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A hero?
Creative
 Created on 3-14-07
 Views(68)
 Story Rating G
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Another day of exactly the same people, exactly the same places, and exactly the same things. I clock in at 15:30, thirty minutes early, and walk into the two year olds room. The usual; Change dirty diapers, turn on Nemo, and prepare for snack time; does anyone do their job? The crackers crumble through my fingers into little Sarah’s plastic cup as I attempt to place them on her napkin.
Doesn’t matter.
Racing from Christopher’s fiendish fingers is a bright red hot wheels car. The doors swing open and closed, clinking, as it flies through the air colliding with Michael’s white blonde head, splattering the wall with blood.
Christopher is laughing –he has a maniacal laugh. I fear to know what is going through that devil child’s mind. Running over to Michael, I slip on the grape juice I had spilled only seconds before. It mirrors the blood on the wall- a distorted reflection.
Get up.
Grab the kid.
Michael is screaming at the top of his lungs, the walls are painted red, and the other twenty-some children stare in horror. I pick up Michael and run out of the room nearly forgetting to steal Christopher away from the other children. I grab him by the arm and drag him away in my panic. Meanwhile, he is kicking and screaming, cursing as no two year old should know how, and leaving bloody trails as he rakes his little fingers across my arm.
The teacher from across the hall comes out to scold me. Instead, her high-pitched scream reverberates off the walls in the little area. Forty years my senior and she is taking orders as though she were one of my children, blubbering all the while.
I wrap a clean, old towel around Michael’s head taking painstaking care not to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary and watching as it instantly absorbs the bloody fluid from his white-blonde hair. Exhausted, he begins to doze off. I immediately have him start coloring to keep him awake and take his mind, at least partially, off what must be excruciating pain. He is, for now at least, conscious.
I pick up the phone furious that I must first be granted permission to send this poor child to the hospital. My fury fades into remorse when I inform his mother of the ordeal and she bursts into tears wanting only to know more about her little boy, something I cannot yet give her as time is our only advantage. I hang up the phone reluctantly and dial 911, answering the questions by looking in his private file.
Looking around me, the entire place is engulfed in blood, the room, the hallway, the chairs, even myself, all painted red for a season. Yet even after this season passes the stains will linger for a child’s pain; a child’s courage remembered for eternity. The sirens are a beautiful sound as they approach and the men’s uniforms those of angels. However, the hands that intend comfort are rough, harsh, and instill fear. Michael looks at me, his eyes pleading for release.
I reach out for the child and they bat me away as though I were a fly, an annoyance rather than a caretaker. After a moment of shocked confusion I shoulder my way past them into their barricaded circle and hold the boy. His cries still as I coo to him that everything will be alright, that Mommy and Daddy will be with him soon, and that he must be strong. As I lay him on the cot, I am reprimanded by the men in uniform. What once were angels are no longer.
Their mad dash for the hospital continues and the little boy I care so much for is whisked away in their hurry.
As I stand out in the open air my blood drenched outfit feels icy and I hurry back inside only to see what looks like a scene out of a horror movie. Life isn’t supposed to be a movie. I collapse into a garbled heap on the floor and crawl to the phone to explain to his mother what happened. By the time I reach the office, she has walked into the building, her eyes glazed over in disbelief as I stand up. I must look unreal, because she turns around screaming and dashes out to her car. Only then do I realize I have not yet changed and I pick up the phone once more asking for my grandmother to bring in a change of clothes, hanging up when the continuous trail of questions begin, knowing she will bring them regardless.
Mrs. Lowery -my boss- arrives. I was in her personal files for the children, the halls are drenched in and smell of blood, and I look like I stepped out of a horror movie. I am deathly afraid I will be blamed, especially being that I am a minor and should never have been with the children alone to begin with. She, too, stares at me in disgust.
The phone rattles and I hoarsely answer with- “Thank you for calling Kings Grant Day Care Center, how can I help you?”- the traditional greeting. I send out a child to pick up my clothes for fear of what my grandmother might say. After receiving the clothes, I walk past my boss, into the bathroom, without a word. Twenty minutes pass by and I am still scraping the caked fluid off my face. Mrs. Lowery walks in and stands in the doorway. My clothes, at least, are fresh, and I look up, then down in shame.
She gently lifts my chin and says “Child, what are you looking down for? You saved that little boys life, you’re a hero here.”
At the word hero, I begin at first crying, then sobbing. How could I, a mere child flung into a hellish situation, be a hero? This kind woman with her laughter lines and soft smile has taught me more than I ever thought possible in a single word, and somehow, she knows. It is not about age, wit, or even maturity so much as it is realizing that something, someone, is more important than your fear, and yourself. With a smile, she walks out and calls Christopher’s parents, informing them of the current situation. I listen intently for a few moments, and realize that I don’t particularly care what happens to the devil child-for that is what he is, a spawn of Hell- and clean up my arm.
Christopher is the evil inside every person-the complete lack of self-control each person finds themselves drawn to. If he was to be carried away on a distant wind it would be a joy words cannot express. Yet I would wonder how many others he had managed to corrupt, maim, or kill. So I prefer him right where he is; beneath my watchful gaze.
She sends me home with a promises to care for the children while I am gone. I think back on that statement often and curiously and always arrive at the same conclusion. Though she could have fired me completely, sent me home with my refusal, or even stuck me on a different floor with different children, she instead sent me home with those words because, despite her power over my position, she knew I would never leave if I thought the children -my children- uncared for.
It was most certainly not another day of exactly the same people, exactly the same places, and exactly the same things. It was a change in the season of my life. A change from the utter innocence I had known into a more brutal reality, but it was also a change from my dependence upon those around me into a more independent being. I became, and am, a more complete person after entering my new season.
Comments
Please Login to post comments| On April 7th 2007 DrOfAllThings Said : | |
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when is the next one? |
| On March 14th 2007 FamousOne777 Said : | |
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Thisis no story its a novel lol, it is a very well written novel though lol, i admire your talent. |
