The Catalyst

He hadn't been allowed to go to the funeral, to say goodbye to someone who for some reason had actually wanted to be his friend. It would be too traumatic, the social worker had said. The doctor and psychologist had both agreed. Maybe they were right. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the punches, the kicks, the spurts of blood and sheer pain etched on Jason's face. Every time he opened his eyes he could see his foster father start towards him, fist raised and a manic yet glazed expression on his face. He had been taken to hospital as a precaution and checked for signs of physical abuse. There were no bruises on him, no fresh ones anyway. Jason had simply opened the door at the wrong time, accidentally knocking the bottle of whisky from their foster father's hand. It had been three quarters full and had smashed on impact with the hard wooden floor of the kitchen. Sickly sweet amber nectar had formed a pool around Jason's feet and shards of glass lay scattered. Callen could not see the look of shock and fear on Jason's face but he knew it was there. The instant he heard the bottle break his heart was in his mouth and he had almost run into his foster brother. They had been heading to the yard to play. Jason had instinctively reached behind him and pushed the younger boy back in to the living room. There was an eerie silence. Neither boy dared to even breathe and both remained motionless, Callen's eyes darting towards the safety of the single armchair in the corner of the room. There was a crunching sound as a heavy boot landed on the broken glass and the spell was broken. Callen ran for the cover of the armchair and watched Jason turned on his heel and run towards the front door. A loud roar emitted from their foster father's mouth, glass ground in to the floor and the kitchen door slammed shut behind him. Within two paces Jason had been grabbed by his collar and thrown against the wall. It was four o'clock in the afternoon.

There must have been sirens wailing from the police cars and the ambulance. LAPD officers must have broken down the front and back doors. There would have been shouting and guns drawn, pointed at his foster father. He would also have been in the line of fire. Jason was covered in blood and lying lifeless in the middle of the floor. His face unrecognisable. His foster father had thrown the armchair aside and raised his fist high, ready to beat down on him, to knock him out with his first blow. Callen had backed in to the corner, tears silently streaming down his face, elbow bent high above his head, his forearm protecting his face. He waited for the punch that never arrived. Seconds later a hand had gently touched his arm and he remembered flinching and shouting. Swearing and screaming and crying. The hand remained in place, firmly forcing him to lower his arm and helping him to his feet. A police officer shielded the nine year old from the sights in the room and led him outside through the kitchen, but it was too late. Callen had witnessed everything. Every punch and every kick was ingrained in his memory. Every scream and every whimper was echoing though his ears. Jason dying was etched in his eyes.

The welfare of the surviving child was the only concern of the emergency services and after a cursory check he was taken straight to the E.R. The earlier hysterics had quickly subsided, replaced by silence. He was thoroughly checked for signs of physical abuse by a female doctor and was quizzed about the old bruises on his forearm and torso which had almost faded. Almost. A fight at school, had been the answer. A stock reply that wasn't believed. The fingers that had painfully clamped his arm the previous week were clearly a man's. He was dressed in a hospital gown and wrapped in a thick blanket. Despite the heat of the summer evening Callen was shivering and could not stop. His social worker had made an appearance and demanded he be released; he had suffered no injuries and shouldn't be taking up a much needed hospital bed. Callen could not bring himself to smile when his doctor ordered his social worker to leave the hospital; he was to be sedated and would be staying the night in the children's ward where he could be safely monitored all night.

The sedative had to be injected and Callen did not like needles. His eyes had widened in fear when the nurse swabbed his arm and he literally jumped off the bed as the tip of the needle brushed his shoulder. It had taken his doctor and another nurse to talk him back in to bed and explain why he needed the injection. Callen had not believed them and argued he could fall asleep on his own. An impasse had been reached and his doctor did not want to traumatise the young boy further. Instead he was promised ice cream and hot chocolate before lights out, but if he wasn't asleep within the hour then the sedative would be non-negotiable. Callen had readily agreed. He could fake being asleep. He was long practised in the art of deceit when it came to sleeping. It had saved him from all kinds of trouble. The ward lights had been dimmed and voices became murmurs. Callen closed his eyes and abruptly opened them, sitting bolt upright. Jason. His protector. His friend. His sparkling green eyes, full of mischief. Full of blood. Swollen shut. Purple bruises on his face, a broken nose, cut lip. Callen closed his eyes slowly and slid back down the bed. He was shaking and breathing rapidly. He could feel his heartbeat start to race. It should have been him, he thought. He had told Jason to run to the yard. Last week he had been the one Jason had protected from being beaten with a cane. Callen had done nothing to return the favour. He had hidden in the corner, behind a chair and watched as Jason was beaten to death.

The voice of his doctor barely registered. The pinprick of the needle was not felt. Callen allowed himself to fall in to the blackness. He never wanted to re-emerge.

The next day he had been released back in to the care of the welfare state and sent to a children's home. Callen was physically uninjured and a child psychologist confirmed his traumatic experience may leave him with a few nightmares and maybe a touch of insomnia. He had read Callen's medical history and decided that a course of mild sedatives would help alleviate any symptoms.

Callen felt numb, withdrawn, like the events were not real, had never even occurred. Except when he closed his eyes. Or opened them. He liked the sedatives, they removed him from reality. Numb was good. But that ended ten days later. Jason's funeral.

Jason's mother had attended the funeral but she had not wanted Callen there. He was a reminder that her son had died whilst another had lived. It was more passion than she had ever displayed towards her son in life. Callen had snuck out of school after recess and run to the cemetery. He hid behind a tree and observed his foster brother being laid to rest. Leaning his head against the trunk Callen closed his eyes; he hid behind the armchair and witnessed his foster brother being killed. The memories flashed vividly in front of him. If only he had...He slowly collapsed to the ground, his back scraping against the rough bark and a single tear ran down his cheek. He should have helped. He should have grabbed - anything - and saved Jason. Callen wiped his face with a dirty hand and opened his eyes. He exhaled slowly, lowering his shoulders and staring at Jason's grave. He made two promises to himself. He would always try to protect everyone. And he would never allow anyone to hit him again. Ever.