Interlude 0.4

Cameron was in the hospital again. It was the third time in as many days. The second time, one of his doctors joked that they should just rent the room out to him. They weren’t joking anymore.

Harold sat in a chair next to his son. He looked across his body at the machines; he didn’t have the energy left to look directly at him. It was too much, to see his son lying there helplessly.

The doctors had left recently, just after Cameron’s seizures had stopped. They had made sure he was stable, then abandoned him there. His chest wasn’t rising or falling, but the grey-green monitors held a steady beat.

None of them knew what Cameron’s issue was. For the past two years, he had been plagued by seizures, strokes, and heart attacks. There was no rhyme or reason behind it, he was perfectly healthy before then. He was even going to try out for little league.

That wasn’t going to happen now. Cameron had been severely deformed by whatever was plaguing him. His muscles had deteriorated down to where he needed to be pushed in a wheelchair. For a while, Harold and Helen were forced to help him go to the bathroom. A couple of months in, they had decided to get the surgeries done to attach bags for his excretions.

Harold pulled in a breath, and let it out in a shaky sigh. He looked at Cameron’s face. Half of it was just loose skin at this point, he had lost control of them during one of his earlier seizures, and it only deteriorated from there on.

He was smaller than he had been at eight, barely making a bump under the starchy, light blue hospital sheets. His bones were clearly visible under his skin, in his arms and neck; and he could no longer move his limbs of his own volition.

It had gotten to the point where the doctors would fix whatever issue came up, send him home, and expected him to show up the next day.

Cameron hadn’t been conscious for the last week. The doctors said he was almost definitely in a permanent state of unconsciousness. In other words, Cameron Carter was in a coma.

Yesterday, the doctors had brought up the possibility of taking him off of his life-preserving machines. Harold had immediately denied them, saying that it was unthinkable. He was thinking about it a lot now.

On one hand, it made sense. Cameron’s treatments had drained Harold and Helen’s bank accounts. They were functionally bankrupt, with huge debts. Harold had lost his job; his boss had grown sick of his constant begging for leave, and in response gave him two month’s severance. Helen took on another job, so she was never able to be at home or with Cameron. Plus, this desiccated husk of a child? This body? It wasn’t his son.

On the other hand… On the other hand, Harold couldn’t think of any reason not to. Of course, he went through all of the moral hoops, how could he do this, it’s his own son, et cetera. None of them impacted him, not even a little bit. The body on the bed wasn’t Cameron anymore. He hadn’t been lucid in months, hadn’t been awake in weeks. His son died ages ago.

He was going to do it. Once the next doctor came in he would tell him, get the requisite form, and be rid of this burden.

As if he was listening, Cameron started twitching on the bed, and one of the various monitors began to beep. After a few seconds, a doctor and two nurses barged into the room, bringing a cart with them.

Harold watched them work, waiting patiently. They calmed Cameron’s body with a small syringe applied to the side of his neck. One of the nurses half-heartedly held his weak arms down, the other held his head in place. He soon calmed, and Harold stood and tapped the doctor on his shoulder.

The man turned. He pulled the mask over his face down. “Yes?”

Harold took in a breath. “I want to take him off of support.”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll get you the papers.”

…

…

…

Cameron woke up with a start. It was dark in the room. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t remember anything coherent. Images passed back and forth in front of his vision, and phantom sounds played back. One thing stood out. His father, stubble growing over his normally clean-shaven looking down at him. Closing his eyes. Saying goodbye.

He tried to lift his head, but was unable to. He managed to flop his head to the side. His eyes came to rest on the machine. The monitors were black, turned off. He traced the wires down to the floor, then as far as he could back up again. He saw one out of the corner of his eye, connected to his arm.

A man came into the room, shining white fluorescent light for a brief second. He picked up Cameron, placing him onto his wheelchair, gently removing the wires connected to his body. He kept the catheter in. He began to wheel him out of the room.

The halls of the hospital wing were abandoned. Nobody came to try and stop the man. Cameron was scared. He was crying, but no tears came out of his eyes. He heard one of the wheels creak, and the wheelchair stopped. Maybe he wasn’t going to be kidnapped. He couldn’t lift his head up to look.

A breeze hit him. The man had just gone to open a door. He came back to the wheelchair, and they resumed walking. Cameron could only look at the floor. He saw black tar for a while, which meant that they were on pavement. Then dirt and grass. A forest? A field? He couldn’t tell; it was too dark out. Then, there was a bright orange light, and they were indoors again.