DANTE
Dante was aware that his son was full of surprises. The little boy said the most unexpected things, words that would jumble one's thoughts and leave one tongue-tied. He had a very unique pattern of thought, that young boy.
Today, during their drive back home, the kid had asked a rather innocent question; yet, Dante had no idea how to answer his son. Even as he scanned some documents in his office, the question still floated in his mind, disturbing his peace. Now, he also felt sorry that the boy was in the position to ask that question.
"Daddy, when will I have a new mommy?" the boy had inquired from Dante.
This question was rather different and milder than the intricate questions the little boy normally asked. But Dante would rather answer a million of those than the one thrown at him at that moment. How was he going to tell the little boy that he did not want to remarry? He was not so heartless as to blatantly tell the kid that he was not going to get a new mother.
So, he had glanced at his son briefly and focused back on the road ahead before he responded, "El, let me focus on driving."
He was fortunate enough that Elon did not prod any further even after they had gotten home. If the kid had given up or had just forgotten, he did not know. But one thing he knew was that he would be cornered with the same question again, sooner or later.
As he stacked papers neatly, he decided that that would be a problem to worry about later. But as he strode out of his study, he heard the most heart wrenching scream he had heard in his life, one that felt like a bullet in his heart and sent painful shivers down his spine.
That was his son's voice. His Elon had let out that scream filled the darkest of terrors. He did not even realize it when the movement of his strides gained speed and he was sprinting down the hallway.
As soon as he reached the flight of stairs, he stopped right in his tracks. The sight before him had rendered him stiff and unable to inhale. Nothing in this world could have prepared him for the gore he was beholding. And his son was right in the middle of it all, looking like every source of life had drained from his body.
When Dante managed to croak out a question, it was, "what happened?"
With quivering lips, one of the housekeepers responded, "he slipped from the top of the stairs."
'From the top of the stairs,' he reasoned to himself. A flight of stairs that had over fifty steps, his son had slipped from there. And that was when a sense of urgency sparked in his head, numbing the waves of shock he was feeling just seconds ago.
He lifted his son from the pool of blood and ran as fast as he could out of the door and into his car. Against the steering, his fingers shivered. He had never been that scared in his life, not even when he witnessed his deceased wife at gunpoint. And he, Elon, was the only piece of her he had left.
His world would crumble into dust if anything should happen to the boy.
He must have violated a thousand speed limits that night, maybe a thousand and one, but they had reached the hospital within a few minutes. And as he watched nurses gather his son, rolling him into the emergency room, he sent a silent prayer to heaven.
If God were to any of his prayers, this should be the one to consider.
•°•°•
His knees were beginning to hurt from pacing to and fro in front of the ward. Nobody had come out to give him any update, and all the staff he had asked all told him the same stupid sentence,
"Sir, you need to calm down."
But how!? How was he supposed to be calm when it felt like there was only a thin chance that his son would come out of this? The only tinge of hope he had to hold on to was that silly little prayer he made moments ago. And now, he was seriously fighting the urge to burst through those doors to see things for himself.
With his sleeve, he wiped the little dots of perspiration that had formed on his forehead; despite the air conditioner on full blast, sweat still broke through his skin.
Just when he was about to stop another passerby nurse to bombard with questions, the double doors opened. That expression the doctor's face carried, he did not like it; the man looked downcast, and when Dante's eyes met with his, they held an emotion Dante both hated and feared: pity.
And for the first time in a while, Dante felt weak, helpless even. Within him, he hoped that that would be a prank, the way that doctor was looking at him, just like those tv series his wife used to watch.
"He's alive." the doctor started, and all the air trapped in Dante's lungs escaped with a sigh, it was a little easier for him to breath now.
"But,"
That one word from the doctor seized Dante's breath again. Buts were never good news; at least, not one that came from a doctor staring at him with utmost pity and concern.
"He has sustained a series of injuries," the doctor let out a heavy breath. "Contusions, dislocations, and..." the man pursed his lips for a moment, and Dante's heart missed a beat in that moment, too. Then he continued, "he also has an injury to his spinal cord."
Dante staggered backwards, his knees had suddenly grown even weaker, so much so that he had to support his weight against the wall. He knew what that meant, even before the doctor said it to him.
"Your son may never be able to walk again."
