A Dream's Reality

Dr. Caro scanned the erratically beeping machines for signs of change in her patient's vitals. The twelve-year-old was convulsing: legs and arms thrashing, neck muscles tightening and eyes rolling back into his head as his body took on the full force of his seizure. She had hoped the new diet and natural drug treatment would help alleviate the spasms, but the spikes on the charts in front of her eyes unfolded in the same manner they did since they day his condition had started.

“Hold on little soldier,” the nurse coaxed the boy as she held him in his side-position and made sure the tubes and wires stayed in place. It was his last seizure of the night and, usually, the worst of them all. When the fit passed, the boy sagged like a rag doll onto the mattress, his white-knuckled hands loosening their grip on the butterfly-patterned sheets adorning his bed.

“My god, he's tough. More than a hundred seizures and he's still going strong,” the doctor said to herself. The nurse nodded in incredulous agreement. “How can he suffer so many seizures and never sustain any damage?”

“The world is full of miracles in disguise,” Nurse Schatz replied.

Dr. Caro smiled at the nurse and picked up her clipboard. “No…I don't believe in miracles. It's too easy to call unexplained phenomenon a miracle. There is an action behind every reaction. We need to keep digging.”

The first time Dr. Caro met the boy at Sigmund's Hospital in New York City, he appeared so fragile with his scrawny, long limbs and soft, chestnut hair. His pearly skin was so delicate, faintly exposing blue veins on his neck and temples and his eyes were of soft cerulean. When it came to the seizures, however, his body took on the fight of a wild stallion. It had been a month ago since the wretched tween had been rolled into the hospital, his little body racked with violent spasms. They did every test possible to figure out the cause—MRI, EEG and genetic testing to name a few—but they were all inconclusive. The final, and very loose, diagnosis was epilepsy. The nature of the seizures were similar, yet there were differences that threw the doctors into a loop. Strangely, and veritably puzzling, the seizures came at recurring intervals: 7:01 p.m., 8:09 p.m., 10:30 p.m., 11:03 p.m. and 2: 03 a.m., on the dot. Each was gradually fiercer and longer than the last.  What baffled the doctors the most was the boy's resilience, and the lack of brain damage he had sustained. Doctors from all over the world came to see him, wanting to meet the wonder boy who survived hundreds of seizures, barely unscathed. Furthermore, the disabilities that plagued children with epilepsy seemed to elude this boy. In fact, after the first seizure, the boy exhibited unprecedented levels of genius, especially in the fields of science, linguistics and mathematics. It was as if a dormant gene had been awakened.

The only symptoms that didn't escape the boy were depression and chronic fatigue. On top of the physically taxing seizures, and no thanks to the doctors' thirst for knowledge about his mysterious condition, the constant probing and indefatigable monitoring added to his already backbreaking exhaustion. Moreover, instead of letting him work on the homework his school had allotted for his hospital duration, the poor boy was given far more complicated material – enough to make Stephen Hawking want to quit science indefinitely. He met so many doctors, he couldn't even remember most their names and faces. Even parents and family members with epileptic relatives came to see the boy who held the possible cure for their loved ones. To derail the invasive experiments and uninvited visitors, the boy became mute and unresponsive. Only one doctor survived his shunning. Dr. Caro, the sweet Italian lady with beautiful red hair and a motherly face. She was the only doctor who genuinely cared for his wellbeing. It was she who recommended his relocation from the hospital, so as to remove any added stress that would impede the cure for his condition. Thanks to her compassion, the boy was now at home in his own bed, with a hired nurse—Nurse Schatz— and Dr. Caro to look after him day and night.

The boy opened his eyes and looked straight at Dr. Caro. He was completely alert, and the recognition in his eyes was enough evidence to tell her that the boy's brain was still in working order. His body, however, wasn't as alert; his eyes were filled with unshed tears, pooling at the edge from sheer exhaustion, and his skin was shining with sweat. Quietly, the door opened, and the boy's mother walked in with a book clutched to her chest, and a gentle smile gracing her face.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Dr. Cora greeted. “We should be ready in just a minute.”

“Thank you, Angelina,” the mother replied gratefully. She knew how hard these ladies were working, and she was immensely glad that they had been able to find such a wonderful team to look after her son. Elizabeth stood by the bedpost watching Nurse Schatz as she cleaned the boy up and helped him change into a fresh set of pajamas. He looked so ill and withdrawn, so different from the lively boy with a disposition for curiosity. How she wished time had stopped one day shy of his first seizure.

It had happened on his birthday. He was opening the presents they had promised him—a golden flip-phone and a Toshiba laptop—when suddenly his entire body seized and arched, sending him to the floor in a convulsive fit. Her heart ached at the memory, but even though her insides were twisted with sorrow, the smile she wore for her son was always encouraging. No child should bare their mother's misery.

“You know where to find us,” Dr. Cora said kindly, before she and Nurse Schatz stepped out of the room.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” she said to her brave and beautiful boy as she sat in the chair posing by his bed. She widened her smile slightly as she pulled away the mouth guard and wiped a reddish streak of spit off his chin.

