When they arrived, two cameras awaited them outside. They stepped out of the cab the HFA had rented for a humble appearance, and a crowd outside cheered. “Thank you, Mr. Driver, I’ll meet you back in New York!” Brody stated while handing the driver a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, my friend, I like to give.”
“Gee thanks, Mr. Johnson,” the actor at the wheel stated, “and oh, Aaron! Tell Mr. Wegman I send good wishes his way!”
Aaron sat in his wheelchair motionless while everyone waited for his line. He stared at the front doors of the institution.
“I—I believe he’s a little nervous,” Johnson stated quickly and swiftly while the crowd laughed. Then he turned to the camera and spoke with enthusiasm. “Wish us luck!” America’s hearts melted as Brody pushed Aaron’s wheelchair through the front doors.
It was three o’clock, the only time the owner and doctors agreed and allowed them to visit, double-checking and booting out anyone who didn’t sign a waiver. The news crew first entered Mark’s room to set up the cameras and lights, blinding his eyes and crowding the room with joyful thirty-year-old men tossing cords and reordering furniture to find a plug in the wall, while completely ignoring the mentally insane patient, panicking from their lights and laughter. Then Aaron and Johnson strolled in, Aaron still staring at the ground. The room was concealed with a metal door and was obviously one of the most secure rooms in the institution, as the Rester staff prepared for everything that may go wrong. Brody grasped the cold handle and pulled the door out with his commercial smile. Aaron finally looked up. Brody pushed Aaron inside. The three cameras in the room all focused on Mark and Aaron’s faces. Their eyes connected in a flash. Aaron quickly and weakly stood out of his wheelchair from Mark’s sight. Mark was amazed as well; his eyes sparkled for only a second, the nation stood on their feet, and families far and wide began to tear up. They were waiting for excitement from both ends, for uniting these lifelong friends, and it was a fight to do so. Millions of dollars, viral Internet videos, and slight riots led to this moment. But Mark’s sparkle turned into tears, obsessive tears, and fell into a fit of despair. Aaron knew this would happen. He wanted to be left alone with Mark, but they wouldn’t allow such a request. They needed the cameras. Millions of families began to lose their smiles as they watched.
“So, this is how we die, Aaron. Out of all people, I can’t believe they abducted you, too. Then they beat you up and decided to record our deaths, is that right? That’s what they wanted? Those nasty terrorists. Those sons of (the language was bleeped out, and the families watching were in shock). Well, I’m glad they did, I wouldn’t want to die with anyone else.” Mark smiled and sniffed his nose heavily.
Aaron built with rage, and he turned around to Johnson. “I told you that we needed to be alone! Look what you did! Look what you’ve done! There was a reason why I lied for so many years, to prevent…this! To prevent Mark from living in misery for the rest of his life! This is your fault!”
Aaron tripped and landed on his back, then the cameras turned off. A few nurses quickly came and helped him into the wheelchair while Johnson stood about two yards away, demanding that they cut out the scene of Aaron’s rampage. The editors weren’t fast enough to completely cut off Mark’s despair, but they did cut off Aaron: every single word that came out of his mouth never left the secure walls of that metal room. Live television was HOA’s greatest regret of the day and their greatest despair. Then Johnson screamed for a makeup crew to dab off the moisture from his face. Aaron demanded to be sent back to prison, knowing that he wouldn’t be left alone with Mark, and therefore anything extra was damaging. Mark was now in a rampage, screaming and crying for them to return Aaron. He was fighting the restraints, and his concussion from the accident began to build up again, shooting through his neck and down the spine like never-ending fireworks trapped in his body. The cleaning lady who always came in at eleven ran in quickly to calm Mark down, while another nurse took out a syringe full of two grams of Ativan. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” the elderly cleaning lady stated with her calm voice and motherly eyes. Then she began to sing while the nurse pushed the antidepressant into his IV line. It was a song Mark seemed to react to more than any other; his mood always seemed to change once she sang. “Umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow, I’d have no protection so please hug me, or I’d run to the old apple tree. Umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow. The wind is strong, this is true, but you’d hug me, and I’d hug you, so umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow. The rain is wet, it makes me cry, but with you we’d get by, so Umbrella, umbrella please don’t go.”
Mark whispered the last line with the nurse before falling asleep, “You keep me away from th-this cold…snow.” Mark lost consciousness from the drug, and his anxiety was gone. He then began to dream. He dreamed of his wedding day with Mary. The perfect, warm sunshine tickling their skin. Mary, as pretty as she could ever be in that white dress, holding her tiny hands with the feeling of suspense. He couldn’t wait to kiss her, it was boiling in his skin, it was making his heart soar! She was everything he wanted, not only in beauty but also in her heart that reflected through her eyes. The vows first, then he placed the ring on her finger. She saw him as someone who didn’t exist, a man who couldn’t have been real! He was too romantic, his eyes never wandered, and he was moral. Mark never cared what she said and always seemed to have something to say for every issue thrown her way, even if the words were said through an emotional hug. Then he was tough. He was someone who enjoyed protecting the ones he loved, while simultaneously never showing anger. She slipped the ring on his finger.
