The Child Outside of Heaven

The Boy Outside My Window

On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, a little girl a few years younger than me died suddenly in the children's ward.

It was already late in the evening, and all the lights, save for the light being emitted from the life support machine next to me, were turned off in my room. As that night was the night before my thirteenth birthday, my parents had decided to stay the night in my room. Both were already asleep on a mattress on the floor next to me.

I was lying awake and staring at the ceiling—well, I really didn't have any other options, as I was at that point partly in a complete comatose—when I suddenly heard an increase in the noise upstairs. It sounded like ten people were running to a place directly above my bed. Of course, I could not hear what the people up there were saying, but I could hear footsteps going back and forth from the spot above me.

And then, the footsteps stopped.

The world was completely silent once again, and still I strained to hear another sound from above me. Already my mind was making inferences about what happened. Was a child going to be sent to the ICU? Was a child trying to escape?

But when the footsteps stopped so sudden in the way they did that night, I could already tell with a slightly heavy heart what had happened. A child was found dead.

About five minutes later I heard a cranking sound, like something being detached from a wall. Something heavy and with wheels was being taken away from the spot above me, and the footsteps followed the sound, until they just faded away. And then, the world was silent again.

In my seven years in the hospital, such an occurrence as that had only happened twice. When it first happened—I could tell, as I heard the same pattern of rushing footsteps and sudden silence—I was afraid, and suddenly cold. 

That was when I was only in the hospital for three months. Back then I was still quite strong, and there was hope that I would be cured by the end of the year. When I heard that sound and realized what had happened, it hit me how I look death in the eye every single day.

And since then, I've waited impatiently to be cured. And now that a death has happened again, I knew that I was staring at death harder than before, and he was staring back at me.

I closed my eyes. I was going to turn a year older tomorrow, though I knew deep in my weak bones that it may be my last birthday party. When I was especially ill, or just recovering, my parents would treat me as if I was six years old again, pretending that everything was going to be alright. 

A small part of me still hoped that everything was going to be alright, I do not deny it. It is nice to hope for the day when I can go out of the hospital and not have to worry about going back. It's a fickle thing, hope. And still, it keeps one going.

I had not closed my eyes for longer than a few minutes when the room's door suddenly opened, and the bright lights of the hospital hallways filled the room. My parents, always light sleepers, quickly woke up and stared at the tall figure on the doorway. 

I glanced at the figure from the corner of my eye and watched as it raised a hand to the light switch. I closed my eyes and turned my head away slightly, facing the window, as all the main lights were turned on. 

The figure on the doorway turned out to be one of the fifteen doctors who attended to me throughout my years in the hospital; I could tell from his deep voice that stood out from the other doctors. He was the second oldest one among the fifteen, but he was also the friendliest.

But for some reason there was something different in his voice. He had greeted my parents a good evening and begged them to stay on the mattress, as this would be quick, and his voice which was usually steadfast was now strangely breaking, as if he could not breathe.