“Hi,” The tween croaked while reaching for her hand. She took it without hesitation.

“Ready for your story?”

The boy smiled tiredly and nodded. In nothing flat, his mother began to read The Amber Spyglass. It was the final part of His Dark Materials series, which he never had the chance to finish once he fell ill. Upon his request, his mother bought the last book and continued the adventures of Will and Lyra, as they traveled the worlds to find the meaning of life. Two pages in, however, his eyes began to droop and sleep robbed him of his consciousness. His mother shut the book and eased back into her chair. Silently, she prayed to whomever was out there—a God, a greater being, or whatever energy that governed the universe—to bring back the happy life her son once had, and to eliminate all uncertainty. Every day she lived in constant fear of losing her son, so much that it seeped into her dreams, where she would watch her boy laying in his coffin, eyes shut and body unnaturally still.

A creak from the bedroom door interrupted her silent prayer. She looked up to find her husband walking towards their sleeping son. Unlike her, the man carried his pain on his face, digging into the lines that creased his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He looked much older than his years; he had yet to turn forty. How much he had changed! When she first met him, he had a bleak outlook on the world, and absolutely detested children. Just the idea of having one of his own was disgusting and grossly narcissistic. To him, having children was like creating carbon copies of themselves, and at the time he definitely didn't like himself enough to do so. He didn't want someone to look like him running around, making the same mistakes he had made in life. That was until… the accident happened. She perfectly recalled the moment she had announced her pregnancy, and how extremely opposed he was to the whole thing. The next day, he'd disappeared, and it wasn't until the day his boy was born that he had the courage to show his face. When he held the snuffling bundle in his arms, he instantly fell in love with the little creature. It was then that Elizabeth knew everything would be all right. Now, here he was, looking down at his son with emotion that his pre-parenthood self would never understand – a look full of unbridled love.

“Richard.” His wife walked over to him and circled her arm around his waist. Her husband answered in kind and leaned down for a quick kiss before resting his cheek against her dark hair. Together they stood by the bed, watching their son as his small chest swelled and eased with every breath. For a moment they both shared a secret wish that their little boy was merely sleeping and tomorrow he would wake up a healthy child. But the wish, just like the moment that carried it, was fleeting.

“Why don't you go to bed? I'll stay with him tonight,” Richard suggested.

“All right.” Before she left, she brushed the boy's fringe and kissed his forehead. “Good night, love.”

As the door clicked behind her, Richard took the chair his wife had occupied minutes ago. He took his son's small hand between his own big ones and finally let the tears he had held in all day pour.

“Dad?” the boy's soft voice called, his tired blue eyes filled with concern.

Startled, Richard immediately wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “How are you, son?”

The boy tilted his head and watched his father curiously. “Well I was sleeping…so…”

His father laughed. It was so like him to cheer his father up. “Stupid question, huh? You'd think an old guy like me would know better.”

“That's true,” the boy smiled as much as his sleepy self could muster. It was enough to warm his old man's heart.

“Dad,” the boy asked with a serious tone. “I'm okay, you know. You don't have to worry about me.”

His father looked at his son, eyes stinging. “Kurt...”

“Remember what you told me last time?” the boy teased.

“That you're a Hummel and no—”

“No one messes with the Hummels,” the boy finished his sentence. His father smiled sheepishly. The boy then turned his head to the nightstand and nodded at the book. “Would you read for me?”

Richard acquiesced to his son's request and started reading. Once the boy was asleep again, he put the book back on the nightstand and tucked his son's arms under the cover.

“Good night, Kurt,” he whispered, before he took the couch for the night.

Where is she going? Kurt wondered every time he followed Cecilia through Dalton Academy's extensive backyard. It had happened every recess for the past month, yet he was the only one intrigued enough to investigate, while the other students were being professionally self-absorbed—as they would be in their adolescent phase of self-centred dramatics. Since the first day Kurt transferred to Dalton, he had watched the quiet girl disappear through a manmade, or more likely teenage vandalized, hole at the bottom of the hedge surrounding the school. The hedge was ten feet tall, sequestering the premises from the wild moorlands that ate up most of Arlend town.

