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Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Away from Monsters
Part Three
Looking at the teenager's strained face and frightened eyes, Bridger took Lucas's right hand into his own and firmly squeezed it, feeling the cold of the skin as the hand shook against his. He purposefully kept his other hand visible, making sure Lucas knew he wouldn't be hit, pummeled, beaten, or otherwise attacked. He noticed Westphalen doing the same, her hands in open sight-one covering Lucas's left hand, the other gently rested against his knee. Lucas sat pressed between them, looking nervously from one set of hands to the next, avoiding their eyes as he looked around at anything but them. With a sigh, Bridger decided to try another tactic.
"You think your father's-treatment-is your fault, don't you, Lucas?" Bridger asked slowly, squeezing Lucas's hand. He wasn't surprised when Lucas simply nodded. Again, he squeezed Lucas's hand, warming it between his own.
"I thought as much," he began, keeping his tone gentle, careful. "But you know, Lucas, I want you to think about something . . ."
Lucas shifted beside him, blowing a hair out of his eyes. He frowned, wishing he could escape to anywhere but his quarters.
Nathan continued, trying to keep his voice reasonable, non-threatening: "When you look at the world around us, you notice-there's a lot of pain and misery here."
Eyes wide, Kristin shot Nathan a concerned look-almost a warning for caution. She moved uncomfortably beside Lucas, worried that Nathan might say something that made Lucas feel his pain was only marginal when compared to the pain of others. Such a tactic could be disastrous. "Nathan . . ." she began, then stopped as he shook his head. She sat still, watching him but trusting that he knew what he was doing.
Nathan met her gaze, but continued to say in a steady, measured tone, "Think of famine. We've had famines strike almost every nation-if not famines, depression and starvation. There are victims of famine, of disease, of hunger. You have to ask, though, if you stay in your line of thought, is it the victim's fault that famine strikes? Is it the victim's fault that hunger gnaws at the belly? Think of a car accident. Is it the victim's fault that someone ran a red and plowed into them?"
He paused, watching Lucas's face; then, softly, he asked, "Is it your fault that your father hurts you? Is it your fault, Lucas, that you're the victim of someone else's abuse?"
Lucas's brow furrowed, confused, but he didn't answer.
It was his fault . . . right?
He snorted. Of course it was. Who else could be blamed?
Westphalen leaned in. "You're the victim, Lucas-not the problem. What's happened has not been your fault. You need help and love-not more pain and abuse." She paused, seeing a tear quietly trace its way down his cheek. "We want to help you . . . oh, Lucas, we want to help you more than you can know. We want to help, but you must let us."
Let them help? Why should he? Why on earth should he open himself up to trouble once more? Ken had tried to help, but what had happened? Had his father lost custody of him? No. Had his parents changed they way they treated him? No. Had the light dawned upon his father's mind that what he was doing hurt? A resounding "no" . . . the only light that dawned in his father's brain was that he had to dump responsibility for Lucas on some other soul. Nothing had really changed-except Lucas had ended up on the seaQuest. He'd wound up on a boat crammed with people who couldn't understand him-even when they tried very hard to do so.
Again, he snorted, causing Nathan to look at him curiously. Lucas just met his eyes with a frown, then plunged back into his own gloomy thoughts. Until today, he'd thought being on the seaQuest was the best thing that could have happened to him. He'd made friends, he'd been allowed to play with some of the most interesting equipment in the world, and he'd seen some spectacular sights. But now . . . now he wasn't so sure. He didn't want people he'd come to love and respect to see him as a walking medical file-as damaged goods. He didn't want their disgust. He didn't even want their empathy. He wanted to be known as Lucas, the computer genius-the kid who could solve just about any problem, not the kid with a problem he couldn't hope to solve.
So, they wanted to help. Anger flooded Lucas's mind, the anger of a creature trapped. But he didn't want their help.
He just wanted this "problem" to disappear.
Time crept slowly as Westphalen and Bridger took turns trying to talk to Lucas. If Lucas had been in a better frame of mind, he would have thought the whole scene was somewhat comical; it was like watching a tennis game, for Westphalen and Bridger kept shuffling the discussion back-and-forth just like a verbal tennis ball. But the conversation didn't amuse him in the least; it tore at him instead.
