyes were so full of life when she gave me a wide smile. She was missing a front tooth. A red bandana covered her balding head.

"Hi," said she in a tiny bubbly voice.

She looked to the left, then right as if making sure that no one was looking before running to my direction and hauling herself up the seat beside me.

"Hello," I returned her smile. "What's your name?"

She scrunched up her nose and smiled again, dropping her gaze to my feet. "My name is Tricia... I like your shoes," she beamed dangling her bare feet from the edge of her seat.

I tilted my blue Chuck Taylors to show it to her. "Thanks. I've had them for years. Where are your parents?"

With a tiny finger, she pointed to room 232. "There. They're crying. I don't like it when people cry."

"Me too," I said, smiling thankfully for her company.

"Are you going home already?" Tricia asked. When I nodded, her smile faded. "I've been here for months but the medicines; I think they don't work. I don't think I can go home anymore."

"How come?"

A sad little smile lit Tricia's face, her feet dangling again. "Because I'm dying."

I opened my mouth and closed it again when no words came out. I didn't know what to say. When I looked at Tricia's face, the look of acceptance in her eyes made me ashamed of myself. A little girl knew she was dying, yet she faced it bravely with a smile. Unlike me who had been a coward and drove people away just because I couldn't accept my fate.

Before I could say something, Tricia giggled softly before jumping down from the chair. She waved at me before she disappeared, running into the corridor, bumping onto nurses who didn't seem to mind her.

Minutes passed and Tricia didn't come back. I started to worry. Maybe she got lost in the hospital wards or something. When a middle-aged nurse passed by me, I talked to her about Tricia.

"Tricia?" she repeated the girl's name with a dubious tone. "The girl from room two-three-two? Are you sure?"

"Yes. She went that way," I said pointing where Tricia had gone.

The nurse shook her head and checked the clipboard she was carrying, her fingers trembling. When she lifted her gaze from the clipboard, her eyes seemed blank for a while. Then she hurried to fish the bunch of keys strapped on her waist. Hesitantly, she twisted the doorknob of room 232 but it didn't budge. It was locked. The nurse picked one of the labeled keys from the bunch and opened the door.

There was nobody inside the dark room. The sheets were fresh and neatly tucked under the sides of the bed as though it had just been made for a new patient. Every chair and equipment was set in the right place.

"But—" I started to mutter, yet I held my tongue and bit my lip.

The realization came crashing so hard, it racked me to the core. I had to lean on the wall to keep my knees from buckling. My breathing was ragged and I fumbled inside my pockets for my inhaler.

When I was about to take in a puff, I realized that I wasn't even wheezing like I should have so I pocketed it again. Oddly, I didn't have an attack since I woke up from drowning.

"Patricia Hampton... she died last night," the nurse muttered under her breath as she shut the door before sinking into one of the seats. "A-are you sure you've seen her?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My lips were trembling.

Without another glance at the petrified nurse, I hobbled away to find Dad. Every step was a drag. Questions filled my head and I doubted my sanity more than ever. My surroundings seemed to blur and magnify at the same time, people slowing down and fast-forwarding like a broken movie clip.

All the things that happened for the past few days terrified me.

Have I really died?

Miss Cruz was trying to tell me something about it. Something about getting weaker with time. I wished I had taken more time to listen to her.

But I can't be dead, could I?

And how could someone who was already dead die again? It just wasn't possible. It didn't make any sense. Nothing did.

Tricia...

My lips quivered at the thought of poor Patricia Hampton. If she was dead, how come I was able to talk to her?

I treaded aimlessly along the hallway, a tangle of thoughts slowly eating at me. I was so distracted I nearly screamed when Dad caught my arm.

"What's wrong? You look like you've just seen a ghost," Dad chided, a playful grin on his lips.

Touché.

With much effort, I tried to straighten to my face and stop hyperventilating. "Can we please go home now? It's getting dark outside."