He never spoke. They thought he couldn't, but I knew he was waiting for the right time.
He never tried to communicate with anyone. They thought he didn't want to, but I knew he didn't have anyone to talk to.
They thought he was just sick, bu...
"Let me warn you first," said Anya, "you're gonna have to be careful around him."
"Why?" I asked, "is he okay?"
Anya bit her lower lip. "Let's just say he's...different." Based on her tone, I figured it'd be better not to ask any more questions.
She handed me a clip-board with a page attached to it:
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"This is all we know about him," Anya explained as I took the board from her hands, "thought you should have it."
"Thanks," I smiled, "can I see him?"
"Of course, right this way." She took me to the second wing of the hospital in room 3B. I was about to open the door when she placed a hand on my shoulder. "Mary-Jane?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you so much for volunteering, we really appreciate it. We thought maybe if he could be around another peer, he could connect with someone."
I nodded, clutching the clip-board to my stomach. "You're very welcome." And I opened the door, just as Anya left.
Inside, I saw Peter asleep in the hospital bed. He had a bandage wrapped around his forehead, and I could see faint blood stains on it.
As soon as I fully opened the door, the squeak caused him to jolt awake. I have never seen anyone wake up so fast. Was he even sleeping?
"S-Sorry," I muttered as I placed my bag down. I walked up to him and held my hand out for him to shake. "My name is Mary-Jane. What's yours?"
He said nothing. He just stared at my hand with his piercing blue eyes. I took a second look at the paper attached to my clipboard, remembering how it said he didn't speak or do much. This should be a challenge.
"Okay," I smiled awkwardly and retracted my hand, "I guess not." I paused for a moment, trying to think of what to do when you're trying to entertain someone who doesn't speak or do anything. Just then, childhood memories came to mind when I used to read stories to my houseplants when I was eight. I reached into my bag and pulled out a book of fairy tales, grinning and looking back at Peter. "Do you like stories?"
He cocked his head to the side, but still nothing. Then, he started fiddling with his hands like I had not just asked him a question. I decided if he would be like this then there was no point in even asking. I opened up the book to the table of contents, choosing a story to read to him.
"Ah, here we go. I think you'll like this one. The Adventures of Peter Pan." But when I looked back at him, I noticed he was still fiddling and wasn't paying attention. Angrily, I shut the book and stuffed it back in my purse. "If you're going to be rude, then I might as well leave!" I stood up and turned to leave, when Peter grabbed my hand. Shocked, I looked back at him, then down at our hands and back to him again.
