Consequence

Consequence

         He was unconscious when they came.  The doctor was kind and when informed of Sam's dilemma, told him there was no way he was going to be able to help him disappear when the President came to pin the medal on his chest.  It wasn't possible.  But when the doctor saw the pain on the young man's face, and all this in a boy who showed no pain, he offered a viable solution.  He would simply drug him into unconsciousness the moment the limousines arrived.  He didn't even write an order for the nurse to do it.  He did it himself.  He figured the boy had been used enough.

         When Sam awoke and found the medal pinned to his chest, it was all he could do to keep from screaming.  Somehow the president had managed to stick the pin right through his pajamas and into his skin.  He couldn't bring himself to touch it or remove it.  As he looked around the ward at the other guys, all bandaged and ribboned alike; and all branded alike, his rage became insurmountable, and he rang his bell incessantly for relief.  It arrived in short order and gently he ventured into sublime darkness once more.  The nurse hadn't even asked what he needed, but brought the sedative with her.  She administered a little prick of pain for relief of a great deal of anguish.

         He awoke in the brightness of the next morning with a gnawingly colorful ache in his gut and his head.  His lips were dried and his eyes were crusted over, and he had no saliva to speak of.  He prayed badly to be scarlet from forgetting his sun block while lying on the beach of some island with an unpronounceable name.  Alas, he couldn't get the darkness surrounding him to accept the image.

                His throat was parched and he searched about himself for relief.  Of course, the water pitcher was the way it always was; full and a banana, an orange, and his call bell were conveniently close at hand.  The kindness of the crew working with him, and on him, frequently brought him to tears, both painful and otherwise.  Today was no exception, as the tears shattered the darkness and let the sunlight through. 

                Sam just couldn't figure out what to do with it all.  The tears were frequently blinding him and fleetingly arose with little to no provocation.  He could feel them stream down his face, but otherwise, he couldn't accept them.  They served no purpose.  If only for a moment, they might as well have been dribbling down the face of somebody else in a mirror far away from where he lay looking at himself.

         "If only" was not a phrase he used very often because it never worked for him in the past, but lately it had been ricocheting around in his head as if nothing else occupied the space.  If only his parents hadn't died.  Strike that.  Be honest.  If only his parents hadn't met nor one by one quickly abandoned him, he wouldn't have ended up in that orphanage.  He wouldn't have felt unreasonably punished, repeatedly run away, and of course, he wouldn't have ended up on the street easily recognizable as a common juvenile delinquent.  He wouldn't have ended up in front of that judge who looked at him with a mixture of envy and contempt and eventually told him, "prison or boot camp?  You decide."  If only, he wouldn't have had to choose.  If only there had been a real choice.

                The reality was that none of it made a difference.  The reality was, there were no choices.  Everything was predestined. 

                The choices were the same, equally foreign and unwelcome, except; in the army they gave him a rifle and told him to defend himself.  In the world of kill or be killed, he figured it was better to kill an unfamiliar face than be killed by one he recognized, even if due to his mixed heritage, none ever looked like he.  As he lay there in bed staring at the ceiling, he realized now he wasn't so sure.  The sureness and cockiness of youth had been supplanted by the painful reality of the duly initiated; exuberance replaced by reasoned trepidation.

                In the orphanage, it was easy to stick up for the smaller guys and feel good about it and occasionally even sticking up for the bigger guys could feel good.  The administrators labeled him "a problem with authority" but he saw no problem, as long as he was the authority.  Nobody else was looking out for them, or looking for them, so they had to do for themselves.  There was no problem.  Opportunity searched out its own reward.  They kept one another entertained and embraced even during the worst of times.

                A few days ago they allowed him to look at the stump where his foot used to be.  He could remember nothing else of  that day.  They told him he would be walking on that stump.  Well, not exactly that stump, but a hinged extension attached to it.  They told him that by the time they were finished, he'd be walking around like the six million dollar man, maybe even running.  Somehow they were convinced.  Somehow he was not.  Hope had no haven in his soul anymore.  Luckily he couldn't lick his leg or lick his wounds because if he could have, he would have done nothing else.  Pride was not to be found in the embarrassingly huge badge stuck to his chest, it was to be found in spite of it.  His semblance of upward pride could not be visualized while staring down at a piece of cloth pinned to his chest.

              The psychiatrist that came to Sam's bedside the following day and for the first few days thereafter, sat patiently waiting for him to speak.  Just as his silence began to ice-over the white noise of the infirmary, the psychiatrist came one day and spoke to him, saying more than the usual "I'll just sit here and you talk when you're ready."  That day he came in, pulled the curtain, sat down, and pointed to the four bars sitting on his shoulder, and then he said, "Speak.  That's an order." 

              Sam immediately and rigidly sat up.  He tried to speak; being ever mindful there was more they could do to him.  All that came out was a garbled choking sound.  The psychiatrist got up, grabbed his hand, pulled him forward, and hugged him.  He hugged him for a long time, even as Sam struggled to pull away.  That small gesture opened the floodgates and he cried until he couldn't cry anymore.  He cried over his lost youth, his lost friends, his lost foot, and his apparently lost future. 

              The next day he spoke.  It didn't matter that a curtain was all that separated him from the next bed.  Sam spoke of anger, of defeat, and of fear.  He spoke of being lost.  He spoke of feeling illegitimate and how the medal branded him as such.  The psychiatrist asked him how he would feel if he simply put the medal away.  Sam looked over at the medal.  Dr. Jones took it off the side table and dropped it in the drawer.  It was the first time Sam realized he hadn't touched the thing.  The nurse had removed it while he was asleep.  She had put a small Band-Aid with a smile where the medal had made a new wound.

              By the time the psychiatrist got up to leave, Sam had managed to stop wiping his hands on the sheets.  Somehow his hands still didn't feel clean.  He had finally told someone that he had been running away when he stepped on the mine.  He thought he was being pursued by his buddies, but later came to realize he had initiated a much-welcomed retreat; even the platoon leader acquiesced and ran. 

                The next day his doctor came and told him he had received a call from a couple that wanted to come and visit him.  He immediately said no, even though he was intrigued by who could be coming to visit him.  He'd never had a welcome visitor in his life, never.  He vaguely recalled being pawed and picked over at the orphanage, but the reluctant open arms rapidly became pinned to his sides in due time. 

                He wouldn't discuss it any further, except to ask how they knew he was there.  No one knew, but it was assumed he was identified by all the media attention surrounding the medal ceremony.  He was amazed anyone recognized him; after all, he was asleep when all the cameras showed up.  Maybe the visitors confused him with someone else; some other guy who lost his foot, but managed to save the lives of half his platoon. 

                  All Sam could remember was the click and the immediate realization of his predicament.  He guessed he wouldn't live to be court-martialed.  He also remembered absently grasping his crotch in his hands as he waited for his platoon to pass before he leapt to the side.  For the first time in a long time, he smiled as he realized he wanted to father children, or maybe, he just wanted to have sex.  In any case, he wanted everything to work, just in case he, as an amputee, had the chance to use them.  Just the possibility of that future brushed aside the long dark curtain of dismay.  Maybe he was supposed to live.  Maybe everything that had happened to him was supposed to happen, all a part of a destiny in which he was obliged to participate.  He could feel his absent foot finally tap to the beat.  He knew he had no rhythm, but he tapped anyway.  Maybe he could just use his other foot.