Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucky Spencer was one live, twisting
nerve. He thrashed around, kicking off his covers, banging his IV board on the bed,
tossing and turning. He'd tried watching television, but all the voices jangled his nerves
and made him feel sick and pressured. He craved a drink or some other drug that would take
him away from the endless white walls. A new nurse began her shift and entered Lucky's
room to check his vitals. Lucky screamed when she approached with her soundless white
crepe soled shoes and touched his arm. "No!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!
Let me go!" He calmed down a little when he saw that it was just a nurse, but he
still panted, trying to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his forehead and the length
of his cheek to drip a drop onto his chest. His arm was shaking as the nurse took his
pulse. Where's my gun, he thought. I need my gun, dammit. What did they do with it? It's
mine. I paid for it. Lucky was still trembling when the nurse left the room. He looked
frantically around the room, trying to orient himself, but the walls seemed to shift and
meld into another time and another place.
*** Lucky was back in Faison's compound in a white, windowless room. This was the white isolation room where Faison had imprisoned him periodically for no reason. He'd been in this room for three weeks straight with no human contact. He had nothing to occupy his mind, no games, books, television or music. There was a small slit in the door where his food miraculously appeared twice a day. He wasn't sure if the food were drugged because sometimes he'd become very sleepy after eating and immediately headed for the bed. He tried not eating, but eventually succumbed to his extreme hunger.
There was no night or day anymore, just the relentless procession of white upon more white. At first, he'd protested vigorously, banging on walls, shouting curses, dismembering the bathroom fixtures and using a pipe to attack the door repeatedly. He'd broken everything in the sparsely furnished room and then broke it again. One time, he cut his hand and finger on a piece of metal from the bed. Instead of wrapping it with a towel, he chose instead to use it to write on the walls. He covered one blank, white wall with his blood-felt feelings for Elizabeth and his family. After that, he continued with geometric symbols. It was such a relief to have something to do, to be able to express himself and to decorate the blank canvas of his cell. His only problem was keeping that blood-ink flowing.
He repeatedly opened his wounds, and
it must have started affecting his health because one day he didn't rise from the bed to
receive his food. He lay exhausted and unmoving in the same place. On the second day, the
door opened, and burly guards grabbed him roughly from his bed, dragging him screaming
down an endless white corridor. Lucky reached out for anything to stop them, doorknobs,
handles, anything to prevent them from carrying him to the cold, antiseptic room with the
clanging metal trays. ***
Lucky was lost in his flashback, physically present in his General Hospital ICU room, but mentally and emotionally stuck in Faison's white-celled compound. There were no alcohol and drugs to tamp down the terror and chase away the reality of his imprisonment. He viciously tore at the surgical tape binding his IV to his arm, and ripped at his monitors and mask. He leaped from the bed and immediately crashed down onto his knees beside the bed, but sprang up instantly in a desperate attempt to escape this white room. He stumbled into walls, not really seeing them, and slapped and felt his way along the length of the room. When he reached the long handle of the door, he roughly jerked it open and breathed a sigh of relief at the opening motion.
Lucky poked his head out, turning left and right to check for guards. Seeing no one in the white hallway, he ran for it as fast as his weak legs would carry him, looking for a way out. The beeping of monitors from other ICU areas was spooking him, and he starting shaking and fell hard twice. Each time he arose, the more determined he was to get out. He clung to a wall, leaving a thin trail of blood from his torn IV site twisting and curving its way along the length of textured white. He kept jerkily pulling at doors of supply rooms and utility rooms with locked access. Finally, he found an open door, swung it harshly on its hinges and flung himself inside.
It was a linen room that someone forgot to lock up after picking up some sheets. Lucky turned around and around the small space in utter confusion. When the door had opened, he thought that this was his ticket to freedom, to the place outside the compound. Instead, shelves of neatly folded and stacked white linens confronted and closed in on him. He lost the momentum that had propelled him through the hallway. A wheezy, congested breath slowly left his lips. A sharp pain ripped through his chest, and he lifted his hand to massage that area. Coughing madly, he lost his balance, fell backwards and twisted with nothing to break his fall except the side of his head slamming onto a metal shelf.