Kurt had yet to get used to living in the countryside, having resided in Vancouver for the past two years—the curse of being the son of a British diplomat. He missed the hussle and bustle and the towering skyscrapers so much. This place was overwhelming wide open. His mother had never complained, and even though she was a Canadian, she didn't even bat an eye when his father announced their move from Vancouver Proper all the way to this shithole of Arlend, Ohio. This town was a dive compared to the previous metropolitan wonder he had come to love, and a day after arriving, Kurt discovered, that he could cross the entire town in two hours—on foot. “Easy Peasy!” their new neighbours had said as they greeted them at the door with a disgusting casserole in their hands. Fuck that! “Home is where the family is,” he recalled his mother saying on that particular doom day when his father announced their latest move. Of course, Kurt's first thought was What a load of bullshit! For once, Kurt couldn't disagree more. Vancouver was his home, and before that it had been New York City! How could they expect him to be okay with a tiny town that barely housed five thousand people? Besides, he was sixteen years old, god damn it! He needed a stable life and Vancouver provided that wonderful stability. Of course, it didn't matter that he disagreed, because he was ‘too young' to play a vital part in this kind of ‘grown up' decision. He knew, however, that their decision to drag him along was from fear of the possible return of his seizures. It had been three years since his condition abruptly disappeared—surprising everyone, including Dr. Caro who was completely bewildered by the sudden change—and yet, they still treated him like he was a precious wine glass. In retaliation, Kurt put his foot down and said “No! I'm not leaving! What about my friends? What about my boyfriend?” to which his father had said, “You can make new friends. You always do,” as if his friends were nothing but shabby car rentals. As for the boyfriend, his father didn't even bother to mention him. Not that he opposed Kurt's homosexuality, but because he knew it was a foolish young love. To further infuriate his parents, Kurt threw a tantrum and threatened to run away from home, and, Oh did he keep his promise. The following evening, instead of returning home after school, Kurt left with his boyfriend, Charlie. To Kurt's dismay, Charlie's parents—whom, with good reason, though Kurt was out of his mind—whisked them back home that night. He met up with his parents at their stoop with a defeated countenance and an equally defeated set of shoulders. They weren't even mad and it irritated Kurt to no end. They were just happy to see him safe at home. And, thus, Kurt accepted his doom at nomadism.

When Cecilia got closer to the hedge, Kurt made sure to keep out of sight and hid behind the usual wide, veiny trunk of an ancient fig tree. The tree stood a few feet near the hedge hole, giving Kurt a good vantage point without being seen. When the girl disappeared through the man-made aperture, Kurt followed slowly, giving her a one-minute head start. Before venturing through the poky hedge, Kurt got down on all fours and inspected the hole for any cumbersome branches. Sadly his assessment was inaccurate and he ended up ripping the left pocket of his uniform jacket. But who cared about jackets? The first thing Kurt checked with his iPhone mirror was his hair, and miraculously, the coif was intact. Now that he was on the other side of the hedge, Kurt felt the sweet rush of rebellion run through him. It wasn't often that he broke the rules. Kurt had always been model student, with straight As that put his peers to shame, and a floor to ceiling display full of trophies that would make any parents proud.

Kurt dusted he leaves and dirt off his hands and knees and followed Cecilia through the moorland annexed by a large patch of evergreen forest. The girl moved forward like a specter, as if a silent voice were calling her onward, telling her where to go. It was eerie to watch, and the fog surrounding the forest didn't put Kurt's sudden restlessness at ease. Nevertheless, he put his right foot forward and followed the girl into the woods.

Within the forest, Kurt was enveloped in hair-raising silence. There was no sound, not any, except for his footfalls on the heather. The fog persisted as Kurt reached the pinnacle of the hill, and so did his rapid heartbeat. Regardless of the thick mist, there was enough visibility for him to keep walking forward without falling flat on his face. The silence was quietly getting to Kurt, making him feel as if he had been walking in the fog for hours, with no way out. Kurt stopped abruptly and turned full circle on the spot…or did he? In this thick fog, no one would have any sense of direction. Damn it, why did he have to turn around? He tried making sense of where he came from but he only had a few feet of visibility around him before his surroundings were obscured.

“Fuck!” Kurt breathed harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Panic overwhelmed his entire being, and he clumsily resumed his walk, his treads turning to strides, and his heartbeat spiking in speed. Was he going forwards or was he going backwards? He had no idea. It didn't matter! He needed to get out of here. For a moment, Kurt contemplated calling Cecilia's name, but fear lodged his tongue back into his throat, and the lack of breath made it difficult to form the pronoun on his lips. By then, the question reiterating in his mind escalated from Where Is She Going to What The Hell Am I Doing Here. Kurt's strides turned into a run, almost tripping him over protruding tree roots. But Kurt ran, and continued running frantically until the fog suddenly dissipated. The change was so sudden that Kurt didn't notice the ground sloping down and consequently sent him rolling down the hill until he fell into tall, green grass.

“Ugh.” Kurt pushed himself up on his feet and took a moment to catch his breath and calm his pounding heart. When he straightened up, Kurt momentarily lost his ability to breath and just stared at the sight before him. It was as if he had stepped into a completely different world.

“Oh my god…” Kurt breathed, his mind buzzing with confusion.

There it stood, with its old grey bricks and stained windows, ruined by hundreds of harsh winters and boarded with old wood. It was the star of his dreams; his secret kept safe. He had never told anyone about the reoccurring dreams he'd had during his many seizures. In those dreams he saw the same grassy moorlands and the same broken church. He was too afraid his parents would think he'd gone mad and send him to a mental institution. So, every time he woke from a fit, he kept his mouth shut. Now that he stood in front of the church, Kurt was beginning to wonder if he really was going crazy.

Kurt ran. He ran back into the forest, and into the scary fog. Anywhere but this place.