Kyle’s Letters #6 (cont.)
The hospital was in lock down and my mind was running a million miles per second. Stan was gone. Pete was gone. I was escorted out to the main lobby as this was completely out of my hands legally. I wanted to find him. I had to find him, but they locked me out. It was standard procedure, they said. It was for everyone’s safety, they said.
My childhood had always been a sore spot in my memories and had given me constant nightmares from the things I had seen and done, but it had given me a set of useful skills. With all the panic, I managed to swipe two paper clips off the secretary’s desk and get to work picking the lock back into the main hospital. They weren’t keeping me from Stan. I’ve gone through worse things to keep him safe and he’s gone through hell and back to keep me safe.
The lock clicked opened and I took off like a bullet. It was easy getting past security and doctors who were too busy looking for the missing patients and trying to wrangle those left behind.
A shoe was all it took to find my baby boy.
How could they all be so stupid? It might have been a hospital issued slip on shoe, but why would one shoe just be sitting in front of a door forgotten? Especially when the label on the door said “basement.” He had to be in there.
I opened the door and as soon as I did, another person came running into me knocking me over. The wind completely left my lungs and I heard a frightened voice screaming on top of me in a blind panic.
Stan had run into me from the basement and he was terrified, as if his very life was on the line. I wrapped my arms around him protectively and called for security. I shouted that we needed help over here, that I found Stan, to hurry. I didn’t know what happened down there and if Pete was going to follow. My blood was boiling and I was like a grizzly bear about to attack. I moved so he was behind me and in a split moment, I saw him coming up the stairs.
I threw punch after punch once he hit the main floor. He tried to hold himself in the door frame, but I just wailed on him harder. This was for every sleepless night. Every cut on Stan’s arms. Every tear Stan shed. Every cigarette I smoked in worry in the parking lot wondering if Stan would ever be okay.
Two security guards had to haul me off him. Another person had to join to hold me back. I don’t remember what I screamed. I said awful things, I know I did. I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him with my own two hands. In a way, it was almost refreshing. It was like there had been an awful infection that had hurt all of us for so long, and finally it had been opened. The infection was being removed and the pain was finally gone in a fresh breath of air. It didn’t stop my anger though.
Nothing would stop my anger.