Finally, Bridger and Westphalen at last left him in peace-after much observation and exchanging of glances. Lucas breathed in relief. He heard the door shut quietly behind Westphalen's retreating footsteps, then scowled. Lord, he'd thought they'd never leave him alone.
For several long moments, he simply glared at the wall. Finally, nerves seething, Lucas thumped his fist against the bunk-once, twice. He again stared at the wall, thumb tapping nervously on his leg.
Could it be possible that they meant what they said?
But just as the hope suggested itself, Lucas crushed it, pounded it into oblivion-obliterated it. Those he loved never meant what they said. Those he loved always hurt him. Though he begged for them to stop, though he cried for mercy, they kept hurting him. His blood spilled every time, his bones broke every time he trusted them. When would it end? When would the damnable cycle of pain and recovery, of blood pouring and bones healing, end? When would the voices screaming at him end-the voice of his father, telling him he was of no value to anyone, that he was only a burden to his family? The voice of his mother, telling him he must not mope, he must not plead for help, he must not-God forbid-tell anyone of his bruises lest the family "honor" be stained. Just for once he wanted it stained, wanted it so bloody stained that shame was written across the name in garish letters. He wanted to be heard.
Even if it was with his own blood that he was at last heard.
Lord knew he'd bled enough for the Wolenczak name.
Again, his glance fell on the almost mesmerizing light of the sea as it danced in the aquatubes. Mesmerizing, how the light streamed across his room-free of boundaries even though it was tightly held within several feet of tubing. He, too, would soon be free. Free, though he'd be tightly held within several feet of dirt. An embrace as he'd never known.
*****
His hand clamped around a sharp knife, muscles taut, rigid. It gleamed against his white flesh.
A way out. Yes. It was a tear in the prison of his life, a tear through which he could crawl free.
He stared at the knife, then swallowed heavily, convulsively.
It wasn't heavy-just gleaming, sharp. Again, he swallowed-hard. His lips compressed into a thin colorless line.
Slowly-then with increased speed-he moved the knife towards his flesh.
It easily sliced into his skin, as if the skin itself was transparent. The veins tore open, suddenly gaping. Blood bubbled out of the injured flesh.
Lucas watched as blood-his own blood-dripped to the floor, slowly forming into a crimson puddle.
Drip, drip . . . drip.
Tears stung his eyes as Lucas simply looked around himself. Beginning to feel his head float, he gazed at the blue light dancing in his quarters. It now seemed to shimmer, to beckon to him. It didn't seem real, almost more of a mirage. His whole quarters began to dim, to waver in his vision.
He swallowed hard, feeling his heart hammer within him.
The blood continued to flow.
*****
"One . . . two . . . three . . ."
For the fifth time that hour, Lieutenant Ben Krieg sat adjusting his weights. Hmm . . . not quite right. He'd need to sit and adjust them some more, perhaps for a few minutes.
"Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . ."
Especially with Lieutenant Commander Katie Hitchcock standing in front of him lifting weights. He considered himself a fine connoisseur of the female physique . . . and Katie was quite the goddess of physiques. He gulped as she bent over to retrieve a fallen weight-then gulped in earnest when her glare fell on him.
"Don't you have anything better to do than sit and stare, Ben?" she asked, wryly rolling her eyes at him.
Ben thought that he knew at least ten other men who routinely sat and ogled when she worked out, but he was the only one he knew of who'd ever been actually caught in the act. Even Lucas-the boy whose every emotion translated as easily as smoke in the air-had escaped her notice. But n-o-o-o . . . Krieg had to get caught. And by the She-Dragon herself.
Oh, well. It wasn't like it was anything new to her.
"Well, come to think of it, I did have something I had to go and do," Ben drawled, standing up and stretching. He scratched at his chin, suddenly wondering exactly what he did have to do. Then, like a bulb turning on above his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he had promised to drop by Lucas's and play some games with him-though not exactly video games.
