The Boy Without A Name

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Check his pulse," Arthur ordered as soon as they had positioned Emmett on one of the beds in his special ward.

"Quick, pass me the oxygen mask." Someone spoke, urgently.

"His heartbeat is getting out of control, Doc." One of the nurses warned.

"We cannot have that, Wilson. His anxiety levels might be skyrocketing but we need to get it under control, do you understand that?" The man chastised, motivating his team to put in their best efforts despite everything.

"Doctor Campbell, we are trying our best but given his situation-" Another started to speak but he was instantly cut off by a frantic Arthur.

"Just do your best, I have to attend to his parents since they are worried sick, so he is in your hands, for the time being, so do your best." He reasoned.

"Arthur, you do know what this means?" One of them asked, shooting a knowing look towards the overwhelmed man.

"I do, Edward, I do." Arthur exhaled softly as he glanced at Emmett in dismay.

Perplexing presumptions were preliminary, Arthur disdainfully shook his head, as he moved out of his bed-chamber, completely befuddled. These disconcerted defeats were not his strongest suit, and impossibly, he assumed, couldn't become the cause for someone's life yet he was struck with the scornful tragedy of the sweet and sorrowful solemn spirited lifestream of an unconscious boy who looked so serene whilst sleeping, making him highly empathetic towards him. Arthur reminisced his inspirational words, the warmth they had once held like the Head of Helios, was faced with the Icelandic north winds of Boreas in a battle for his mind, enveloping him as if he was a replica for his daughter, Chione; Emmett's paltry, puny like efficiency in embarking upon a mission resulted in a chock-full of inadequacy, and was short of a sufficiency for chances were simply unimproved to be insignificant against this glacial glaze that swaddled him, swathed his very being in white sheets made of sleet and ice.

As Arthur Campbell reached his office, he could see their silhouettes slightly crouched over his sofa, stationed across his soft-plush chair, separated only be a table that held his frustrations, tears and even love, in the semblance of the harsh-looking, hardened glass exterior. He momentarily halted to fix his rather sombre features and pose indifferently since his emotions couldn't maximise support given what he was required to do, as he shakily proceeded to open the dreary doorway to his world.

"Mr and Mrs Anderson." Arthur gave them a glum nod as he shook their hands, visibly taken aback by the looming figure of whom he assumed to be Emmett's brother.

"Doctor Campbell, how is Emmett? What happened to him?" Emmett's mother was visibly distressed, eyes hollowed and looked to be quite swelled, as they begged to know about her child's well being.

"You weren't very specific when he had talked over the phone, Doc. It is high time that you tell us about your observations." Emmett's father was resolute, his wrinkled eyes  masked his feelings well, but Arthur was sure that he was feebled by the thought of his son.

"I understand your concern Mr and Mrs Anderson and rest assured you should be, that Emmett is doing well. He had a panic attack that, per se, was intensified by his body's famished state, resulting in his loss of consciousness. But it is not the physical health that worries me." He elaborated, sighing as he looked at his hands, dejectedly.

"What is it, Doctor?" She was quick to ask, eager to know about his son's health.

"Have you ever heard of sleep-walking, Mrs Anderson?" Arthur asked as he glanced at her.