Open Heart {Under Revision}

Chapter 31- Oxygen

'Why is it always the innocents who have to lose, bear pain and then when seeing the window to be free...are bonded back to their agony again? Why can we not dream forever blue, like evergoing ocean, unbound and fearless? Why do men cry, doctor? Is it because they are finally giving up or...they have been strong for too long?'

— Charlotte Turner, Age 15, Pre-med Student. Location: Raleigh, North Carolina.
Subject's Doctor- Dr. Vita Brown, PhD, Child Psychology. This statement has to be noted in accordance for subject's rapid mental laceration.

San Diego, Eleven Years Ago...

Sylvan's voice was the life of Turner Memorial.

His graduation was close and he had even begun writing letters for his PhD. No matter how unusual his circumstances were, people ignored his age and only saw what a prodigal child he was. Each day, he was inspiring me to do better.

I smiled when a low note hit on his guitar which he let hung on air—a revering melody. People migrating in this colossal atrium were drawn to him like hummingbirds to sweet nectar. I distributed Kool-Aids to kids who were sitting and Naveen, standing near a station watched us. Few times a month, Sylvan and I started coming back here again. It was good to forget Manchester. It was good to ignore father's constant new depictions of madness on skin. It was good to leave Sylvan's agony as a fabled past.

To the world, we were future of our family. Only we knew the terrible secrets our family carried.

Mother had left and six months passed, she didn't return. No calls from her but occasional letters...and even if she was cold, I missed her. But father broke her this time...would she ever come back to me? Her strikes were softer than father but I would take them if she could come and stay.

Shaking myself off, I beamed at kids of my age but interaction was strictly limited. You do your job, nothing more. If you made friends, they asked questions and questions about our family had answers only for us—not the world.

"Charlotte?" Naveen trudged near me, donned in his coat, a stethoscope wound over shoulders. His round, thick-rimmed glasses once used to generate laughter from me but now, I gave him a reserved smile. He was my godfather...but he did nothing to stop my father.

"Yes, Naveen?"

He allowed a small but sincere grin to latch on his wrinkling face, directed at Sylvan, "People love him, don't they?"

"They don't dislike him." I replied, handing a girl orange Kool-Aid. Sylvan continued another song, this time Bob Marley.

Naveen sighed, "You don't like me, do you?"

"I respect you." I said, making sure my face strained away. "You're my father's trusted confidant. He allows you to handle many things here and for that, you both make a good team and keep this hospital functional.

Few beats of silence. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be." I briefly found his eyes—wiser than my father, yet cowering under his control, "Everything eventually becomes a part of life. Like our body becomes immune when you're once infected to a certain disease."

Naveen shifted on his feet, looking troubled, "There is something I need to ask of you."

"Sure."

"Have you been to your father's study?"

I stilled. Of course I have been to my father's study. He loved to make new paintings on me using my own colour there. June...June died there.