[Boy: Yeah, that was that.
Ms Williams: Damn... (is stunned) How bad was it?
Boy: Not too bad, actually. Just a broken leg and half my ribs.
Ms Williams: What?! You could've died!
Boy: I thought so, too.
Ms Williams: *stammering a little*
What happened next?
Boy: I don't really know. All I knew—or should I say saw—was the truck driver rushing to me and calling an ambulance before I fell unconscious.
Ms Williams: (This story's becoming too real...)
Boy: If not for him, I wouldn't be here right now.
Ms Williams: If not for who?
Boy: Him. Father Jacob.]
The boy's eyes jolted open out of shock and pain, light blazing like heaven was calling out to him. When everything settled—despite the pain wracking in his body, he realised where he was: a white sterile room, which reeked of detergent.
A hospital.
He still lay on the bed, lost in thought. It was all too sudden. The truck, the sudden flight, his numb body hitting the wall—it all came in a flash. He wasn't able to react in time.
Then, the previous events before the truck.
The darkness.
The humanoids.
The voice that rang in his head.
And then reality popped back like a light switch.
All his hair strands stood on edge, as he recalled. Out of all the nightmares he had, that one was the most unsettling. He was trapped in his own fear until sounds snapped him out of the trance.
Two voices. At the corner of the room.
"This shouldn't be possible," one said.
"I know. I'm just as confused as you are," another voice added. "How did his injuries heal so fast?"
The boy's eyes widened when he heard the voice. He quickly checked his injuries, and lo and behold, there was no scar, no blood, not even an indent to show that he got hurt. It was like nothing had happened to him.
"I don't know. This is something even my experiences can't decipher. Have you called the police?"the first voice asked.
"They called it off," the other replied. "Dropped all his charges. One was for theft, and the other was for trespassing in Buckingham Palace."
(What the fuck!?), The boy thought, fear gripping him on the bed. (I was in the Buckingham Palace!?)
"They said he started to act delusional the moment he slipped off the fence. They're saying maybe his head hit the ground on impact or something else happened. But, the moment he set eyes on the policemen, his face paled and he ran away as fast as he could. He was fast, according to the two policemen. It was like something snapped in him. And the coat was twice his weight, too, so that's saying something," the second voice explained.
"Jesus," the first voice muttered.
"Anywho, the moment he came back to his senses, it was too late. The policemen couldn't stop the truck from knocking him down. We checked his injuries; six ribs broken, fractured femur, broken shin and a fractured skull. If the impact was hard enough, he would've lost his motor neurons. And they healed instantly. Like a demon."
"Damn. So... it just happened? Just like that? How are we supposed to believe this could be possible–"
"Shhh," the second voice interjected, looking at the boy from the dark, "He's risen already."
They then stepped out of the corner—revealing a male and female doctor—and slowly approached the boy, who had already recognised his surroundings, but was still disoriented from the anaesthetic. His eyes slowly met theirs, and there was a tense silence as they clinically looked at him, laced with a hint of suspicion.
The boy then broke the silence, "Who are you?"
The male doctor replied, "I'm Dr Wazlow. This one here's Dr McAdams," he gestured to the woman. "She was the one who got alerted by the police about your accident. You'd been dead if we hadn't treated you."
Dr McAdams looked at him, eyebrow arching. (Yeah, "treated"), She thought sarcastically.
She turned to the boy. "What were you thinking, running like that? You got a lot of people worried."
"See, that's the thing," the boy's voice became small. "I wasn't."
They were taken aback by his answer.
"You weren't!?," They shouted in unison.
The boy nodded. "Yes. Everything was... dark. Like you couldn't see anything. Not even yourself. Like you're a part of that darkness."
"I could imagine that," Dr Wazlow muttered sarcastically, which resulted in Dr McAdams kicking his shin.
"Wazlow!"
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Then a voice rang in my head and taunted me like crazy. It reached its breaking point, and reality popped back in like a flick of a light switch. Then, the truck followed," he chuckled sadly, "I sound delusional, huh?"
The two doctors—who looked like they wanted to be anywhere but this room—huddled at a corner, away from the boy's ears. They were stunned by the boy's perspective on the previous events.
Dr McAdams spoke slowly, "He's talking bullshit! This doesn't happen in London. Not even anywhere else."
"What now? We can't... just leave him here, and talk like he's seen a ghost before. He'll scare the rest of the patients."
McAdams thought for a moment. "Let's take him to the psychiatric unit," she decided. "Maybe we could help him there. Lobotomise him, even."
Then—a voice. "That won't be necessary."
The two were startled by the voice. "Huh?"
The doors were suddenly flung open. The hallway revealed a man, clad in a black and red cassock, approaching the two doctors. He had this carefree but guarded vibe about him that got the doctors tilting their heads in confusion. The boy, however, was rooted on the spot, sweat trickling down his brow. He recognised the man instantly—the sunglasses and the haircut gave him away.
Dr Wazlow spoke, "And who might you be? It's way past visiting hours."
The Father's eyebrows raised, "Is it? I thought it was not over yet. Anyway, no turning back now."
"Do you have a name?" Dr McAdams asked.
"Oh, where are my manners, I do apologise. I am Father Jacob of the St Louis Marie de Montfort monastery in Edinburgh. I was in London on evangelism when I was almost robbed by this boy three days ago," he introduced himself, then looked at the boy, who was still frozen with fear.
