room 4

his body, bent and broken, lies uselessly strapped and tubed, heaing violently with each mechanical breath. blood crusts his ears, neck, nose, eyes, brownly dried and surrounding each potential exit. under the bleached bandage turban, his closed eyes mesmerize, a remarbly circular idnigo against his ashen face. i feel dirty and force my gaze away, but find my eyse drawn repeatedly to the shadow of his.

i wonder briefly if they're blue.

he beat the kid's mom, so the son beat him within an inch of his own life. i imagine the cracking impact of the aluminum bat against his broken nose, shattered skull, and i recall the american history x scene that still makes me shudder, despite having seen it a hundred different times. still, the same violent crack, bite the curb, nigger, the same nauseating, spurting, shattering impact makes me look away.

the policeman stands guard all day at his bedside, as if he poses a serious risk of flight, as if, if he so desired, he could arise and run away. his leg twitches involuntarily and alarms sound around his bed. his intracranial pressure spikes and his body heaves, his falccid head thrust fitfully agains the hard plastic of his life machine.

if and when he wakes, he will be escorted to county jail, and court, and supposed justic will be served. the staff keep him alive now so he can be cuffed later, although he may not remember her name, much less that he beat her or how. but he's a mean, mean bastard and, by god, we've nabbed him. we've got him right where we want him: strapped to a bed and heaving like hell, and praise the Lord, he'll get what he deserves.