“I, Mary Kenny, take you, Mark Wegman, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.” Mary began to cry with slow tears rolling down, while giggling lightly and smiling with tremendous joy. The preacher began to speak, and Mark copied what the priest declared with confidence, with his eyes glimmering in the sun.
“I, Mark Wegman, take you, Mary Wegman—” the two families went wild, clapping and cheering! Mr. Kenny gave him a thumbs-up from the audience, and Aaron, the best man, shook his head while laughing, while the preacher asked for their silence in his old, stern voice.
“Groom, may you please say her last name correctly?”
“Sorry, it—it just slipped,” Mark said while Mary laughed hysterically, snorting a little in between giggles, causing more laughter in the crowd. “I, Mark Wegman, take you, Mary Kenny, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.”
The preacher began to speak again, finally smiling. “You may kiss the bride.” Mark reached over, swept her off her feet, and they kissed. She slipped a little, but he caught her behind with one arm, and the crowd cheered with immense enthusiasm. There wasn’t a dry pair of eyes at the wedding.
Then Mark woke up in an instant with a cold sweat across his entire body. He was in the same room, with the TV on silent and the sun steadily setting on the day. Mark searched for any sight of Aaron, panicking by the thought of his disappearance, believing that Aaron might have been killed. But what he did find was a white paper tucked away in his left hand; he was gripping it with force, and miraculously, that restraint was loose! Mark teared up from the sight; his heart began to race as he tried to slip his hand out. It was still too constricted for his palm to fit through, even while his fingers were straightened and his palm was crushed. But Mark wouldn’t miss this opportunity, he knew that Aaron had to have been killed, and they would be insane to let Mark out after what he witnessed. Mark continued to pull and strain his arm tighter and tighter, creating a burn across his wrist. Mark held in his s
creams that were caused by all his effort placed toward the one arm, knowing that the nurses would hear his hollers from the room beyond those walls. He was halfway out of the cuff. Wegman inhaled and pulled again with all his might, turning red in the face. He knew that if one arm was out, he could untie his entire body and while alone slip out of the room’s window with ease, breaking it with his knuckles and squeezing through the tiny hole. One arm was freedom from those terrorists and further away from death.
Then finally, it was free! Mark was speechless, excited beyond belief, kissing his hand and celebrating because of this small token of freedom! Then he went for his other hand, until a small, white piece of paper fell. It was the paper that was stuffed in his fist, squished into a tight, compact ball.
Maybe Aaron’s alive, Mark thought. He must be the one who loosened my restraint and slipped a message into my hand! Mark quickly reached for the paper and unraveled it with one hand. But it wasn’t from Aaron—it was from Tom, written in the color of honey.
Dear Mark,
I know that you will make it through these awful trials. You have changed many lives, ever since childhood. One of those lives was mine. When you adopted me at seventeen, I didn’t believe there was a soul on Earth that cherished mine. My birth father made it very clear that his interests weren’t toward me when he left when I was ten, and while we were together, he used to work on his boxing form on me. Then you spontaneously walked in one day, and just like that I was eating dinner with you and Mary, every night, feeling like more than just a punching bag. You pointed me toward morals and gave me goals to look forward to. For seven years, I wished to prove my father wrong, to prove that I was a unique soul and not someone to throw on the street. I wanted to be better than him, better than my grandfather, better than every Freeman who ever touched Earth’s soil. But once I began to learn of God, I found out that I was unique. So I enlisted at eighteen, and although I still felt like I needed to prove my father wrong, it was also to prove you right! That you chose correctly.
I apologize for my early departure, but the reality is that I never came down to gentle your thoughts. I was originally sent to assist a young boy who was a firm believer and needed an answer to his communities’ prayers. It was an honor I was blessed to receive, but God also knew you. He knew about your pains and the repetitive fights to see his daughter, Mary Wegman. So God allowed me—someone I might add very unworthy—to communicate and answer the prayers that were also pointed toward you. So that’s why I came down. Please don’t mistake me as a death angel, because that’s misleading. I’m just some angel that was given a gift to continue in assisting others even after death.
May God rest in your heart,
With all my love,
Tom Wegman
P. S.: I’d also like to add that I succeeded in answering the young boy’s family’s prayers, which was for God to cure their child, Tyler Castillo. Tyler has the best sense of humor. He makes us all laugh out loud with his snarky comments! And man, can that boy run! Climbing trees and causing laughter from the little ones and Jesus! God is Great, and Tyler has never looked back!
Mark began to panic, screaming and yelling, knocking over the entire bed while still being strapped with three limbs. Two nurses ran in and called for Ativan while attempting to restrain him. Mark saw the nurses and remembered their names, he remembered what day it was, he remembered the lunch from the day before, Mark remembered the questions he’d asked his neighbor for more than three weeks straight, and every occurrence. He remembered the rain that fell last Saturday, he remembered the broccoli-and-cheese soup a week ago. Mark screamed because of everything he was recalling from the past rushing through his mind. Mark remembered the car accident and his hatred toward Tyler. He remembered the call; he remembered the rage.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” Mark yelled, “TYLER! YOU CAN’T LEAVE! YOU CAN’T!”