Ben trekked off, watching as Katie rolled her eyes and snorted rather indelicately at his departing hide. Whistling happily, he walked down towards the computer whiz's hovel of residence, dropping off first at his own comparatively luxurious suite to pick up a few Mermaid Videos: Girls of Water and Delight to run by his sex-starved friend. See if that didn't bring a smile to his face . . .
With a flourish, Ben knocked at the kid's door. No response.
Damn, he'd have to pry him free of his books. Great.
"They should give me the big bucks for hazardous duty," Ben muttered as he waltzed into Lucas's room, prepared to battle the teen away from his wayward nerd ways towards more-amorous pursuits.
What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
Blood, everywhere.
One boy lying very unconscious on the floor.
Realizing suddenly what had happened, Krieg was immediately at Lucas's side, searching for a pulse, breathing-anything. Anything to show that his friend was still alive. He slid his hand down to the boy's neck, beginning, abruptly, to breathe again as he felt it: the soft beat of life was still there. Just barely.
With horror, he ran to the wall and hit the button to the boy's comlink, shouting into medbay, "I need a trauma team to Lucas's quarters immediately-and damn it, I mean immediately!"
As he waited, Krieg gently held the boy, pressing bedclothes to the wounds-two deep incisions sliced through the wrists. Blood quickly stained through the sheets, a dark crimson that streaked jarringly across the white linen. Lucas's face was gray, a faint bluish tint to his lips, to his eyelids.
"Just hold on, kiddo," he murmured softly, gently touching the chilled cheek, pressing the teen tightly to his own chest. "Hold on. Don't you even dare think of checking out of here without my permission."
Watching Lucas's chest rise and fall unsteadily, Krieg felt something cold on his own cheeks.
Tears.
*****
"What would make him do this?" Krieg asked, anguish lancing through his words. He rubbed furiously at the blood staining his shirt, but it wouldn't come off. He sat in shock. Lucas had seemed fine just yesterday-no, damn, just this morning! What could've happened to push him? Inwardly, Krieg pleaded that it hadn't been something he'd said, something he'd done; he adored the kid-he couldn't imagine hurting him. But he had hurt him seriously by not seeing that something was wrong. How could he have missed severe depression in his friend?
Tim O'Neill silently shook his head, unable to offer any comfort. All he could think of was last night. He'd been tired and grouchy, and Lucas had been unusually bratty. So Tim had snapped at him. He'd snapped at Lucas last night-last night! He couldn't even remember what it'd been over-what Lucas had said that had struck him the wrong way. But he did remember Lucas flinching, as if struck. Damn it, he knew better than to snap at Lucas. But he had. He'd snapped at him, and now the boy was fighting for his life.
Krieg stood, pacing; he glared at Tim, but softened his look when he saw how utterly miserable the communications officer looked. The last thing they needed now was to start fighting right outside of Lucas's ICU room.
He peered inside for what must've been the hundredth time that day. Lucas was lying with eyes closed, skin so white it almost glistened in the faint light. His wrists were heavily wrapped with gauze; an IV and a transfusion tube were attached to his neck. A machine monitored his vital signs, beeping slowly, ever-so-slowly at his side. Beside him, gently stroking his hair back and talking to him in soothing tones, was Bridger. The captain had sat beside Lucas since the boy had been rushed to medbay.
Bridger looked worse, if possible, than Lucas. His normally dark skin was pale, his eyes red, a look of helplessness on his face. Krieg had never seen Bridger so-frightened looking. So hurt. So crushed.
"Lucas, if you can hear me," Bridger paused, leaning over Lucas and gently resting his chin on Lucas's hair. The words drifted up towards Krieg, who listened though he willed his ears to deafness. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I never-never even-thought-I'd pushed that hard. I'm so sorry."
Krieg listened, eyebrows raising despite himself. What the hell had Bridger done?
Bridger looked up, saw him, sighed. He waved him in. "Come on in, Ben. It certainly won't hurt Lucas to have more than one person in here."
