BENNETT ENTERED THE HOSPITAL and gave a polite nod to the concierge behind the counter. He repeated the usual request of a visitor's pass. The circular white desk sat in the middle of the lobby’s ivory and royal blue terrazzo. Waiting area lights were dim and a sprinkle of visitors sat quietly glued to their phones which stood in sharp contrast to the bustling coffee shop and the hum of machinery across the hall.
Bennett sat in the hospital floors waiting area, his attention drawn to the news broadcast airing on the nearby television. The news anchor’s somber voice filled the room relaying the latest tragedy, another young boy dead at the hands of police. Allegedly was a word that was thrown around alot. Everytime this case popped up on the news there was some new angle attached to the story.
It was never any easier to sit and listen to the broken voices that told a story of a life drawn to a close far too soon. He knew many boys like him both in his youth and in his line of work. There was always a pit in his stomach every time one of them left the group home. Never knowing if they would be able to turn things around or end up in the ground.
This case in particular hovered in his peripheral the past couple of months. Santiago latched onto it after his accident. Thompson said it was the result of a traumatic brain injury. He could not differentiate himself from the young Santiago in the news.
Bennett did not understand the science behind it all. Yet he knew more about these kids than any degree could teach him. Santiago had been brought in from a horrific car accident behind the wheel of a car that did not belong to him. A good samaritan had pulled him from the wreckage. His own family never claimed him despite several attempts by the state to reach them.
Of course he wanted to be someone else. Someone that was loved. Someone that was wanted.
Sydney, a family friend.
The bleached blonde woman told the story of a child with infectious laughter and a playful nature. Her heavily mascaraed eyes left blotchy rings around her eyes as she clutched the photograph of a small freckled child to her chest.
“I knew him since he was just a baby.” She wiped delicately at the corner of her eyes with her lengthy acrylics. Behind her a portion of concrete wall was splashed with colors that stretched into a mural which the broadcast seemed to be covering. “He was good. He—.”
“Bennett—” The nurse looked down at her clipboard, “The doctor finished with Alex, you can see him now.”
Over the course of a few days the boy's conditions improved. Well, enough to give the nurses a hard time. A few broken bones in the shoulders and a mile of bruises between the lot of them.
They would be running amok in a few weeks time.
He reached out to their caseworkers. Given the state of the boys he was able to convince them to write off the incident and return them to the home with only an extra month on their designated time there.
He stopped at the room being cleaned, the scent of bleach and synthetic lemon flooded the hall. They usually came around for that strictly in the morning. Learned that after requesting a clean up during an evening prior. Both the nurse and Bennett received a huffy woman on the other end of the line insisting that the morning cleaners take care of stayovers and they would send someone when they could.
Bennett called out to the nurse behind the desk. “Hey, 706 did he make a mess tonight?”
“Oh no, he was discharged a few hours ago.”
A few hours ago?
Did his family finally come to claim him?
Or was Thompson throwing in the towel?
“Did his family come forward?” He asked, hopeful that maybe for once in his line of work there was some kind of a happy ending.
“No it seems his caseworker released him, I have the email requests and consent forms,” the nurse replied casually. Before he could pry her for more details the phones rang off the hook in a discordant off-tempo orchestra.
Bennett grumbled under his breath and stormed outside to quell the broiling anger and irritation bubbling up in his throat. His teeth ground together as the itch to smoke consumed his thoughts. As he pulled a crumpled pack from one of the many pockets on his scrubs he cursed Thompson for his cowardice. Surely he did not sign off on this. A supervisor went over his head instead and passed off Santiago to a different facility.
That had to be it.
He ignored the nosey stares of people entering the hospital as he paced out front with his cell pressed to his ear. The old veteran’s hands trembled as he dug around for his lighter amongst the myriad of scrap papers and pens. He fumbled the rusted and dented zippo lighter the minute he pulled it free. The wick and flint went wheeling down into the mud. Cursing under his breath he hoped for the other man’s sake, he would not answer as he cleaned the lighter and attempted to get a bent cigarette lit.