They brought out the Ativan. He saw the needle and began to fight back. Mark remembered the time he was forced on the bed by eight nurses and Dr. Kenny.
“No! Get that away!” Mark yelled as he slowly picked himself up with the metal, a 120-pound bed attached to his back. Then he began to remember the repetitive thoughts at the police station, walking up and feeling the same as yesterday, and Aaron’s smiles from Mark’s appearance. Everyone thought that he was Aaron’s favorite, not knowing that Mark was forgetful and unstable, believing he was a middle-aged man with a daily pattern. They respected him because of his past struggles. Everyone smiled, never second-guessing themselves about his character, which was all fake, so Mark was never pitied. He despised pity.
The nurses were multiplying, and Mark fled to the corner. All they saw was the bottom of his bed, the silvery color, shining dimly off the light bulbs in the room with its wheels and frame. Nurses who’d worked in the institution for more than half their lives snickered and laughed at Mark’s retreat. Others were aching from the sorrow he could be feeling, understanding that Mark must have already forgotten where he was. He continued to scream.
“This job is too sad,” said a young nurse with her bottom lip out.
“He’s just confused.” A male caregiver tapped another snickering nurse in the shoulder. “I bet he’s in the corner ‘cause he forgot how to sleep on a bed.”
“Shut up, Zack!” yelled the young nurse. “He didn’t ask for this. Do you ever watch the news?”
“Has he watched the news? He’s on every channel and we leave his TV on every day!” snickered Zack while others giggled behind. “Oh wait, maybe he forgot how to watch TV, too.”
Mark began to remember how he saw the newspaper’s dates every morning but stubbornly tossed them aside, believing that it was a gag from Aaron. A way to cheer him up and toss his mind off of the subject of his dying wife, believing for some bizarre reason that if he waited for only one more week, she would return.
Then he remembered the accident.
It wasn’t a dream. Her blood. Him carried off the scene quickly before the car burst into flames. The sirens. It was all black. He heard voices. It was a male, speaking before the ambulance doors closed.
“We…we couldn’t save them both. There were gas fumes and…gasoline everywhere on both the—” The doors slammed on the ambulance. A female began to speak. She was skinny, blonde, and was in complete panic.
“Go faster! He’s bleeding out from his head! If we don’t get blood soon we’ll lose him. Faster!” Then Mark lost consciousness, darkness surrounded him, and the woman whispered into his ear. “Sir, whatever you have left you have to show it now, fight for your life, if you have any more purpose, fight.”
Mary was alive. Alive! There was life after Mark’s memories. Five years! Five years of forgotten bliss, and almost two decades of fear toward a sickness that never… Wegman began to rage with fury, and he quickly pushed back with anger, bashing Zack in the head so hard that he was pushed toward the front wall, banging the same spot in the metal wall.
“We had a life! We had a life after Mary’s death! She lived!” Mark screamed as a nurse ran over and forced in the Ativan. Mark swung his hand, which slightly loosened her footing because for the first time, an attack that wasn’t precise. “Aaron, that bastard!” The Ativan was slowly affecting his speech, but Mark continued to triumph over its effects for a few seconds, fighting for a rampage through the nurses.
“Mary was alive and no one told me! No one told me!” he yelled while letting the bed fall and hit the ground with him attached. Mark’s concussion began to strike his spine because of the collapse toward the ground, a pain he could now remember.
“Aaron, Kenny, what did you do? What have you done?” Mark began to cry, although the antidepressant and tension reliever coursed through his veins. “Did you know? D-Did you know?” Mark pointed at the nurses, who were helping to place his bed back on its wheels. Wegman never fell asleep, but continued to weep softly. Mark finally saw Mary die for the first time
.
He never knew she departed; it was as though it was yesterday that Mary was by his side. Except yesterday was at the Rester Institution. It was an illusion that Mary was alive. It was as if he were drugged to believe this horrific memory for many years, a torturous event worse than death. Mark finally accepted that she was gone; he finally accepted her death. He could finally revert his memory back to the feeling that burned his stomach and kept his thoughts from believing Mary was alive, the spark that exploded with a desire to escape. The slight thought of her survival dancing in the light, tickling sun—it was from their life after her sickness. That was the root of the insanity in his eye. A memory that wasn’t connected to any tragedies, but only joyfulness; it was as if it were Mark’s childhood replayed in adulthood. He continued to sob lightly, dwelling in these thoughts, for the first time without furious anger and rage, while outside it rained, except this was the first autumn storm. There was a damp, light drizzle, cold to the touch. There was no thunder, there was no flash bang, there was just an overcast of humid rain with promising spring after the season. His fits of rage had finally concluded, as a man with restraints, at an institution, with his memory retrieved. Mark was finally cured from amnesia, although his Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder might stay with him for life. Now, if you asked a police officer off the street who was in high spirits because of the major town drug lords finally being filed into court, he would have confidently stated that Mark was mentally insane. A lunatic, children. Someone who would need assistance every morning to get dressed and someone to help feed him three times a day. A man who couldn’t tell from day or night, while being told the answer when asked.
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