The revolving doors twisted and spiralled in the most perplexing of ways, allowing people to navigate their treacherous passag

The revolving doors twisted and spiralled in the most perplexing of ways, allowing people to navigate their treacherous passages. Kristoph's eyes shone, amazed by such a simple contraption. Soon he was being pulled inside, the transparent glass allowing him to watch expressions of upset or happiness on others' faces. His hand was released as soon as they entered the pure white room, filled with plastic orange chairs and fake receptionists. Kristoph decided then that he did not like hospitals.

The man who had harmed his mother had been released; Kristoph had heard the policeman telling him. He refused to call him father; he was no relation of his in the young boy's eyes. No, he was merely a man who knew Kristoph's name, his favourite flavour of ice cream, that he secretly liked wearing glasses. A man who'd been released for attempted murder due to a lack of evidence. A man who was now free to live his life however he wanted.

The small waiting room TV showed a man conjuring rabbits, doves, chickens out of his hat, elephants surrounding him in a magnificent display of what many believed to be magic. Kristoph didn't believe in magic, nor the unknown. There was always some sort of trick; a special lever concealed which opened a trap door. True miracles obviously did not exist.

Kristoph's escort had walked forwards, addressing the almost orange woman behind the polished desk, her overly pink lips reflected in such a shiny surface. Mouths moved as locations were exchanged, and once again Kristoph was being led away, eyes widening in awe of the large building. Suppressing all emotions deemed unnecessary was a difficult task when the wooden white door loomed over the duo, beckoning them inwards. As the door was opened, Kristoph's mere second of hesitation did not register in the escort's mind, as such would be expected of a young boy.

Nothing could prepare Kristoph for seeing his mother lay on the bed, her eyes half lidded from what could be brain damage – the scans had not fully revealed the extent of the injuries. Her blonde hair surrounded her pale face, freed from its usual tight curls. Such light green eyes seemed so blank, like seeing but not seeing simultaneously, the youthful curiosity gone. Her head tilted, observing the slightly unorthodox couple as if they were strangers. Kristoph's eyes became downcast, not wishing to meet with hers. Would she even know it was her son?

"Hi, mum, it's me… are you feeling better?"

The words seemed to have no effect on the woman, ringing around the room like a fly that does not see that the window is open. Dejected shoulders slumped, the rosy tulips almost falling from the loosening hand. No more words were spoken in such a forced meeting. There was no need for words. There was no need for anything.