Lost Children

II

Home. Merely a place, merely a word to Nathaniel, who did not remember what home was like. Sister Lillian had told him he was home, but he did not feel like it. Nevertheless, he knew he had nowhere to go, and home might as well be wherever he was cared for.

For the next couple of days, his visitors were none but Sister Lillian, Sister Maria, and the nurse. The nuns of the manor guarded the secret and had not called for a physician for the boy. Instead, they trusted in prayers and the care of the nurse. The nurse was even more daunting. Nathaniel found it quite discomforting as she'd poke around his body, asking if he was hurting. He couldn't tell if the pain was from his wounds or from the poking. She'd often make him swallow a bitter, tongue-curling tonic with the putrid smell of a rotting carcass.

"Drink it, child. All of it," the nurse sternly asserted when Nathaniel had spurted out the warm drink. He had no choice but to swallow it down under the nurse's iron stare. Sometimes he'd prefer that to the cautious looks Sister Maria and Sister Lillian cast upon him whenever they visited. He thought they treated him as if he were a glass tipped to the edge, on the verge of falling.

Three days had passed, and the nuns had made sure Nathaniel was well-fed and rested in the infirmary he was confined to. His bodily wounds dried and cured, but his mind bled raw. He often woke up drenched in sweat, panting from nightmares. His dreams were terrifying, as was life, and both had one more thing in common.

He had no memory of it.

Engulfed in the soft candlelight of the infirmary, Nathaniel tried to remember. He banged his head once—nothing. Nothing came to him. He fisted his hair out of sheer frustration. Maybe if he hit his head with something harder...

Before he could reach the porcelain vase on his bedside, his hand hit it and knocked it down to the floor, where it cracked and fell into shards. The flowers thrashed, and the water seeped into a dark patch on the rug. He picked up a shard, its edges gleaming white. He ran a finger over it, jolting when the sharp porcelain cut through his skin. He watched the tiny drop of blood bubble to the surface. Before it could get anywhere near the white cotton dress he wore or the white of the linen bedsheets, he put his finger in his mouth, tasting the copper of his blood, the shard in his other hand.

It had been three days. He had no memory of his life. He was nothing but a burden, a mystery to himself and to the others who had found him. Three days since his very existence had been tormenting him.

He knew nothing about life, but he knew it was no way to live.

The infirmary door's hinges groaned, jolting him and causing the shard to slip from his hand and onto the rug. 

The nurse walked in with her formal uniform, a white dress with a sash and a box-like veil covering her hair. Nathaniel watched in bewilderment, lying in his bed. The nurse had retired for the evening, likely with the other sisters, performing the prayers of the nightly holy hour. 

There was something strange about the way she moved. She was in no hurry, unlike the nurse he knew, who always scurried about fast, narrating her thoughts. Nathaniel dreaded the thought of having to swallow more medicine. He checked for any sign of medicine but found none in her hands. It was a different nurse; Nathaniel could tell by the bony hands that clutched the door as she peeked out.

She held the door open and let two boys in their night gown walk in before closing it. One was short, and the other was tall, so tall that he almost had to duck his way in. They both stood still, their gazes fixed on Nathaniel. The smaller boy let out a soft gasp, reaching for the taller boy's hand.

The "nurse" then stepped into the candlelight with the other two, took off her veil, and ruffled a head of unruly white hair, as white and silky as cobwebs. It was then that Nathaniel also noticed how her brows were white, and her eyes were pale blue.