Lucky literally saw flashing fireworks in his vision and felt the Fourth of July explosion in his head. On his side and moaning, he reached for some blankets, and slowly dragged himself with one arm to a remote corner. He laid himself down on one blanket and pulled the other one directly on top of him to hide himself from Faison and the guards. He only needed a break, a rest to regain his strength so he could go on and escape. Lucky closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrance of clean linen.
~*~*~*~
Tony Jones and Kevin Collins walked purposefully toward Lucky Spencer's ICU room. They quietly discussed Lucky's case on the elevator and down the hall to Lucky's room. Kevin entered the room first with Tony close behind him. Kevin's eyes betrayed his confusion at the sight of an empty bed and three nurses in various stages of questioning, upset and justification. One nurse had her hands on her hips while another held an outstretched arm in explanation. To her side, a silent nurse listened to the animated dialogue.
Tony stepped forward with a questioning look on his face. "Where is Lucky Spencer? Where is the patient in this room?"
"He was here when I checked his vitals just fifteen minutes ago!" the upset nurse exclaimed. Her dark brown eyes filled with tears, and she shook her dark, shiny bobbed hair.
Kevin rubbed a hand across his forehead and then moved his olive brown suit jacket to the side to rest his hand on his lean hip. "How was he behaving before you left?" he questioned wearily.
Nurse Jacobs drew in a deep breath and looked up to collect herself and recall some details. "I think I scared him when I approached. He didn't seem to hear me coming into the room, and shouted at me to leave him alone and get out. Then, he became quiet, but he was sweating and shaking with a racing pulse." Nurse Jacobs nodded, satisfied that she'd remembered everything. "I returned a few minutes ago to make sure that he was okay, but when I entered the room, I saw that he was gone. His IV and cardiac monitor were disconnected. That's when I brought my supervisor to the room. Nurse Jacobs inclined her head toward the large, middle-aged blonde woman with the stern look on her face. "It's only my first day in the ICU and this happens," she whispered, looking down at her crepe-soled feet. Her supervisor shook her head and sighed.
"Kevin," Tony exclaimed. "We need to find him - now. He can't have gotten very far in his condition. Maybe he's just wandering the halls." Tony frowned and felt a shiver of fear as he remembered Lucky's propensity to run when upset or disturbed. That's how this whole thing started when he left the free-clinic, Tony thought. We'd better find him before he leaves this hospital.
Kevin reverted to his take-charge psychiatrist mode and ordered, "Page Dr. Ian Thornhart and have him meet us here. Prepare a gurney for when we find Lucky Spencer. You'd better hope that we find him soon," he added sternly. "Come on, Tony, let's check the hallway."
~*~*~*~
Luke Spencer sat on his narrow bunk and bent over the single sheet of paper that he held on a book in his lap. He placed his pen to his lips and pondered how to start a letter to a son that he'd abandoned. He couldn't remember if he'd ever written a personal letter to anyone in his life. Luke glanced around the 8' by 7' gray concrete cell and winced. It's not like this is the best atmosphere for "accessing those feelings," he thought, scratching his head. Okay, here goes.
Dear Lucky,
I know I haven't been there for you son in the last year. I want to say I'm sorry. The last time we spoke I was out of it and yelled some mean things at you. I wish I could take it back.
Taggert was here today and said you were in the hospital. I hope you feel better soon. Taggert promised he'd send this letter to you.
You know I'm no good at this letter writing stuff. I love you son. That is what I want to say to you. Maybe we can take turns sending bad letters but if you don't want to I understand.
You own your life Lucky. You stand tall and fight for yourself. Don't give in.
Your father,
Luke Spencer
Luke sighed when he read over his letter. This is total crap, he thought. I hope Lucky can understand what I'm trying to say anyway. Luke folded the letter carefully into thirds and stuck it in an envelope. "Yeah, Tagz, I know exactly where to send it," he snickered.