𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXIV

       Mattheos-no,
Henry's pov.
They're playing music.

In and out of consciousness, I can hear the faint sound of the lyrics. My vision is blurry as I try to make out what's happening, and I can hear the sound of medals clinking together, can make out the multiple figures in surgical masks, rubber gloves and weird suits.

I'm stuck paralyzed on the medical chair, stuck in place as I make out a doctor amping up the volume on a machine—a shock machine. I try to look down at myself and that's when I realize all the tubes sticking to my skin. My temples, my heart, my chest—from here, I can't see the rest.

I can't make out anything else but my fathers dressed figure watching me in the corner. I watch as he walks to me, as he looks into my eyes and examines what they're doing to me. I can hear him humming to the song, can hear him mumbling the lyrics.

The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself, is the last thing I hear before a gloved hand increases the power on the machine once more and I return to the dark.

—

October ninth, 1814
  I'm sitting in a wooden chair made for a man, but I am only eleven years old.

The chair is too big, too uncomfortable, and sitting down for so long is wrinkling my newly tailored suit but I can't do anything but sit in this hallway thatis far too quiet for a building designed for crazy people. There's exactly 106 people here—including me and my dad. I know this because I have nothing else to keep me company but the numbers inside my head, a notebook, a pen. I have nothing to do but count the patients that come in and out of his office, nothing better than to stare blankly at the wall and play along with the faint ticking of the clock. No, there's nothing here worth writing, nothing worth drawing. Not until someone takes a seat next to me. Not until I realize that it's a girl my age.

I study her. I study her appearance, her breathing, her body language as she sits quietly next to me reading a copy of The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare. I study her intent eyes and the way she's keeping to herself, as if not wanting to accidentally touch me. I know my father told me not to talk to anyone, and I know I've never disobeyed him, but I've never made a friend before and I love that book and something makes me want to know if she does, too. So I do what I've watched my father do before and hold on my hand for a shake.

She blinks at my hand, then at me—and when her green eyes meet my blue ones, I can't stop myself from looking, from staring. Her eyes are strange, so strange. We stay that way before she smiles, and I think I falter. "Hi." She says.

Shit, I'm thinking. I should've said hi. Do other kids even use hand shakes anymore? But something tugs at the ends of my lips and I try to form a smile, but I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't remember how to smile, so I fear I might accidentally be frowning at her. "Hi." I say back. "Where's your family?"

She shrugs, swinging her legs that don't yet touch the ground. "My mom just dropped me off here."

My eyebrows furrow, and I catch myself nervously picking at the new cut on my hand. "Did they leave you here?"

She stares down at her shoes, and instead of answering me, says "What are you doing here?"

I shrug. "I'm here with my dad. Are you here to see him?"

She stills. "Is your dad Mr. Ivan Vitiello?" I nod, so she says, "I was told to go to him."

I hum, but I can't help my curiosity. "Why are you here?" Only crazy people go here, is what I don't add. Surely, this pretty, innocent girl couldn't be like them, right?