A Song of War

one

serva me, servabo te 

Save me and I will save you

*       *       *

I was born for battle.

I was the product of blood, sweat, tears, long nights in the dark, lonely fissures and cracked hearts. There was a rhyme that beat both within and outside of me as the machines took in the pulse that showed proof to my existence.

These were the thoughts in my mind as I stared at the ceiling.

I had been named after war. I was a warrior.

But I was scared.

The fear gripped me, threatening to stop my breath. Threatening with temptation of what it would be like to close my eyes and have nothing but darkness.

I had never been scared of the dark. I had spent too many nights in this lonely room with the light from buttons and the shine of the moon to be scared of a constant companion.

But I was scared of that vast overwhelming sensation of never seeing light again.

The pace of the beat increases, a staccato of music growing faster.

I waited for the door to open. For someone to come in and make sure I was okay. For anyone to take notice of my existence and see me. I wanted a hand to cover my forehead. I wanted someone to not be afraid to touch my head, even with its lack of hair.

I wanted something.

But I knew no one would come. I knew there was no one who could prove that I was alive. No one except me.

So- like I did every other night- I pulled the needle from my hand, untangling the other wires that were attached to me. I shivered at the coldness that touched my feet when they made contact with the floor.

It was always cold since the fire had entered my blood and rattled my body with its war cry.

It didn't know that I was a warrior already. I was born for war. And I had my own scream to reflect back to the darkness.

I look into the empty hall, moving quickly away from my room. It still amazed me how little others noticed me. How doctors and nurses always kept their heads down, too busy to reach their destination to be able to see what was in front of them. Not many people wanted to notice a sick child anyway.

The halls were my friends. Their faces showed familiarity, guiding me away from my miniature hell into whatever form of restoration I could find.

I was quickly growing out of breath. Maybe they would see me if I was lying on the floor. If I gave up. But the fear of that not being a possibility, and not being seen even if I really wasn't there, made me push aside the thought.

I knew this hospital. It was my home. I was born here. Treated here. I spent more time in the room with four white walls than the house I was supposed to be raised in.

I knew the pathway that led to the emergency room. The stairs that took me to the nice lady who always gave me sugar, even if I eventually threw it up. There had been an older man who saw me. We talked, and I had wondered if this was what it felt like to have a grandfather. But after a handful of weeks, his room was empty.

Under the lights I saw a figure in the hallway, sitting in a chair. He was bent down, elbows on his knees as his hands twisted into his hair. I approached him, wondering if he was crying.