PART 1: Not All Are Lost
The room was small. If any light could touch it, reach into its pitch black depths, one would see it was made of stone, a grey black stone covered with a thin film of sticky moisture. The floor was nothing more than dirt, hard packed earth that was also somewhat damp to the touch. Three of the walls were unyielding stone, the fourth? Bars and a metal door locked from the outside. Beyond the door were countless other rooms similar in construction. They stretched for miles, all veiled in inky blackness, silent and empty.
In the darkness, almost malevolent in nature, sounds could sometimes be heard piercing the silence: eerie whining, footsteps echoing beyond the doors, incessant pacing combined with thousands of soft quiet whispers belonging to what one could only assume were the multiple flickering shadows that seemed to appear and disappear at random. The worst was the high pitched wails and the shrill screams that would rent the air when least expected. When the place was silent it felt like a tomb, the quiet growing so profound that it was overwhelming. The silence was deafening, suffocating, a living breathing entity that latched on, sinking its teeth in, and determined to drive anyone it came into contact with to the brink of madness.
The place itself smelled dank and moldy, stagnant and stale from being kept closed and boarded up for so long. The scent of dirt and musk was so strong one could almost taste the sweet sharp tang of it in their mouth. There were other smells too some random, like the occasional scent of aftershave or food, and some ever present, such as the smell of rotting wood and decay. The air was so thick, the stillness of it so heavy that sometimes even breathing became a challenge that is until one grew accustomed to it, but even if they did breathing would still become an occasional struggle for one to undergo.
If one were to shed light on all aspects of the building then one would see it was in a sore state of disrepair. The walls were covered in paint now peeling, tearing away and exposing the harsher stone beneath. The floor was lined with countless debris, the most common being those bits of paint and mortar that had crumbled away throughout the years. Where bare stone was exposed lay a thin grey film of mildew and mold gathered there from the collection of moisture that had accumulated through the years. Cobwebs had gathered in almost every conceivable corner of the building and dust was settled in a fine layer across everything within. Old metal cots lay in rusting heaps scattered throughout, along with broken legs of tables and chairs. Papers now crumpled and brittle were strewed about the main rooms and macabre devices could be spotted in various other rooms most broken, rusting away, harmless now to those they had most likely been used against in the past.
The building lay dormant, dark and abandoned. It hadn’t been used in over forty years, time made its mark upon the walls, the weather carving into the exterior and breaching the interior where the roof no longer held. Some areas were prone to flooding in times of heavy rain, while other areas were prone to collapse when the rotting roof decided it no longer wanted to remain intact. Still most of the building held together surprisingly well against the constant battering of abuse and the continuous passage of time. The place was old and decrepit, long forgotten, isolated, sitting in the middle of no where, buried now by nature, choked out, now concealed amongst the trees, no more than a distant memory to most, but sturdy enough to still be of use to some.
Despite all its downfalls it had quite a few positives, for it was the last place anyone would think to look, the last place anyone would dare to enter and that alone made it perfect.
* * * *
Eleanor McCartney had dreamed of being a nurse all her life. She wanted to help people and save lives. People would mock her when she was in school believing that since she was attractive and young that she had no sense about her, but they were wrong. The petite blonde, blue eyed girl refused to be dissuaded from her lifetime goal. She struggled and fought to get what she wanted, striving against all odds to gain what she desired. She became a nurse when she was twenty-one. After that she returned to school deciding she wanted to become a doctor, a psychiatrist. Six years later she accomplished that goal and has been a counselor ever since.
She had seen a lot through the years. People coming and going some able to be healed, some not. She knew what was out there. She wasn’t ignorant or uninformed. She knew that the world beyond her window was harsh and cold, cruel to some, condemning to most. Death and destruction, violence and rage interlaced every bit of it destroying families, people, and lives. She had seen what the cruelties of the world could do to another and strove to help in any way she could those that were able to rise above it and seek help. Some she could get through to but others not so much. Still she managed to at least establish some kind of a rapport with all of them, all of them except one.
He was her special case, admitted when he was young, a witness to the brutality of life. He had been with her for a while now and in all that time she couldn’t break through to him. Countless times she wanted to give up on him, but once she’d turn her back on him determined to walk out of the life of a young man who obviously didn’t want to be helped she would get as far as the door and stop. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t give up on him, and she wouldn’t. When she would realize she had been angry with him she would return to him and apologize assuring him that he would never be alone.
He never said anything and never had any visitors except the nursing staff. No one would visit him despite the fact that his records listed a brother and a father as next of kin. The mother she noted was listed as deceased having perished in a fire when he was very young. She wondered sometimes if that was his reason for silence. Perhaps he had seen something that night or remembered something. Most people would say that he recalled nothing for he had been too young to remember, but she wasn’t so sure she believed that herself.
Shaking her head she halted at the door to his room drawing in a calming breath as she prepared to visit him. Once relaxed she entered spotting him sitting by the window smiling softly for the first time ever. Her breath hitched. He was beautiful when he smiled and it was the first expression she had ever seen crossing his facial features other than the blank stare. She wondered what could make him smile like that and quietly approached softly asking, “Dean, what are you looking at?”
He said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge her, but the smile stayed in place. Lowering to his eye level she looked out the window and saw the playground off in the distance. There were kids playing there prompting her to ask, “Are you watching the kids, Dean?”
Again he said nothing, she wondered if he even heard her, his gaze was locked so intently on the kids. She searched her mind for a name, his brother’s name, and against her better judgment softly inquired, “Are you thinking of your brother, Dean? Are you thinking of Sam?”
His response was nothing, no reaction except to carefully lift his hand and place it against the window as if reaching out to grab something and hold onto it. She continued to watch the kids swallowing hard as she focused again on his hand pressed so firmly against the glass. She turned, her gaze settling on his face noticing again how pale he was, his short cropped blonde hair standing out against his paler complexion. When her eyes caught sight of a single glistening stream that now ran down over his cheek she gasped. She was certain then that her guess had been right. He was thinking of his brother. A lump formed in her throat as she nodded then asked, “Do you mind if I sit with you for awhile, Dean?”
When he didn’t react she inclined her head and drew a chair next to him settling in it, used to the silence that was, had always been, such an integral part of him since his admission here.
She glanced out the window again seeing the kids playing noticing that Dean was now rubbing the window gently with his hand. The sense of loss she gained from that simple gesture was like a sucker punch to her gut as she realized why his brother never visited. Unable to silence the question she released it in a strained whisper, “Is your brother alive, Dean?”
His gaze faltered, his hand dropped from the window and he lowered his head the wistful smile that had moments before graced his youthful face now gone to be replaced by overwhelming sadness. It was then she allowed the tears to fall silently crying for him and his loss as she suddenly began to understand just why he was here and why he had never been visited by another…
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