ALL KEVIN COULD do was stare. Stare at the blank ceiling. Stare at the white linens. Stare at the open door he could never walk out of. There were no guards posted as was usually the case with murderers in prison hospitals. With him, they weren’t necessary.
As a child, he’d seen scary pictures of hell with its red and yellow scorching flames. The artists were wrong. Hell was not fire and heat. Hell was boredom and helplessness. Hell was lying here day after day, unable to move, thinking, but not being able to talk.
In the background, the damn clock kept ticking. He wanted to crash it against the wall, but couldn’t.
Hunger gnawed at him, though the feeding tube continuously nourished him. Paralyzed from the nose down, he’d never again chew a juicy steak or taste a gooey pizza.
No one knew he could think. This morning he’d overheard the morning crew exchange raunchy jokes as they went about their cleaning.
One of them had shown twisted compassion. “Hey, let’s go outside. Why get the stiff all stiff?”
Smiling knowingly, the other had shaken his head. “Are you kidding? That poor bastard doesn’t understand anything. He couldn’t get a hard-on if he tried. Everything’s gone but his eyes.”
They were wrong. Dead wrong. God help him, he could think. That’s all he could do. Day after day, night after night, he lay still with his mind racing. Rage, hurt and frustration consumed him. Worst of all was the loss of hope. Though he thirsted for revenge, it would never be. It had chewed and destroyed him, yet the overpowering need still remained.
He must face the truth. It was the end of the line for Kevin Green. For the rest of his days, he’d lie here at Heartland Hospital with muscles and bones wasting. He couldn’t even get up to go to the john, but had to wear diapers and smell his own filth.
The doctor had said Kevin’s brain stem was injured when he struck the fountain.
When it had happened, Kevin had felt a sharp pain, then nothing. He’d thought he’d die. Unable to move, except for his eyes, he’d lain still, wondering when he’d fall into hell.
Then Callaway had appeared with his arm upraised, ready to administer the final blow. For some incomprehensible reason, the bastard had lowered his arm. In his supreme goodness, the Great Callaway had spared the lowly Kevin Green.
Callaway probably thought he’d done Kevin a favor. The joke was on both of them. Callaway had unknowingly dealt the harshest punishment of all—a revenge worse than death.
The shadows were thickening. It must be evening. One of the jokesters from the morning crew poked his head in. “Hey, poor Joe, the Amstaffs are playing tonight. I’ll turn on the game for you.”
Kevin’s eyes filled with revulsion. He shut his lids tight so he wouldn’t see the screen, but it didn’t help. Frank Monson’s words still bored into his brain.
“The Universal Center’s come alive. Looks like another spectacular play by Danny Callaway.”