A Glimpse of Her Soul

Chapter 3 - Dark Present

Chapter 3

Dark Present

Gillian had been to the county hospital's ER back when she broke her arm, and she had visited the maternity wing when Pam's mother delivered Pam's baby brother. Both parts of the hospital had been pleasant enough, though a bit too institutional looking. This time, however, they took her to the eighth floor. The eighth floor was a nightmare.

Unidentified stains painted the walls. Someone had scrubbed away the full messes, but like ghosts, the stains remained in a series of splotched shadows. The air smelled like a subway — foul with stale urine and fresh feces. Patients moaned, crowed, and cackled odd gibberish as they paced the hall.

Despite the horrid conditions, Gillian had not fought against the men who admitted her into the mental health wing — not when they escorted her from school, not when they strapped her to a gurney, not when they wheeled her to her room, not when they passed her off to a nurse. She had not fought against the nurses, either — not even when they undressed her and put her in a backside-open hospital gown. She never uttered a word of protest. She never physically resisted a single action. She let them lay her on a bed, cover her with a thin blanket, and walk away.

She allowed all this because one simple thought bounced around her tired mind. They must be right. I'm insane.

Nothing else made sense. Bamboo samurai? Pale-skinned, jackhammer-armed savior? Amber light that blocked all sounds? A magic whistle? She'd happily believe it was just an overactive imagination, but she had felt these things. So real. Her mind had conjured the unreal into reality.

She clutched her blanket tightly over her shoulders as an older man shuffled by her door. His gray hair shot off in all directions, and Gillian winced, fearing the hair might come after her. But he was only a man with normal hair, not some — Caller? Jack had mentioned that word, and it jostled something inside her as if she knew the word from long ago. But its meaning eluded her.

It doesn't matter, she reminded herself. All of it had been imaginary. Maybe she had a brain tumor — that might cause her to trash a classroom. Or maybe I'm just nuts.

A loud growling voice echoed from down the hall. "I want to see my daughter now!" Pops! The doctors or nurses kept telling him to calm down which only aggravated him further. "You people have no right to do this. She's my daughter and I'm taking her home. Either you bring her to me right now or you'll have to —"

A door closed and the voice muffled. Gillian strained to make out a word or two. She heard Pops' voice raise in volume but the words never grew clearer.

A few minutes later, heavy feet stomped down the hall. Pops poked his head in and a flurry of emotions crossed his face — fear, dismay, relief, but finally settling on a loving smile. Gillian struggled to maintain her composure, but after seeing that big man put his arms out while his eyes glistened, she lost all sense of herself. She thrust her blanket aside and rushed into his embrace. Tears streamed down her cheeks. His thick arms enveloped her with more warmth and comfort than any blanket ever could, and she shuddered, cried, sniffled, coughed — forcing out every last bit of confused energy.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what happened."

"It's okay," Pops said, stroking her head. "It wasn't your fault. You'll be okay now."

Gasping out each word like a frightened toddler, she said, "I want to go home."

"You will. But not tonight. Those jerks won't let me take you. They say they have to keep you under observation. Make sure you aren't going to tear up another schoolroom."