by Elaine White
Ryder swept up the small light from his torch and rushed back through the squelching water to the boy's side. “I'm with him now,” he said, hoping that would help, “but I don't know what to do. He's bleeding so much. I think he's been here a while. There's blood and water everywhere and he looks so scared,” he confessed, without thinking about what he was saying.
A tear fell down the kid's cheek and Ryder automatically reached out to wipe it away.
“I'm really scared,” the boy whispered, his voice already sounding hoarse and far away. “I didn't mean to...my parents will be devastated,” he protested, his eyelids trying to look down at himself, though he'd lost far too much blood to actually move his head. Or even to lift his arms and stop the blood flow.
“Okay,” the operator replied, sounding much calmer now, “please listen carefully, Ryder. I need you to remove any weapon or sharp object that he may use, if he manages to move. Don't touch it, but move it out of reach. Then I need you to staunch the blood flow; do you have a towel or anything that you can press to the wound?”
He nodded, before realising that she couldn't see him. “Yes. I have a towel. It's coated in blood, but it will do. But I only have one and he cut both wrists. I guess my spare t-shirt will do?” he asked, not sure that was good enough.
“Fine. Do that now,” she directed.
Ryder put his phone between his teeth and worked in the relative dark, as he grabbed the towel he'd dropped and wrapped it around the kid's right wrist. When he was done, he tied his t-shirt around the left and put his phone back in his ear. “I guess I need to add pressure, but I have to put the phone down to do it,” he explained, since he only had two hands and he didn't want to risk hurting the kid by improvising. He looked terrified enough. “And I need to tell my brother I'll be late picking him up. He's only twelve and he'll freak out if I'm not there,” he explained.
After a moment of quiet on the other end, the woman finally responded. “You're doing great, Ryder. Give me your brother's phone number and we'll have someone pick him up for you, to make sure he's safe. We'll contact your parents,” she said. “Then you're free to hang up until the ambulance arrives. Or you can put the phone down and we can just talk, if that makes you feel better.”
It kind of would, but with the kid in front of him trying to talk again, he panicked. Ryder quickly rattled off his brother's phone number and his name, before hanging up without another word.
Looking this frail, dying kid in the eye, he pressed down on both wounds. “I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I promise that you'll be okay. I'll do anything I can,” he promised, glad to see that he managed a very brief, tight nod of reply. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Donald. My name is Donald,” he whispered, as another tear fell.
Ryder nodded, then remembered that he wasn't alone. “I'm sorry, but this is going to be really loud,” he apologised, then turned to look over his shoulder at the door leading into the changing rooms. With one great big intake of breath, he screamed. “Coach!”
As the sound reverberated around the room, he shouted over and over again, hoping someone might hear him.
After a few shouts, with no reply, he realised that calling a name was probably limiting his shouting ability. He remembered screaming once, when he was on a rollercoaster and terrifying a bunch of people because he was so loud. That sound was louder than what he'd managed so far. So he took another breath, gathered up all his fear and panic and screamed as loud as his lungs could manage.
And he kept screaming.
Chapter 2
It felt like he'd been screaming for hours before the sound of footsteps made it over the unholy sounds coming out of his mouth.
Ryder stopped screaming and panted breathlessly, calling out before anyone could make a mistake and get them all electrocuted. “Don't touch the lights! Get a torch or something. There's water everywhere,” he explained, his voice sore to use, now that he'd put it through its paces.
He couldn't help but wonder what the police were telling his brother. That there had been an accident, that Ryder was okay, but wasn't able to make it, or would they tell him nothing? Would they contact his parents first, so they could break the news to his brother? He wasn't sure, but he hoped they didn't freak him out too much.
When the footsteps got closer, he turned and caught the familiar figure of the coach entering the changing rooms alone. It seemed his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. “Ryder? What in the blazing hell is going on? What are you screaming about? Are you okay? Have you hurt yourself?” he called, clearly confused by the situation.
“Coach.” His voice croaked, but he swallowed and managed to use it again. “Coach, I'm with Donald and there's an ambulance on the way. He's...he's in bad shape and he needs medical attention right away. Can you make sure they get in here? But don't let them put the lights on, because the place is flooded,” he explained, feeling a little like he was rambling.
When he turned back to Donald, the kid's eyes softened just a little, as though to thank him for not saying the truth – that he'd tried to kill himself.
For a long time, there was nothing but silence in the room, but he had a feeling that he and Donald didn't need words anymore. He had such expressive eyes, even in this darkness.
Finally, the coach cleared his throat. “I'll be waiting outside for the ambulance. Do you need anything?” he asked, with enough concern that he almost started crying. He couldn't decide whether to do that or start laughing.
“I'm okay. Just get them in here as soon as possible,” he asked, his hands already sore from pushing down so hard. But he wouldn't let up. Not when he knew that his blood soaked hands were the only thing keeping Donald alive right now.
When everything calmed down and Donald was safely in the hands of the paramedics, then he'd let himself freak out, fall apart and panic about the fact that he was probably saturated in blood. Until then, he had to stay calm and keep his shit together. It was the only way he would get through it and not drag Donald down into despair with him.
