A large bruise spread across his face. It was purple yet, and it hurt. But it was nothing compared what he felt in his heart. Sorrow, fear and dissapointment. He hit him.
His father hit him.
He slapped him in the face. No, it was not splapping, but punching. He punched him in the face with great, mad force. He nocked him on the floor. He didn't shout, or say anything. But the expression on his face – that angry, harsh, cold look on his face that still gave him the shivers – was enough. He felt embarassed. He could do nothing. He was defensless.
He looked at his right hand. A long, deep cut ran across his palm. It was still bleeding. Maybe he cut his hand when he fell onto some glasses. He fell because his father punched him.
He went to the bathroom to wash his hand. He held it under the tap; the crimson red blood mixed with the rushing water. When the bleeding had finally stopped, he reached to the shelf, and took down the emergency kit. He picked out some cotton and disinfectant, and started to clean out the wound. He winced in pain; it stung. He knew how to do this, since he saw his father doing the same thing with her mother, when she cut her arm with broken glass. Glass from her gin-tonic bottles.
He covered the gash with steril gauze, and than wrapped it around with bandages. Then he put the emergency kit back to the shelf, and sneaked back to his room.
He sat on the bed, his hand throbbing, his head full of painful thoghts. He had nothing to do here.
Noises came from his mother's room. He stood up, and crept to the door, wich was open for about an inch. He saw his mother, sitting on a worned out armchair, clutching her haid, tears running down her face. She haid a fight with his father again, as usual. She suddenly grabbed the neck of a bottle stading on her dressing table, and started to drink from it with huge gulps. His face flinched with disgust. That's my mother, he thought. She's nothing like me.
Someone suddenly grabbed his shirt at his collar, and started dragging him to another room. He pushed him through the door, and the locked it. The loud, metallic click made the little Robert Chase flinch in fright. His father locked him inside his study room. No food, no water. Nothing. Just the silent walls, surrounded by bookshelfs.
He walked to the wide mahagony desk, and sat in front of it in the huge chair. His father sits here usually, doing his work as a doctor. Writing famous books. He looked around: there were a few heavy books layed on the table. He picked them up, read the titles. Rheumatology. They're all about that. Every one of them written by dr. Rowan Chase, the worldwide famous doctor. His father.
He found another book laying on the table. He looked at the title; it said Cardiology with wide letters. He opened it, and started reading. It was pretty interesting, he thought, while turning the pages quickly, looking at the colorful pictures. They were about the heart, this massive, rather small organ – approximately at the size of your fist –, wich pumps bloods into your arteries and capillaries and veins. An organ wich keeps you alive. It never tires, works hard. You can even feel the pumping motion of this wonderful machine on your own skin. Chase was fully enchanted of this lively, always working system.
It was about nine o'clock, when Chase's father showed up, opening the door of his study room, and finding his own son sitting in the big armchair, and turning the pages of one of his books, with a grasping gaze on his face. He never saw Chase like this before. So thirstful for knowledge, so enthusiastic, so dedicated to something. He was amused. But than he pulled himslef together, cleared his throat loudly, so Chase can hear it. The young, ten year old boy turned to him with a curious expression on his face, witch turned into fright and disgust when he saw his father.
- You can go out now. – he said, quietly. That was all he could say.
Chase stood up fast, threw a last, loving glance at the book, and helped himself out of the room.
- Robert! – he heard suddenly. It was his father again. He turned around slowly, looking up at his concerned face. Wait. Concerned? What?
- What happened to your hand? – he asked softly. Chase didn't really knew his father could speak at a voice like that. He didn't awnser.
His father crouched in front of him, holding his injured hand in his large palms, and examining it closely.
- You've hurt it? – he asked again.
It wasn't me, it was you, little Chase thought. He didn't say a thing.
- I have to take a look at it. – Chase's father murmured. – Come on, Robert.
He led his son back into the study room. Chase walked behind him, with fear and doubt in his eyes. His father put away a few books from the table, and turned to Chase again.
- Com on up! – he said, patting on the desk. Chase hopped up onto the mahagony surface, not looking in his father's eyes. Rowan Chase started to unroll the bandage, and, when he finished it, he took away the gauze, wich was soaked in blood now. Chase supressed a wince of pain. He didn't wanted to look week in front if his father.
- Now, let's see this. – his father frowned, looking at the wound, wich was starting to bleed again. – I have to stitch this up, okay?
Chase nodded. His hand hurt like hell, and he had to concentrate really hard to remain silent. He watched his father as he picked up an emergency kit from a shelf, and put it on the table. He opened it, and picked out a syringe, a needle and some thread. He picked up the syringe, and inserted it into Chase's hand, close to the wound. Chase's whole hand began to numb soon. He knew it was local anesthetic. Rowan picked up the needle, and started to stitch the gash up.
When he finished, he bandaged Chase's hand again, then smiled to the little boy. His grin was very unsure, like had never smiled before. It is possible, thought Chase, he's so cold and harsh he can't even smile.
- You can go now. – said Rowan calmly. Chase quickly slipped off of the table, murmured 'Thank you' (still without looking in his father's eyes), and left the room.
He noticed his father didn't say anything about the bruise on his face. After all, he was the one who caused it. He didn't pay any attention to it. Maybe he's embarassed about what he did. No, insisted Chase, he's never ashamed of what he does. He's too proud of himself to do that.
Chase didn't wanted to think about his abusive and never caring father. He expelled the negative thoughts from his head, and started thinking about the heart instead. He lied down onto his bed, and smiled. He remembered everything from his reading. The atria, the ventricles, contracting and realxing, again and again and again. The little cells in the blood: erythrocytes, leukocytes, thrombocytes, bathing in a hay-colored liqiud called plasma. Circulating in your body until the moment the stop to do so, and until the heart finishes its pumping motion, and settles into a still, relaxed state.
He was relieved, that he could finally find something to distract his thoughts from his miserable life, his poor mother and his cold, abusive father. He could finally think of something else. He wanted to devote his life for this. Treating people's illnesses, helping them to live a better life. He wanted to give his life a purpose.
He wanted to become a cardiologyst.