885 Days [A Vikklan/Sidemen/Pack Story]

Three Days Home

27 August 2017

For one fleeting, heart-breaking moment, I believe that the doctor might be wrong. That Lachlan really was okay, he was there, and he would be okay. But it was only for a moment.

He was trying to reach out for me, hands barely rising up above the mattress, but his eyes were begging for me and I couldn't say no. Even though I wasn't sure if it was a great idea considering there were still IV's trailing from his arms, I still crawled onto the bed and he immediately nestled himself in my arms, but I started crying all over again. He was so... light. It was like I was holding a child in my lap, his bald head under my chin, now going limp.

That was when I realised that it really wasn't okay, the doctor was right. Because as he lay there, limp and weak, his eyes glazed over once again. He was awake but he wasn't there, leaving me in no doubt. He had only had a few minutes of proper, conscious thought before he slipped, and I now realised what he had meant by taking a while to realise he was safe. When he woke up the next time, he probably wouldn't have any recollection of our interaction and we would have to do the whole thing again. And again. And then again, until he finally caught up.

Lachlan's eyes flickered, still glazed, and then he drifted off.

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"People cope with trauma in lots of different ways." The doctor said. "Being a trauma specialist I see a lot of them, but the outcome is very different when the abuse is sustained over a long period of time, and I mostly see it in children. Lachlan's case is... difficult considering how severe the abuse was, but I knew right away that the way he coped at the time was a common one."

I glanced across at said boy, still asleep, but he had said not to worry. He was healing, his body just needed time.

"If the abuse is sustained, people, mostly children, cope by mentally shutting down. If they can't physically remove themselves from a situation, they'll simply accept it and create this little space in their head where they can exist separate from everything happening to them. Problem is, the longer the abuse happens and the more they separate themselves from reality, the more they prefer it. Two and a bit years of constant, horrific abuse? Lachlan will pretty much be existing solely inside that space. He won't want to leave it because he associates that with the abuse. He'll remember a lot of it, the abuse, but when it was happening he simply wasn't there."

He paused, taking a moment to think everything over. I leaned on Mitch's shoulder, pulling his arm down to stop him from biting his nails.

"The problem is when we try to begin rehabilitation, they often fall back into that space and when they do it's really hard to pull them back out. Even if their conscious self realizes that they're safe, once Lachlan remembers that he's in hospital and not back there, it's habit. They have this little pocket of happy nothing, because the real world is pain. Completely involuntary. The simple term is disassociating but when it's in a case like this it's not... it's not as simple as that. Disassociating 24/7 is not easy to fix or even help."

He left after that, leaving us alone with Lachlan who didn't stir. He had continued to sleep all through the second and we were now half way through day three since with no movement. He was no longer on medication that was keeping him under so we knew he was just sleeping, but he didn't even react when the nurses checked his vitals, when they removed or added machines, when they shifted him around on the bed or when we talked. He just slept on and it gave me amble time to stare at all the awful injuries and realise exactly how badly he had been hurt.

Every time the nurses came in they had to move the blankets and every time I caught a glimpse of a new laceration, scar, bump, bruise, cut or lash. His face was mostly untouched, other than his sunken cheeks and sharp jaw, but his chest and arms were scarred... there wasn't even a word to describe how bad it was. There were visible indentations in his skin around his wrists, ankles and neck from the chins, thin, raised white lines from a knife lining his chest with awful regularity, small round burns on his arms. That man had mutilated him, scarring his body. The doctor said that because of the damage to his wrists and potential nerve damage he might never use his hands normally again- another thing that would need therapy.

But the scarring wasn't as pressing as his weight. 48 kilograms. That was about the weight of a healthy 13 or 14 year old. He was 22 and 6 foot 3. That was about the lowest weight he could get without dying and it was painful to even look at him, his sunken cheek, ribs visible all the time, almost no muscle left. He was the literal definition of skin and bones and I understood why the doctor said he might never walk again. His weight meant he was verging on that cliff that, if he slipped, he would never recover.

Mitch rested his head on my shoulder, his head slipping every couple of minutes as he verged on sleep. They had set up a bed, not a very comfortable one, but one that allowed me to stay the night and sleep without worrying about not being able to walk from the pain the next morning. I couldn't really sleep anyway, waking every hour to check on Lachlan. But for the first few nights, he didn't even move.

"This wasn't what I wanted when I begged for him to come back." Mitch whispered, hiccupping as his eyes trailed over the prone body in the bed beside us. "I never wanted anything like this. I wanted the boy knew back then."

I couldn't say anything, because I was thinking the exact same thing. I didn't know the words to comfort him, I didn't know what to say. So I stayed silent. All I did was wrap my arm around his waist and pull him closer.

"Is anyone staying with you tonight?" He asked a couple of minutes later. I shook my head.

"No. Just me here."

Jerome was coming to pick him up in about half an hour and after that it would be just me until someone arrived when visiting hours begun at 9am tomorrow morning, probably one of the Sidemen. All of the Pack boys had been here for 12 hour shifts on and off since that first day. Even though this was only the end of day three, beginning of day four if you were counting the hours, everyone was exhausted. The mental strain, the breakdowns, the shock to the system of finally having him back after over two years had drained everyone to the point that they just needed some time. Everything the doctor told us didn't help either.

"Alright."

We stayed in silence until he gave me an almost silent goodbye when he left, leaning in for a quick hug before turning and walking away before I could see his tears. Jerome gave me a smile before running after him, leaving me alone. I tugged my blanket up around my shoulders and settled back on the bed for a long night.

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There was movement in the room when I woke up, dark other than the occasional flashing lights from the ample number of machines lining the room. It was sometime just past 3am according to the digital clock but as I finally adjusted I realised that it was Lachlan making the noise. I flicked the lights on.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Lachlan wasn't entirely awake, eyes half lidded, but he was tossing his head and thrashing around on the bed, attempting to rip the IV's from his arms, mouth open in a wordless scream. His arms were locked above his head in a position that made me want to be sick. It was like they were chained there.

My first reaction was to the call the nurse but they were already there, bursting into the room as the monitors alerted them that something was wrong. I was pushed back as several attempted to hold his arms down, but that only made the thrashing worse. Throughout all the chaos I heard his voice crack and for a moment there was a terrifying shrill scream before it faded off again. I knew that voice. It was deeper than I last remembered, but it was Lachlan's voice.

It took sedation before he finally stopped struggling, medication forced into his veins because there was no other option. He finally went limp and they all stepped back. The doctor stepped into the room.

"Hallucinations, physical nightmares. Expected." He sighed deeply. "I was hoping it wouldn't come up this early but..." He gave me a side hug as I stood, shaking, staring at where Lachlan was now lying. "I'm sorry you had to see the effects so early, but this is what his reality is. Nightmares, being ripped from reality, existing in a separate space."

He helped me back onto the other bed, pausing before going over to the help the remaining two nurses replace the IV's and hook the machines back up. The beeping was reassuring but it took me hours to settle back and stop my shaking. Lachlan was back to barely moving. I didn't even think of calling one of the other boys, it didn't cross my mind.

Four days. He had been home for four days.