"I came here on my own accord to check on this boy. He seemed... distressed when our eyes met."
Dr McAdams wasn't buying it. "And how are we sure what you're saying is the truth?"
"Look at the boy."
They all turned to look at the boy, who looked like he was three seconds away from removing the IV tube on his arm and making a run for it.
"That's proof enough," Father Jacob replied.
The doctors were stunned. "He's scared of you."
"Seems like it," he muttered. "But not for long." He started to approach the boy, whose fear grew with every step he made. He didn't say anything, but his posture spoke so many volumes.
"Hello, kiddo. Fancy seeing you here after the attempted robbery."
The boy felt uneasy. "I... see... you're here to—"
Father Jacob suddenly laughed, interjecting. "Don't worry, kid. I'm not here to condemn you for your actions."
"What the—isn't he supposed to do that?", Dr Wazlow muttered under his breath, only for McAdams to hear.
Father Jacob continued. "So, for starters, do you have a name, boy?"
The boy shook his head, "No. I don't have a name. No one has given me a name."
The room fell silent. Father Jacob's eyes widened under the sunglasses. Even the doctors were startled.
"No name? Not even... one name?", he asked. The boy shook his head.
"That... complicates things," he muttered under his breath. "Anyways, where are you from?"
"Hell if I knew. I don't even know my parents," the boy replied.
Father Jacob was beyond stunned. A boy with no idea of his parents? That's uncalled for, he thought as he sighed and shook his head, picturing the boy all alone in the world.
(A boy... lost in this cruel world. No wonder why he doesn't see me as trustworthy), he thought, eyes narrowing. (No wonder why he's scared...)
He then continued, "Anyways, my name is Father Jacob. I'm a priest of the St. Louis Marie de Montfort monastery. Ever heard of that place?"
"No. I've been in the slums almost my whole life," the boy replied. "The only places I've been beyond the slums are East Sussex, West London, Buckingham, Edinburgh, and... damn it, I don't remember..."
"Wales?," Father Jacob asked, eyebrow arched.
"Yes! How did you know?," the boy asked with surprise.
"Wild guess," he replied. "And also, Wales is far from England."
The boy nodded. "I only went there for a fireworks show on the fourth of July. But... that was... three years ago?"
"Hey, don't worry yourself if you can't remember," Father Jacob said. "Besides, I came to help."
"Help?", the boy asked.
Father Jacob sat on the bed, not too close to the boy, but close enough to let him flinch slightly. "Tell me, boy, do you believe in God?"
The boy raised his eyebrow in confusion.
"Huh? Who's God?"
"He's the reason we're all alive," he replied calmly, "He's the reason you're breathing. Surely you've heard of him from somewhere, haven't you?"
He shook his head. "No. Haven't heard of him."
"No? Not even a morsel of his works? Not even a piece of his miracles? Not even the Bible?"
The boy shook his head to every question he asked, confirming his worries. This might take a while, Father Jacob thought.
He then continued, "Okay, God is the creator of the heavens and the Earth and the other bodies around it. He's the reason you're breathing, I'm breathing, and the whole world is breathing. And I serve as his prophet, spreading His word to those who are wayward or lost their way and want to see the light. And you, boy, need all the help you can get."
"How... how can you help me?", the boy asked, hands trembling slightly.
"I want you to stay in the monastery with me. With that, we'll be able to find the cause of your problems, and with a matter of time, you'll finally be healed from the demons that haunt you," Father Jacob said.
"Wait... that means I'll be... just like you?"
"Probably, depends on if you want to become one," he replied, making the boy scoot back slightly.
That motion didn't escape Father Jacob's eyes, and he placed his hand on the boy's shoulder as if to reassure him.
"You don't believe me, do you? Don't you want to get rid of your episodes?"
The boy was frozen solid to his words. "How did you know about my—"
"Shh, that doesn't matter," he interjected.
"Don't you want that? To be free from your demons?"
"You haven't answered my question," the boy said.
"I don't need to," he replied, "I know you want to get rid of it. I can see it in you. The dark circles under your eyes, the sleepless nights, the constant depression, the nosebleeds—"
The boy cut him off. "Okay, you know too much. You're scaring me here."
"Don't be," Father Jacob reassured him. "I'm here to help, but I can't help you if you can't help yourself. St. Louis will be a perfect place for you. You'll meet new people along the way, and make new friends."
"I don't think that'll be possible for me, Father. I'm not... one to make friends," the boy revealed quietly.
"I'll be the judge of that," he replied calmly.
The boy thought for a moment. Surely, staying in a monastery will be a stark contrast to the slums he's grown familiar to. But he couldn't help but have this constant nagging feeling that something wasn't right. But, he was too tired and desperate to care.
"I don't know, Father...," the boy answered.
"Take your time, son. Here's my business card," he gave it to the boy. Since when do Reverend Fathers have business cards, the boy thought as he took it.
"Call me when you've made your decision," Father Jacob added.
The boy nodded slowly, relieved that the conversation was over.
"I must take my leave," Father Jacob got up from the bed and looked at the boy. "Take care of yourself, kid. And speedy recovery."
The boy nodded again.
Then, he turned to the doctors. "Good day," and he walked out of the room, leaving a sense of relief among the three.
Dr Wazlow suddenly spoke up. "So... that's a no for the psychiatric unit?"
Dr McAdams shrugged. "Beats me."