Bennett stood outside taking a drag on his cigarette listening to the phone ring. The near immediate wash of buzzing relief that filled his senses curbed the growing wave of jittering in his limbs. With every passing ring he mulled over what he wanted to say to Thompson.
The first voice that came to mind was the familiar booming aggression of his drill sergeant, “Have you lost your damn mind?!”
No that wouldn’t work, Marcus would hang up immediately and then ghost him for days on end. Like every other Seattle local. The phone seemed to ring for eternity as he continued to work shop his approach. Slowly settling on a more inquisitive mental tone.
Though, he was not entirely sure if that still held an edge of confrontational aggression.
It was late in the evening, not that the skies in Seattle could be trusted to tell time. Summer days had the sun high in the sky well until nine in the evening. No matter the time of year the gray blanket of clouds would make an appearance if you waited long enough.
He watched cars pulling up and away in a steady succession as visitors, patients, and food delivery circled the roundabout.
“Bennett?” Thompson said.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for an hour now.” Bennett seethed through clenched teeth.
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“I apologize it’s been a busy day I had a few meetings and—"
“They discharged Santiago. Said you signed off on it.”
There was a lingering pause, “I did, yes.”
“All that crap you like to spew about second chances, all that goes out the window when you get scared.”
For once he was thankful to not be face to face, he could feel his jaw twitching as he growled into the microphone. It would have taken all of his self-control to keep his hands in his pockets. According to one of his old therapists, wildly gesturing in an argument was considered escalating aggression.
“You don’t understand Bennett.” Thompson dropped his voice to a whisper.
“What don’t I understand? He’s a kid. Despite his temper he’s been trying to get right.”
Bennett bit back the urge to rip into his colleague, the old conditioning from his years in command screamed insults and obscenities in his mind. Closing his eyes he waited for the younger man to answer between attempts at square breathing.
“I was wrong.” Thompson let out a long breath, “There is something evil in that boy. Something unnatural. He’s beyond our help.”
Bennett looked at his phone in disbelief, “What the hell does that even mean? Thompson, where is Santiago?”
The line clicked, an obnoxious dial-tone filled the silence.
Bennett stared at the screen with Thompson’s face hovering over the meager call time. The phone shook violently as tremors climbed up his arms, all he wanted was to launch his phone into the side of his colleague’s head. Maybe that would knock some sense into him.
Countless times had the two bickered over practice methodologies. With holier-than-thou lectures from Thompson about reforming the justice system, new holistic approaches for emotional safety, and trusting in a community of love and support for reform. Only for him to abandon it all over a single fight. No one was dead, mangled beyond recognition, or traumatized anymore than when they entered the home.
The charge before Santiago, mutilated animals for the fun of it had been redeemable in Thompson’s eyes. Bennett refused to believe the kid who was trying and genuinely cared about others was more evil than the other boy who wound up back in juvie for attempting to set his roommate on fire while he slept.
This wasn’t over.
Not if he had anything to say about it.
This time, he would not hold back for the sake of pointless civilian politics and professionalism. Bennett shook his head as he marched to the Madison street stop for the streetcar.
The trolley rattled and quaked against the tracks. Brand new luxury apartments intermingled in a blur with the boarded up abandoned brick structures.
Bennett rubbed and tugged at his weathered features, both dreading and anticipating the coming battle.
Layers of caked on greasy fingerprints distorted his view of the bay opening into Puget Sound. Even with the overcast skies, the freezing waters glittered beautifully.
As the carriages continued their cacophonous descent towards the International District, vibrant red columns painted with lively stylized koi marked the boundary for the historic district. Beneath the overpass dozens of families tried to survive in their small sedans with busted out windows. Bennett felt his stomach knot as he wondered if this was the fate that lay in store for Santiago.
Bennett wondered if his colleague had bothered to verify who claimed the boy. Had the man abandoned all of his principles and unleashed Santiago into the streets to fend for himself?