Coach left quietly, the door banging shut behind him, without one question asked. Ryder was grateful. He couldn't have handled questions.
“I'm sorry for the screaming,” he apologised to Donald. Again. “I didn't want to leave you, but I knew I had to warn someone not to send the ambulance away. And, to be honest, I kind of just need to hear something right now. It's so damned quiet in here,” he admitted. Like death. But he didn't dare admit that aloud. “I'm not going to ask why you did this, because I figure to have gone this far you had to have a pretty solid reason. And, whether you changed your mind or not, you were determined to see it through,” he reasoned, trying to work it all out inside his head, while he still felt capable.
“So, I have to assume you've been going through some really bad shit, huh?” he guessed, looking up to meet Donald's eyes. He didn't expect an answer; he really just wanted to hear a voice, any voice, in this oppressive silence. But then Donald's eyes flickered over to a dry patch of the shower cubicles. There was a solid shape, tucked into the corner, which was how it had evaded the water.
Swallowing, Ryder guessed at the size and said, “Phone?”
Donald blinked slowly, in what he presumed was a yes.
“Something on your phone made you do this,” he realised, letting out a stuttered breath as his mind whirred with possibilities. “Shit. I'm sorry. It must be really bad to take you by surprise like that and make you consider this. I'm sorry none of us were here to talk to you, too busy with a bloody game to notice,” he apologised. Again.
For being someone who never believed in apologising, Ryder was shocked to hear so many apologies flowing out of his mouth. His dad always taught him that if he had to apologise, he deserved the humiliation of it, because he should never have been stupid enough to put himself in that situation in the first place. If he didn't do wrong, apologies wouldn't be necessary.
He opened his mouth to say more, though he didn't know what, but stopped
when he heard sirens loud and clear. “That's the ambulance,” he said aloud, turning to glance over his shoulder. “Help is on the way, Donald. I promise, everything will be okay now. Just keep watching me and keep your eyes open,” he demanded, remembering that tip from a first aid class from last year.
When he heard the doors burst open, he couldn't help himself. “Over here! On the left, there's a low wall and three steps in it breaks into the showers. Follow the water!” he called out. “We're over here!”
Rushing footsteps and a bright light shining in his face preceded the most chaotic five minutes of his entire life. Two paramedics talked incessantly, asking a whole lot of questions, only some of which he could answer.
Yes, Donald was holding on, responsive to a degree, but now too weak to talk or move. No, he didn't know what happened, but it had something to do with his phone, in that dry corner over there. Yes, he asked for help and wanted to be saved. Please don't let him die!
“Please don't let him die!” the words flooded out of him, before he could hold them back, as the paramedic held a clean towel over Ryder's hands.
“Don't worry, Ryder. We'll take good care of him, but I need you to stay with me a little longer,” one man said, as he stared him right in the eye. “When I say, grab the towel and pull it and your hands out of the way. I'll take over.”
All he could do was nod and hope for the best.
Only once the second paramedic had the stretcher all ready to be used did he nod to the one sitting next to Ryder in the bloody water. “Okay, go!”
Ryder quickly pulled away and tossed aside the towel, while the first paramedic took over putting pressure on the wounds with the clean towel. “Do you want me to grab his phone?” he asked, as he watched the two men quietly confer with each other.
“No, but thank you. That's a job for the police, once they can get in. Right now, our priorities are you and Donald. We'd prefer you came with us, and Donald, to the hospital, but the police want to speak to you immediately,” he said, with a bit of a bite that suggested he wasn't pleased about that.
“I'll be okay,” he promised, though he wasn't sure it was true.
“No. We'd have another bus here for you, but no one told us you had to sit with Donald all this time,” he complained.
He nodded, realising the problem. There had been a miscommunication somewhere and the paramedic wasn't pleased that a teenager had been left to keep Donald calm and, ultimately, alive, all by himself. No doubt when he looked back on this in a few hours, Ryder would wonder the same thing. Right now, all he could say was, “I didn't mind sitting with him. He needed me.”
The second paramedic frowned and eventually nodded to him, as they both approached Donald and lifted him off the floor, onto the stretcher. “You did a stellar job, kid. You've kept him alive long enough for us to do our job. And that's alright by our books,” he said, the praise settling uncomfortably in his stomach.
As they strapped Donald into the stretcher, they turned their full focus to him and began talking to keep him awake. Ryder followed them outside and blinked at the blinding light from the football field. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he was met by the coach, who barrelled into him and hugged him tight. Despite all the policies about Teachers not being allowed to touch students.
Ryder hugged him back, grateful for the support.
“Your brother is at home with your parents. They're dropping him at a friend's house, then they'll meet you at the hospital,” Coach explained. “The paramedics said they're coming back, because they think you're in shock. It's no wonder. But, you're right. They were going to put the big lights on and, from the cop that peeked in while you guys were in there, it sounds like we could have electrocuted both of you in doing that. You did good, Ryder.”
The pat on the back made him start crying, though he'd been trying and succeeding in holding it back until now.
