Little Child Lost

The darkness settles over the old tool shed like a thick wool blanket; hot and scratchy. Every little sound echos back from the cobweb filled corners. The old rusty plow sits in the middle of the tool shed and a mouse is climbing up the handle.

I don't cry out though, because I might be found and this is a good hiding spot and I don't want to ruin it. I can't see if there's a moon out or not, the slats in the wall aren't far enough apart to see if there are shadows.

I can't think when the last time I had a good shower was. Last week, or maybe ten days ago, I just can't remember. My hair feels like its crawling with bugs, but if I move then I might make a sound so I don't scratch my head. I think there are fleas here, too. My skin is burning from all the little bites, but it could be an ant hill, I don't know, it's just too dark.

Momma would know the difference and she would know what kind of medicine to get to draw out the fire in my skin. Probably her turpentine brew, yeah, that stuff works on every thing. I miss Momma. I hate that she died last Christmas. If she hadn't died, I probably wouldn't be hiding here now.

That little mouse is eating something, and it came from over by the door, maybe I should move over there and see if I can find something to fill my belly with. My skin is really itching now. I have to take a chance and just scratch a little. The sweat is running down my back, it sure is hot in this little shed.

I take just the smallest little step toward the door and I hear--I'm not sure what I hear, but I don't move anymore. Just my luck, it's probably them. I'm not going back there, I would rather die first. I think, if they catch me I'm going to make them kill me because that would be better than the beatings.

Whew, it sure is hot in here. The last beating I got lasted ten whole minutes and I couldn't walk for a day afterward. Nope, I am not going back there. The Judge said that it was for my own good, but he doesn't know what goes on, he's not on the inside of those doors.

Maybe it's safe to move now. I can't help but think about what's crawling on my skin and in my hair. Momma used to love my hair, she said it reminded her of angels, all curly and everything. But there aren't any pretty curls now, just ugly, dirty, bug-filled tangles.

I'm crying. Why am I crying? Stupid curls anyway. I hated brushing them every day. I should have just cut them off. I wipe my tears away with my dirty hand and make to stand up but there's something hard under my shoe. As I step down on it I realize it's an old hoe, and I hear the voices again just before the handle swings through the dark shed and hits me on the head.

The light is so blinding it hurts to open my eyes. I feel cool, and my skin isn't on fire anymore. And I smell, bacon?

I force myself to open my eyes, everything is so white and clean. I hear sounds coming from, well, everywhere. But these aren't bad sounds and I still smell bacon. I'm in a bed! With clean sheets and a nice blanket! How did that happen?

I don't remember anything. Wait! Momma died just this Christmas. The Judge sent me to the foundling home. They like to hit kids there, they like to hit them a lot. If this is the hospital then they must have found me. I guess I don't mind so much right now, at least I'm not crawling in bugs anymore. I smell the bacon but I'm just not that hungry. My side hurts, my head hurts, and my chest hurts. I'll just close my eyes for a little while.

* * *

"Dad? Dad, I know you can hear me, it's Evie, Dad. The doctor says you had a real high fever. Dad?" Evie bent and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, Dad. I know you can hear me. You're not alone. The doctor says you have brain damage, and you'll never recover, but I know you're just tired of being in this worn out body and you want to move on. So I'm going to let you go, Dad, but I'm going to miss you so much." Evie let her tears fall silently down her cheeks, then sent one more prayer Heavenward.

The thirty year old woman pulled the blanket up to the older man's chin, looked at all the scratches and blood soaked bandages on his arms, then silently padded out of the room.

The nurse and doctor went into the room, adjusted a few buttons on a monitor, then motioned Evie back inside. She sat and held her father's frail hand as the doctor turned off first one machine, then another, and then the last one.

* * *

I can hear that voice again. I know that voice. It's the voice of...I can't remember her name. My head feels light, and it's suddenly very quiet again. But, that's Momma calling me! I'm coming, Momma! I'll be right there!

"I LOVE YOU!" he shouted, surprising Evie, the doctor and the nurse. Then he closed his fevered eyes and took a few weak breaths. His body slowly shut down, his heart didn't push his blood through his veins anymore and his tortured soul soared free.

The doctor felt the old man's pulse, then listened for heart and lung sounds. He shook his head, signed a piece of paper, then walked to the end of the bed.

"Miss Reed, your father is gone now. He's not feeling any of that pain anymore. Would you like me to call in the chaplain?"

"No, thank you doctor. I just need some time alone." Evie held her father's hand, wondering at the sound of her dad's youthful voice when he had said 'I love you' a moment ago.
She rested her head on his hand for a minute, then glanced at the bands on his arm. One read "Alzheimer's", the other "Penicillin Allergy" in bold red letters. "Bye Daddy. I love you."

Evie got up from the chair and kissed his frail hand one more time before she slowly walked away.