Bennett stomped off the side exit of the streetcar wrapped in Sakura Blossom vinyl decals and made his way from the transit hub towards Pioneer Square. Old murals spray painted on plywood lined the historic business district for blocks. Some vacated during the COVID lockdown with the promise of eventually returning, never succeeding in the following two years of recovery.
Others were faces of previous victims at the hands of police: Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and Mike Brown. The old veteran wondered if somewhere among the faces was the other Santiago. These murals were newer, some of them looked as though they dried only hours ago. Then there was newly hammered plywood, barren of tagging and human life.
No Justice, No Peace, No Racist Police tagged in thick black paint filled an entire block. Letters taller than himself stretched in desperation. Metal trash cans lay dented and mangled along the sidewalks, their contents scattered everywhere.
Bennet glanced down as his foot crunched against something stiff, a cardboard sign crudely scrawled across the question: Where were the body cams?
He did not know how the protests traveled all the way from downtown to First Hill. All of it had been monitored and a constant tug of war with the overly militarized police. Every last officer strapped with more armor and weapons than he ever carried in Desert Storm.
There was no possible way the protests managed to get so out of control it poured up the largest hill in Seattle and only destroyed one emergency bay of the largest hospital network second only to University of Washington. All with no other property damage or traffic blockade.
Maybe if it took place where the autonomous zone once stood, not closer to the piers.
Stopping out front of the towering brick building he steeled his resolve. He had to do this. He didn't come all this way to talk himself out of it now.
This would most likely result in him getting blacklisted from the facility.
Bennett did not care at all.
Not if it could settle the growing nagging sensation in the corner of his mind telling him, they were all missing something. If it could assure him someone who was both capable and compassionate enough took charge of Santiago instead of shipping the kid off to juvie, every last word would be worth it.
----------------------------------------
He turned away from the sunlight pouring through the window panes, as the sun descended below the horizon. Face buried in the goose-down pillow that smelled of fresh detergent. The foam made him melt into the mattress. It was quiet.
Santiago lurched upright.
Absent-mindedly he rubbed at his arm, attempting to shake off the phantom sensations from the previous week of itchy IVs and leads stuck into him like a pin cushion.
This was not the hospital.
It was not the group home either.
Feet against the hardwood floor, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Bookshelves lined the peach walls, and pale trimmed bay windows overlooked forested hills bathed the same golden light.
He poked around looking for his shoes. Finding a pair of sneakers on a shelf in the closet he made his exit silently.
It was not the first time he woke up in a house that was not his and not being able to remember how he got there. Except this time there was not any Fireball involved.
Wandering the halls the walls in each room were painted deep colors of burgundy, hunter green, and navy blue. It gave the place a feeling of warmth amidst the opulent crown moldings, carved corbels, and pilasters.
Delicate rugs laid an intricately woven path through the hardwood halls polished so finely his reflection looked clearer than his mirror at home. In the foyer a crystal chandelier dispersed the sunlight into a myriad of rainbow hues that danced across the surrounding surfaces.
It was a nice place. Not one he would ever be invited to. It was a place he would have stolen from with his boys.
He peered over the banister before heading downstairs. Place seemed empty.
Not a group home. They would be on him like white on rice. He did not linger too long on the thought before he opened up the front door.
Wind chimes jingled lightly in the gentle breeze. The hinges of the swing squeaked, catching his attention.
An old woman rocked idly on the porch, her colorful earrings swayed gently with her. Cloaked in a sense of wisdom even as she sat, the Romani woman sat with an air of grace and dignity. The warm eyes creased with smile lines and streaks of silver against her inky black hair told stories of a rich life with both joy and hardship.
Flowing violet layered skirts adorned with intricate embroidery swept about her feet. The bangles on her wrist clinked together lightly with gentle movement.
He cleared his throat, “Uh, Excuse me.”
She looked over at him and gave him a warm smile. “Hm?”
“Could you tell me where I am?”
She nodded, “You’re home, Santiago.”