After a few minutes, Coach led him to the bleachers and sat him down, with a steady hand on his back that only lasted two minutes. Then Coach was led away by a police officer.
He was actually relieved to be alone, for a minute. He couldn't get his thoughts together. All he could think about was that he didn't know Donald, but he wished he had so that he could have been there for him.
“Ryder,” Defiance spoke close by, startling him. When he looked up, his captain was crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee. “Do you need anything?” he asked, with such care and concern that he couldn't help his reaction.
He bubbled out a few dry sobs, then forced himself to try to control it, pushing his hands between his knees and squeezing them tight. He took a deep breath and shook his head, in reply. That was the best he could manage.
Defiance let out a sigh and moved to sit beside him. After a minute of silence, he tentatively raised his arm and lifted it around Ryder's shoulders. “It's okay to cry,” he soothed, in a soft, quiet voice. “This is a shock and it's okay to be upset,” he continued, though the words felt forced and the arm around his shoulders was tense.
Ryder knew it was either insincere compassion or Defiance was just as lost as he was, about how to act and what to do. Either way, he wasn't in the mood to talk.
So they sat there, in silence, until the coach returned with two police officers. “The rest of the team don't know about this,” the coach explained quietly, as he guided the officers across. “Ryder, these officers want to speak with you. Are you feeling up to it?”
Pushing aside his own feelings, Ryder focused on Donald. He needed to do this and he needed to make sure that this wasn't just brushed aside. He had to find out what happened and why a kid his own age thought killing himself was the only answer. “Yes, I'm okay,” he lied, turning to look up at the two older men. “His name is Donald. I'm sorry I don't know his last name. He goes to school here, so it should be in the logs somewhere,” he apologised.
The coach placed a hand on his shoulder. “It's alright, son. I have his name. He signed in, when he arrived,” he explained.
That made sense. Everyone had to sign in at the reception desk in case of a fire. The sports centre was a school building, so it made sense that he'd have to sign in.
Ryder nodded, in relief. Now they would know his name.
“Do you know what happened?” one of the officers asked.
“No. I got away from practice early and was heading for a shower,” he began, though he could tell from the look on Coach's face that he'd already explained this. “The lights were out, so I used a torch because I didn't want to fumble around for the switch. I noticed the water running, flooded. That's when I found him.”
“And you say you don't know him?” the other officer asked.
Ryder shook his head. He wished he had. “Is he going to be alright? I mean, he said he changed his mind, that he didn't mean to...something,” he asked, just to make sure.
“We think so,” the first officer said, though a hint of warmth entered his voice as he crouched in front of him and offered an uncertain smile. “It's Ryder, isn't it?”
He nodded again, feeling a knot rise in his throat that said he was either going to throw up again or he was going to break down crying.
“Ryder, is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all that might help us figure out what happened here?” the officer persisted, as if he had some kind of map for where to find what they needed.
“He couldn't talk much, because he was weak. But he told me his name and when I said he must have had a good reason for...doing what he did, his eyes went to a spot in the corner. It was in a dry spot. I think it was his phone.” He watched both officers closely, trying to make sure they understood the importance of this. “When I asked if he'd seen something on his phone that made him do it, he managed a nod. But the paramedics said I shouldn't touch it. But, I threw up at some point, when I first found him. I could see he was dying and I just...I'm not sure where I threw up exactly,” he rambled.
The first officer, the nice one by the looks of it, no
dded and got to his feet. Just as he opened his mouth to confer with his partner, Ryder cut in.
“Are you sure he's going to make it?” he asked, though he knew instinctively that it would only be false promises at this point. But he still needed to hear it.
“This is an obvious suicide attempt, and he lost a lot of blood according to the paramedics,” the first officer admitted, glaring at his partner, who seemed like he was going to say something else. With a sigh, he shook his head and gave Ryder his full attention. “Kid, no matter the outcome, there was nothing you could have done. Clearly something has been escalating for it to get this far. I'm sorry you had to be the one to find him,” he apologised, with genuine sympathy.
Ryder nodded, choosing to trust that he was right. That whatever pushed Donald this far had been going on for a while. It still didn't wipe away the feeling in the pit of his gut that he could have done something to help.
The kind officer reached into his top pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. “What you did in there; staying with him, stemming the blood flow and keeping him awake; was really brave of you. But it shouldn't have been your burden. I'm going to give you this card, for counselling. You're taking this really hard and I want you to talk to someone about it, okay? Promise me,” he asked.
“Okay,” Ryder agreed, though he wasn't sure it would do any good. He didn't know Donald well enough to talk to a counsellor about what happened.
The officer nodded and smiled. “Good. And stay with this guy, until you go to the hospital. He's got his head on straight,” he insisted, nodding towards Defiance. “We might need to come back to speak to you, later, if we find anything. The coach gave us your address, so we'll make sure to call first, so we know it's okay to stop by. Right now, your parents are on their way. The school will offer counselling and I want you to see this guy, too. We'll do the rest,” he promised, tapping the card in his hands.
“But–” He wanted to argue and object, because that wasn't good enough. He had to do something, anything, to help.