Little Boy

This is the result of a writing exercise as well to create an "inside outside story" A story within a story. It is also a short-short

 Little Boy

 

My ear hurts.  It really hurts.  I have had this throbbing pain for almost a week now.  I decide to go to the ER.  When I give my name, I am told to sit and wait.  And I wait and I am in a tremendous amount of pain and I wait and wait and wait.  More than an hour goes by.  

   

  Finally someone calls my name, Penelope Fratelle.  Or, what sounds like my name.  Pen Nel  Lop Freteelo. I can see not pronouncing the short e sound in my name, but where do they get the extra o?  Anyway, I go up and tell them it’s me.   A doctor, I am thinking, I finally get to see a doctor, yeah!  A nurse directs me to a small desk in an alcove to the side of reception desk.  A portly woman slopping on gum proceeds to take my personal information.  Name, address blah blah blah.  I start to tell her about my ear.  She says that she is not a doctor, This is the Billing Department.  This is where I take your insurance. she says.  I don’t have any insurance; my job doesn’t offer it, I say.  In-between her gum smacks she tells me that payment is due at the time of visit (Visit? Like you would choose to visit a museum or a zoo? Or are you forced to go here under the duress of pain and sickness?) and that I must give them an insurance card or cash or a credit card none of which I have. 

   

  I am becoming more irritated by the second, my ear is killing me and I want to rip this woman’s head off her shoulders.   Is there anything else I can do? A payment plan?  I don’t have any money, I say while trying not to let my voice shake too much with anxiety.  You can apply for free care but that will take a while, you have to get approved.  Would you like to do that? she asks.  Yes, yes very much I almost shriek.

   

  She leaves and I wait some more; and wait, along with my excruciating ear pain.  To distract myself and also because I am nosey, I turn around in my chair and start to watch the busy ER.  A little boy about four-years-old is in a wheelchair.  He is crying softly, an older boy, about 11 or 12, is talking to him and holding his hand, comforting him.  I look away as an old man is slowly and carefully yet swiftly rolled by me on a gurney by a couple of EMT's.  He is all bones and wrinkles.  He looks like death.  After he passes I try to search out the little boy again but he is gone. 

   

   Just then the Billing clerk returns and starts asking me questions.  Name, address, by wrote I give them to her again out of the corner of my eye I spot the older boy sitting alone.  Date of birth?  The clerk asks me Didn't I already give you this? I say, exasperated she interrupts, We need it again. November 30th 1982 I state.  I see the little boy pass in his wheelchair. He is closer this time. I now see that he has bruises.  They are on the upper part of his legs, just above his knee, on the inside of his lower thighs.  They are small in shape, about the size of plumbs.  He is crying harder this time and as the nurse wheels him past me I hear him ask for his brother.  When they go down the corridor I hear him start whaling for his brother.  His voice sounds scared, as if he is not going to ever see him again, “I want my brotha. Where is he? Michael!”, he cries. “Maam, Maam you have to sign down here” says the clerk... I look down at the piece of paper and swirl my name on the line.  

   

  I begin another period of waiting to see if I am approved.  I can still hear the little boy crying for his brother.  Or maybe I just believe I can.  All I can think about are those bruises. And why he was calling for his brother and not his mother?  My nephew would have called for his mother, my sister.  I've seen how a child that age clings to his mother when they are hurt and scared.  Even if the father is around they run to the mother.  Where is the mother? 

   

  The clerk comes back.  I have been approved for free care.  I am led down a hall that has rows of rooms sectioned off by curtains and beds.  There I am given the task of changing into a gown and instructed to sit on the bed, though thankfully I get to keep my pants and undergarments on.  Now I embark on another episode of waiting, hopefully for a doctor, but still thinking about the little boy.  

   

 

Author's Note

I am sorry about the bad grammar, I am trying very hard to learn those skills that I was not taught in my formative school years ... I'm just not there yet.