Quietly, Krieg stepped in and sat beside his young friend, carefully taking one bandaged hand into his own. The skin . . . Lord, so white. He looked at Lucas's face, its features drawn, shaded. But there was a soft serenity in the expression on Lucas's face: an expression of peace. He wondered-so much he wondered. What had caused this? What had happened to push Lucas this far?
"Is-is he going to be all right, sir?" Krieg asked softly, looking over at Bridger.
Bridger was silent for a moment, then, "The prognosis is good, lieutenant. At least it seems to be, according to Dr. Westphalen."
Krieg again noticed how pained Bridger seemed-how heavy at heart, belying his words of hope. He slowly said, "Sir, you don't look like someone who's telling me the whole truth."
Bridger's eyes snapped up at him instantly. His eyes were dark. "Oh?"
Realizing he might very well be heading towards a trip to the brig or a court martial, Krieg inhaled deeply. "Sir, you look like you just lost your best friend. And-if you'll pardon me-I overheard something of what you said. I have to know. What'd you do to Lucas?"
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as Bridger stared in disbelief at Krieg.
"You said that you pushed him, sir. How?" Krieg protectively placed a hand on Lucas's head, not understanding why or how Bridger could have hurt his friend-but knowing he had.
With an abrupt wave of the hand, Bridger stood up, scowling as he eyed his lieutenant. "Lieutenant Krieg, you're overstepping the line. I could have your butt stuffed in the brig for this."
"I know, sir. I took that into consideration before I spoke," Krieg said, glancing at Lucas. "But Lucas is like a kid brother to me-I won't let anyone hurt him. Not even my Commanding Officer. And right now, he is lying unconscious in medbay because he tried to kill himself. What happened?"
Bristling at Krieg's tone but realizing it was only being used to protect Lucas, Nathan looked away. He then glanced back up. "Ben, not a word of this gets out-do you hear me? Not to anyone. Not even Lucas."
He paused, thinking; then snapped, "Especially not Lucas. He'd have my skin-probably rightfully-if he knew I told you this."
Without saying a word, Ben shut the door to ICU behind him, leaving them in utter secrecy. He smoothly sat back down, again taking Lucas's hand into his own. He then looked back at Bridger, not a cent of humor in his eyes or demeanor.
Bridger sighed. "Lucas, as you may know, has a bad background. How much do you know about it?"
After a second, Ben shook his head slightly. "He doesn't really say much about it. I've learned to avoid mentioning it to him. I know he dreads home the way some people dread dentists and lawyers. And with good reason, from what I've heard. It's definitely not a happy family-from what little he has told me, no one talks to anyone. He was basically raised by the serving staff. His dad, of course, is the miraculous, never-do-wrong Doctor Wolenczak; his mom is something of a Social Bee whose main concern is being seen at the right parties with the right people. I'd take living on the farm in Ohio any day to what he grew up with."
Tensely, Bridger walked around the room for a minute, unable to get Lucas's medical records out of his mind. Severe strain placed on windpipe; obvious abrasion around the throat . . . the words, so effortlessly, so clinically described, floated through his mind. How could doctors and nurses sworn to protect the injured repeatedly allow this to happen to a child? To this child?
But what he'd done himself-this was your classic example of fools blundering where angels feared to tread. What had made him so utterly positive that he could waltz into Lucas's quarters one fine day, tell him he knew of his father's abuse (a secret he'd guarded frantically for years), and-magically-heal him in one hour? The teen had been hurting for fifteen years . . . and he thought he could cure everything in sixty minutes? His sixty minutes had almost cost the boy his life.
"Things are a bit darker than that, lieutenant. Actually, quite a bit darker," Bridger paused, uncertain on why he was telling Krieg. This was Lucas's worst nightmare-was it his job to tell his best friend of it? But then, Krieg knew how to deal with Lucas. He knew how to help him. He'd been the first one to "conquer" Lucas's somewhat hostile attitude, actually leading him-mischievous step by mischievous step-into exchanging his perpetual frown for his now somewhat cocky smile. Krieg had taken to the kid, and his "influence" in Lucas's thinking was (often unfortunately) obvious. Krieg, along with Bridger and Westphalen, had welcomed Lucas and made him part of the seaQuest team. Krieg probably should know of the "good Doctor Wolenczak." As before, he might be able to lead Lucas from pain to-at least a degree of peace.
