Caged

The Beginning

" Clear!" her pale blue hospital gown lay open, bearing her unmoving body to the room. Stiles wanted to shout at them for making her cold, for pushing so hard on her chest, for pressing the gleaming metal paddles to her chest and the ribs below her armpit. But his lips were numb, his whole body was numb. And then his sweet, frail mama gave a violent jolt on the bed. The alarms sang their droning continuous note. She was shocked again, and Stiles could feel the wetness on his cheeks. She was shocked again; he was trembling where he stood. A nurse put a hand on the shoulder of the doctor holding the paddles, stopping him from doing it again.

Someone in the room announced the time and for the first time, a nurse seemed to notice Stiles' presence. She reached out for him, but suddenly Stiles was running. He had to get away, away from the glassy amber eyes staring up into the harsh lights, away from the sight of his mothers' still, thin chest laid bare to the room, away from that awful shriek of machines, and away from the sad brown eyes of the nurse who noticed him. He had to get away from it all, before it managed to crush his thin bones under its incredible weight.

He burst out of the front doors of the hospital and into the muggy California air. He turned and began running down the sidewalk, as if he were going home, but he had barely made it a block when he tripped over the uneven sidewalk and fell onto his knees, skinning them through his jeans as well as the palms of his small hands. The pain was searing but it couldn't compare to the thundering storm inside his skull.

He stayed there, knelt on the street corner and sobbing on the damp cement. The hospital was on the outskirts of town, so the sidewalks were empty at that time, Stiles' only company the howling wind and a half-full parking lot of empty cars behind him. He could feel hot tears splattering the ground between his stinging hands, his hoarse wails stuttering through his quaking chest and echoing off the cars.

"Why the tears, little one?" Stiles jumped at the sudden deep voice behind him, scrambling back a foot as he turned around to face the stranger, landing on his butt in the hurried movement. Before him knelt a man, he looked young, younger than his dad but older than a teenager. He wore a black baseball cap with a dark blue hoody pulled up over it, but what caught Stiles attention the most, was the way the man's eyes were the color of the drink's dad liked to have sometimes late at night when he thought Stiles had gone to bed. A reddish-gold that gleamed from under the shade of the man's cap.

"You hurt hand?" He asked, gently taking ahold of Stiles' little wrist to examine the bloodied scrapes across his palms. The man had a thick accent cloaking his words. Stiles couldn't fully recognize where it was from, but it made the man's words sound blunt and authoritative. The sudden appearance of the strange man had frightened Stiles out of his tears momentarily, all he could do was silently nod at the stranger. The man clicked his tongue sadly as he looked down at Stiles. But there was something wrong about the man, something . . . insincere at the very core of his mannerisms. Though, Stiles didn't realize just what was off about the man, he still felt a haze of fear linger in the back of his mind.

"Would you like me make better?" The man smiled wide, too many white teeth bearing between his thin lips. As the man still had a hold on Stiles' wrist—a hold that was steadily growing tighter as they spoke—he hesitantly nodded. He felt like a frozen deer in the cross-hairs of a hunter, if he moved at the wrong time, he'd be done for. The man's grin widened and before Stiles realized what was happening, the man pulled his hand up to his face and swiped the flat of his tongue over the entirety of his palm. Stiles yelped and jerked his hand away in surprise and fear.

A deep chuckle rumbled out of the man at his reaction.

"Look little one, it better." he said, haphazardly gesturing to the hand Stiles clutched to his chest. Stiles wanted to get up and run, but he just knew that the man was faster than him, and they were too far from the hospital doors for anyone to hear him scream for help . Reluctantly, Stiles pulled his hand away from his chest and glanced down. His eyes widened and he flipped his hand over and then back again. Nothing. His hand was completely healed. No scabs or blood or scars, it didn't even sting any more. Somehow the man had fixed his hand.