Lord, Grant Me The Freedom…
Part 6
“Any
existence deprived of freedom is a kind of death.”
General Michael Aoun
41 weeks to
go.
Jarod lay on
the bed, uncaring of the commotion around him. He was conscious only of the
need to keep breathing, drawing the air in and pushing it out. Somehow,
suddenly, it was an effort. The guards had noticed it and, finally, the prison
doctor had been called in. He finished checking his patient and then left the
room, the small trapdoor allowing the discussion to filter through.
“So what is
it?”
“Nothing
medical.”
“What?”
The doctor
paused. “This sort of thing generally happens in people who need freedom, like
you or I need air. Often this results from abuse or some other form of torment
that they’ve managed to escape from. The jail begins to seem like a return to
that life and they decide that it’s not worth fighting to keep living.”
“And so
he’s...”
“...given up
living.” There was a deep sigh. “It’s a tragedy because it so often happens in
the young, the fit and the strong who have so much to contribute and throw it
away for some chance or event that seems like such a good idea at the time.”
“Will he
live?”
“How much longer
does he have?”
“About ten
months.”
After another
long pause, the doctor spoke again. “I doubt he’ll survive until the end of
that time. In fact, I’d be very surprised to see him walk out of here. Either
he’ll be wheeled out to die in a hospital, or else leave in a coffin.
Does he have
any family?”
“We don’t
have any contact details, but I’ll keep searching.”
Not even a
speck of dust remained on the floor. She spent hours in here, just walking
around and trying to find a trace of the father she had loved. Somehow it was
easier to remember what she didn’t like about him, now when he wasn’t there to
make her respect him. Love him. There was a difference, but she could only see
it from a distance. The closer she came, the more the feelings meshed together
until she couldn’t tell them apart. But she knew that she still needed to
believe in him, to trust him.
“How can you
still trust him?”
The words came back,
taunting her and making her think about the person that she didn’t want to be
reminded of. Suddenly she turned and abruptly left the room, with the other,
unseen, occupant still continuing to hide in his corner. She walked down the
brightly lit corridor to the one door of the Centre that she had only entered
once in her life, a few weeks after Jarod had first escaped. She didn’t know
what she expected to find in the room - there was no way that a clue could be
hidden in there. She had no idea what impulse had made her come to this
corridor and enter this particular place. Only that, suddenly, painfully, she
had to be there.
Sydney stared
at the photo on his desk. The words that Broots had spoken several weeks
earlier had finally exposed and laid bare to Sydney the feelings that he had
been fighting to hide since Jarod had first disappeared. He knew, and the
knowledge brought a twisted smile to his face, how Raines had felt when Annie
had been kidnapped and there had been no sign. Sydney had tried for so many
months, and particularly since Michelle had been returned to his life, bringing
to son Sydney had never know with her, Sydney had tried to deny what he had
felt for Jarod. It was natural, he had argued with himself, that a child who
was scared and alone should have roused his pity.
But it had
never been pity, and Broots’ words had forced Sydney to finally admit that to
himself, painful though it had been. A struggle to get over a wall that had
been built over forty years of denial and self-deceit. And it was a fight
Sydney had always known, at the back of his mind, would have to be fought that
way. But how cruel that it should have to come now, when he was least ready and
least able to fight it…