"The 'miraculous, never-do-wrong Doctor Wolenczak' is a monster," Bridger hissed, running a hand angrily through his hair, fists flexing. "If I could get my hands on that-man, I'd skin his despicable hide from his body . . ."
Startled, Krieg's eyes flew wide. This certainly wasn't the Bridger he knew. He'd rarely seen Bridger explode, much less like this.
Visibly inhaling to calm himself, Bridger looked over at Krieg. He finally said softly, "It appears that the 'esteemed' Doctor Wolenczak has been throwing his only son into the hospital every three or four months-throwing, punching, hitting, slamming, kicking, gouging. Almost strangling. You get the picture."
Unable to speak, Krieg just stared at Lucas, his mind whirling with disbelief. Lucas-abused? The thought struck him like a fist in the gut. How could a father hurt a child? God above, if the bastard had hurt Lucas, if the bastard had laid a cruel finger upon him, God help him . . .
But even as his mind screamed to deny Bridger's words, it also began to remember. He kept remembering a time-a time that had disturbed him ever since-when, happening across a rather pensive and distracted looking Lucas, he'd smacked his hand down on the kid's shoulder and thrown a mock punch at his forearm. Lucas's reaction had thoroughly confused Ben. The kid had actually spun around, genuine fear-no, terror-striking from his eyes. Ben had never been able to understand what had happened; Lucas had laughed it off, but the scene had troubled Ben ever since. Now he began to understand the reaction. Lucas had been dreading that "mock punch" in earnest. Ben's fist had translated into his father's fist.
Lucas. Abused. Ben would kill Lucas's father. If he had to kill him with his bare hands, he'd do it . . .
"I want that creature behind bars," Bridger whispered, eyes falling on the still, silent form of Lucas, on the thick bandages wrapped around his wrists. He winced. "If for nothing else than monstrosity beyond human nature." Again, Bridger worked to control himself, then said softly, "I only found out about this today, Ben. Doctor Westphalen showed me his medical records. God, they're-awful. Enough to give nightmares. Concussions, broken bones, near-strangulation; my Lord, he had to have a tracheotomy. A tracheotomy! At the time, the only thing I could think was, 'I'll kill Lucas's monster of a father. I'll kill the bastard who could do this.' So . . . anyhow, after seeing them . . . I went over the deep end. To tell you the truth, I'm still not too far from it." He gazed at Lucas's face, at his wrists, grimacing before he at last looked back at Krieg.
"But . . . I'm afraid I did something very stupid." As Krieg remained silent, Bridger inhaled sharply. "I went-with Kristin-to talk to him about it. It was the most idiotic, absurd thing I have ever done in my life."
He paused, sitting in front of Krieg, obviously aggravated with himself. "I walked into his quarters while he was quite happily playing video games-and I proceeded to bring the roof down on top of his head. Ignoring Kristin's looks of alarm, I told him his father was at fault, that . . . I don't remember what I told him, but I know I told him what I thought would help him. It didn't. Like an idiot, I went and played Freud-on someone who'd been traumatized by his father for a very long time. I went in thinking I could solve the problem, thinking that I could make the abyss go away in an hour or so, all before dinner."
He paused, then snapped, "It doesn't happen that way. What I did do was frighten the living soul out of him. That's why-why he did this." Bridger paused, pained as he gestured at Lucas's wrists. He held the Lucas's hands in his own, wishing he could change what had happened-that he could change what he'd done.
"The long and short of it, Ben, is that I made the worst mistake of my life-and it almost cost Lucas his. If you hadn't gone to see him, he'd be dead right now. Dead because of my stupidity. Dead, Ben! We'd never see that mischievous smile again, hear that laugh, listen to that mind whirling away in pursuit of computer programs and scientific conundrums. He'd be dead!" Bridger inhaled deeply, then exploded, "How-how could I have been so stupid? I care about Lucas, and I almost killed him! I'm no better than his father!"
