The Boy by Clayton Korson MD

Disclaimer: This story is an entirely fictional reimagining loosely based on a true case from the ER. Names, characters, and details surrounding the case are entirely products of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to real persons. Any similarities to true events are purely coincidental.

***

Red lights cut through the night as the old man gazed ahead. He sat in his truck, staring, stopped at a traffic light. He sighed. The weight of the world lay on his shoulders. Exhausted, the man was at wits’ end. The preceding weeks were unrelenting. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it all. He was tired. His bones were dust, and delicate mind warped with hardly a coherent thought remaining.

When would all this end?

The man looked at himself in the rear-view mirror, appearing much older than even a month ago. Bloodshot, brown eyes stared back at him; crow’s feet painted their corners. The few remaining hairs on his head barely hung on; a thick, peppery moustache was all he had left. He sagged as he sat in the driver’s seat. The red glow suddenly turned green. He pushed on the gas, gripped the steering wheel tightly, and propelled himself into the night.

“That damned boy,” he muttered.

Johnny was always a troubled child. But the old man never could have envisioned what he would put them through. The old man and Edith–his wife–were a modest blue-collar family of faith and humble beginnings. A miracle child, Edith was 43 years old when she had Johnny. The early years of the boy’s youth seemed well enough. A carpenter, the old man tried to be a good father for the boy. But Johnny never seemed to care what the old man had to say. It wasn’t until middle school when the boy exhibited his worst behaviors. Fights, truancy, and thefts became common place. As time passed, it morphed into delinquent intercourse and substance use. On and on, it escalated until Johnny ditched school altogether at the age of 16. He ran away from home countless times. The police usually brought him back; sometimes he would return on his own. The old man and Edith never knew what to do. He often prayed, lamenting why he had been dealt such a terrible hand. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get an answer. At least, not while he was in the land of the living.

The past few weeks were unlike any other time with Johnny. He impulsively stabbed a clerk at a gas station over a measly pack of cigarettes. Johnny did the only thing he knew how to do: he ran. Chaos followed with relentless force. Police investigations and media coverage filled the old man’s life, a never-ending barrage of questions and worry and nausea. He barely slept. As the old man drove home, he noticed his heart beating faster and the sting of sweat in his eyes.

Please just let this end.

A break happened earlier that day. Johnny texted Edith. He told her he was finished; Johnny said he’d turn himself in. The old man was on his way home now, driving through the night, returning after a long day of detached work. He traversed through rolling hills and forested roads as he made his way home. With each passing shadow, he wondered if he’d see the boy in the trees or on the side of the road. The old man feared he wouldn’t even recognize Johnny. At long last, he arrived at the house. He peered through the front window. The lights were on. The old man made out the figures of two people. One was Edith. The other was…

God help us.

The old man sighed and parked the truck. He turned off the engine; the headlights switched off. He turned the handle and stepped outside, his mud-caked boots crunching on the gravel below. The old man let out a large breath as he opened the front door. When the living room came into view, he saw his boy. Johnny sat on the couch, his head in his hands. Covered in filth, it was as the old man feared: he barely recognized Johnny. As frail as a bird, the boy looked ill. Scabs and track marks covered his arms and legs. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He wore a battered shirt with holes in it. He didn’t have any shoes. Torn up socks revealed cuts on his feet.

“Johnny,” the old man breathed.

The boy looked up. The old man saw fire in Johnny’s eyes. He noted to proceed with caution.

“I don’t want to talk to either of you,” Johnny hissed.

The old man submissively walked over to the kitchen where Edith stood. She was hunched over, sorrow painted across her face.

“What would you like to do?” The old man asked softly.

A moment of silence followed. Johnny looked at his parents. He seemed unsteady to the old man. Maybe he was high again? The old man had a burning desire to explode and unleash his fury on the boy.

Didn’t Johnny have any clue?

His fists became clenched, his heart rate picking up again.

Please give me restraint, my Good Lord.

The prayer washed over the old man like a soothing balm. He continued to wait. More time passed. The only sounds were the hum of the forest and the ticking of a clock. 

“Alright,” Johnny finally spoke, putting his head in his hands again. “I want to go to the police station. I want you to come with me.”

The old man looked over at Edith, noticing how she looked so much older, just like him.

“Okay honey,” Edith whimpered, tears wetting her eyes.

Johnny then jumped up from the couch, violently grunting. He looked right at them–as if the devil himself–piercing their souls.

“Let’s get this over with,” Johnny scoffed, walking to the door at a dizzying pace.

The old man and Edith looked at each other. Something seemed off. He couldn’t quite place it. A shadow lingering. A tiny voice telling him not to leave.

“There’s no other option,” he mouthed, both to himself and Edith.

This must end.

With that, he gently grasped Edith’s shoulder and walked with her back into the night. Johnny was waiting beside the truck. The old man unlocked it. They all got inside. Johnny sat in the back. The engine blazed and they were on the road. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening and soaked with perspiration. The old man frequently looked at the boy in the rear-view mirror. The moonshine flowed from above, spotlighting the forest. Another look at the boy. That time, their eyes met. He saw the fire again.

“What?” Johnny growled.

The old man didn’t speak. He shook his head.

“What!” Johnny boomed, a vein bursting from his temple.

“Nothing, I –”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?”

“JOHNNY STOP IT!” Edith shouted back.

“FORGET IT! I HATE YOU!”

“JOHNNY –”

The old man lost track of what happened. It all went by so fast. First, he heard Edith, his darling wife, scream in agony. Then he turned and felt a sharp pain on his left lower backside. Suddenly, he became short of breath. Shocked, he turned the wheel too quickly, causing the truck to go off road. They crashed into a tree. The air bags deployed, hitting the old man’s head hard. Dazed, and barely able to breathe, he opened the truck door and crawled out. He tried to shout for Edith. But he could barely speak. He wasn’t sure if he was making any sense. The old man went down on his knees and then fell to his side. Desperate for air, he began shimmying on the ground. He made it to what he thought was the road. The old man stayed there for God knows how long. In the distance, he heard sirens. And he thought he saw Johnny running again, into the blackness of night.

The old man wasn’t sure of what happened next. Flashing lights arrived. Darkness overtook his vision. As if floating on a cloud, the next thing he saw was blinding, bright lights. An army of people stood around him and he was naked.

“What’s your name?” They asked.

The old man garbled an answer.

“Get me a chest tube tray!”

The old man continued to drift off.

God, please watch over Edith.

He was barely conscious now.

And please look after my beloved boy.

* * * * *

“Why not someone else? Why not those people tonight? Why not all those people who sail through life free as birds?”

-Raymond Carver

Clayton Korson

Image: Blue light from an emergency vehicle against a black background. From pixabay.com