Ben sighed, wishing for an instant for Katie's wisdom in dealing with crises. She probably would've had Bridger smiling and happy within minutes; then she would've had Lucas grinning and joking within days. But she wasn't in here at the moment: he was. "Sir . . ." His voice drifted momentarily as he considered what he was going to say. What would Lucas say? Lucas would probably know what to say. Unfortunately, right now Lucas was quite unconscious to anything-which was, of course, the root of the problem. "Damn it, sir, you acted stupidly. I'm not going to deny it. In an hour's time, you simply can't heal a fifteen year-old boy traumatized by his dear old dad's abuse. And you also ignored Doctor Westphalen's warnings-which was stupid. Stupidity was running rampant that day, I guess. You got bulldozed flat by it.
"However," he paused, lingering on the word as he glanced at Lucas. "However, sir, you did these things-these admittedly ridiculous things-because you care for him. Your intentions were correct; your means were not. But comparing yourself to his father . . ."
Ben visibly shuddered, then pointed at Lucas. "If you were his father, you wouldn't care that you'd hurt him. If you were that monster, you wouldn't be sitting here minute by minute with him, talking to him, trying to bring him around. You simply wouldn't care what happened if you were that beast. You hurt him without meaning to; his father hurts him quite intentionally."
After a moment, Ben shook his head. "Further, sir, if you'll forgive me for being blunt, you don't have the luxury of blaming yourself right now. Lucas is going to wake up; when he does, he is going to need you. He'll want to see me, and maybe Katie, but he'll need you. You're like a father to him-a real father, unlike that monster he calls dad-and you can't escape that responsibility . . ."
"Even if I almost got him killed?" Bridger interrupted, again running frustrated hands through his hair. "How can I even . . ."
"Sir-you just admit you were stupid. Not to me, not to Doctor Westphalen, but to him. He'll forgive you. I'd bet my life on it."
Bridger snorted unhappily. "Should he, though? Should he bet his life on it? For his own safety, it might be best if I took up residence again on my deserted island!"
Ben refused to let Bridger look away. "And abandon him? No, that wouldn't help him in the slightest."
"Oh? And what would you have me do, lieutenant? Offer advice and end up throwing him right back into the hospital? Or worse, into the morgue?"
"No, sir. But you can't just go skipping off to your island because . . ."
"If I 'skipped' back to my island, Lieutenant Krieg, at least I wouldn't be endangering his life with my stupidity!"
"And what, sir?" Ben asked heatedly, pointing vaguely out towards the bridge. "Are you going to leave him with Jonathon? That would be real good, sir! Leave him with Commander Ford."
"And what if I did, lieutenant?" Bridger all but barked back, fuming. "What is so outrageously wrong with Commander Ford?"
Ben threw his hands up in despair, eyes rolling. "Oh, nothing's wrong with him-if you're military. He's a superb commander. But I'll be damned if I let him handle Lucas! Teenagers have emotions, captain-things which Ford certainly doesn't possess a bit of!"
Bridger groaned. "He has them, Ben, he just hides them well. It's expected. You two just can't stand one another and it's coloring your views of him."
Mid-argument, their tempers flaring, both contenders failed to notice signs for which they'd been waiting over ten hours: signs of consciousness. Slowly, Lucas's hands began to move, carefully gripping the bedclothes, gripping anything with texture, with feeling, to assure him that he was alive. He listened hazily as the voices argued around him, wondering who was yelling in his ear when he was barely awake. His head buzzed, feeling heavy, almost weighted with rocks. And ouch, it hurt. If he could just get these buzzards to quit squawking . . .
". . . I may be military, but I have emotions-ones I'm damned proud to have! If everyone was without them, we'd all be lifeless drones, working, working, working non-stop, without pay. . .!"
Shakily, Lucas squeezed Ben's hand. Or what he hoped was Ben's hand. He wasn't quite sure. His eyes were just too heavy to open.
". . . or without hol-hol-" Ben stammered, looking down at Lucas's hand. He stared.
God Almighty, he hadn't been imagining it!
Lucas's hand was moving. Lucas had just squeezed his hand!