Echoes Of A Dying Mind

Constructed from cracked cobblestone bricks, the tall spires of the once-majestic hospital towered upwards into the sky. Shrouded forever in wrathful storms - the institution was darkened by neglect. Forsaken by the benevolent, this was both God’s and my grave. Only one of the hospital’s windows remained lit. The crumbling monolith was once respected, considered a sign of progress. Now it is but a hollow shell. Shivering from the icy wind, I tightened my blue Union coat and with a sigh entered the hospital.

Upon forcing open the heavy oak door, I immediately knew something about this place was amiss. It seemed surreal. Torches burned brightly along the walls, illuminating the corridor while the shadows danced violently. The corridor itself was pristine - perfect. Blue-grey stone walls accented the smooth wooden floors as though the hospital had never been abandoned. However what really intrigued me was the steel gurney sitting in the centre of the room. A dust-bathed corpse restrained by leather straps at the ankles, wrists and neck. Dressed in the blue coat of the United States Army, he had a look of fierceness about him. He was a lion, a dead one, but a lion nonetheless. The broad shoulders of his muscular physique matched poorly with his mutilated legs. His frozen expression was one of anguish and anger; the face of someone scorned. Suddenly the door behind me slammed shut with a thunderous boom. However when I turned to face the sound the door was missing, replaced by a wall of cold stone. There was no escape. The new wall was perfectly smooth - almost unnaturally so.

Ignoring my rattled nerves, I trudged down the corridor into the next room. No torches lined the room’s frost covered walls. The howling wind abruptly fell silent. I could hear the sound of my heart beating rhythmically. It was cold and dark. I shuffled forwards - keeping one hand pressed against the icy cold stone wall of the room. Long after my fingers had numbed I reached a corner and was forced to turn. After turning a corner once again I realised that the room was cuboid in shape. The cavernous chamber was also covered in frost. Eventually I circled the entire room, finding the entrance had frozen over. There was no escape.

Slowly I shuffled to the centre of the room. Despite the dim light, the shape of an operating table was unmistakable. The coppery smell of blood burned my nostrils as I approached. Next to the table was a small stand containing neatly lined surgical instruments. Almost immediately my hand drifted to the bonesaw. I had performed many amputations in the war. Most were unsuccessful. Most died simply from lack of medical equipment. It was not my fault; there was nothing I could do.

A sudden barely-audible clatter of hardened steel loudly echoed throughout the frigid chamber. I was not alone. Immediately, my faithful Colt 1855 revolver appeared in my hands. Holding my arm out I aimed my well-worn firearm towards the origin of the noise. My marksmanship was average at best and the darkness prevented any possible precision. My basic training included shooting targets, not sounds. Shooting blindly was not an option either. Any competent enemy would sneak away from their previous position to confuse their opponent. However, with luck, I could potentially scare my stalker. Raising my hand slowly, I fired a single round. The gunshot’s thunderous boom resonated throughout the glacial chamber. Someone screamed. A silhouette in the distance collapsed. Darting through the misplaced trees in the wintery half-light, I reached a clearing.

The clearing was roughly circular in shape and was surrounded by dense pine trees in every direction. The familiar scent eased my rattled nerves, clearing my mind. Overhead thick clouds wept sleet, shrouding the forest.  This did not make any sense. A forest could not fit inside a hospital and I should not be able to see the sky. In the centre of the clearing laid a man in blue and gold military uniform - the colours of the Union. Quickly I darted to my brother-in-arms’ side. He was an older and more tired version of the man strapped to the gurney. My bullet had passed through and had shattered the man’s upper thigh. Purple venous blood steadily oozed out of his ruined leg. Gasping in pain, the man clutched at his left thigh desperately.

“Help me, Doc. A reb got me.” panted the soldier.

I had shot him.

“I’ll help you up.” I replied, offering my hand to the man. He reached back and I hauled him to his feet. Gasping in pain, he attempted to stand on his left leg only to scream and collapse. Struggling to bear the soldier’s weight, I gently set him down at the base of a pine tree.

“My… my leg. It’s broken ain’t it?” he sobbed, knowing I had no means of healing such an injury. His only chance for survival was amputation; it would also be an immediate death sentence. I could not possibly carry him the ten miles back to camp.

I nodded, my guilt leaking down my face.

The soldier cried. He knew how hopeless his situation was, most Union soldiers knew the horrors of amputation. Civil war doctors were not called butchers for no reason. I was not called a butcher for no reason.

“Jus’... Jus’ end it for me, Doc. Please. I ain’t gonna make it back.” said the soldier sombrely. He handed me a slip of paper from his coat pocket before he continued “Jus’ tell my boy, junior, that his father died so he didn’t have to.”

I reverently drew my revolver and held it a mere inch from the soldier’s forehead. He closed his eyes. Thumbing the hammer back, I gave the man a moment before he left. A saint and a sinner - one standing and one sitting. Except I was no saint and the dying man was no sinner. He had only fought for his son’s survival. His death would officially be by the rebels, but I know the truth. I am the truth.

“God bless America” whispered the man as I pulled the trigger and closed my eyes. 

I open my eyes to find myself knee-deep in a river tainted red. A blue and cloudless sky stretched overhead. Soldiers shot by Garzistas tumbled down the rocky riverbank like discarded dolls. Their screams all sounded the same. A young soldier tackled me, saving my life from a stray bullet. As the water dripped from my weary eyes I saw my saviour was the same man that had been strapped to the gurney - only alive. He was yelling at me but I could not hear his words. Roaring silently, the young soldier fired at Garzistas on the riverbank with his rifle. A lone lion fighting for survival of state and self. Suddenly he collapsed, grasping at his rapidly bleeding shoulder. Jagged bones penetrated the fabric of the wounded man’s trousers after several more bullets hit their mark. He was a dead man. We were on a battlefield miles from the level of medical attention he required. As his complexion began to pale a nearby soldier cried out and rushed to the dying man’s aid.

“Johnny!” called out the man as he pressed his hands against his friend’s wound. Snapping out of my stupor, I rushed to help the duo. This was not an injury that could be healed; his legs were mangled beyond repair. He would never walk again. Tears dripped down his face as the other soldier and I desperately dragged him up the embankment to relative safety. Exhausted, the healthy soldier turned to me and asked “Is there anything we can do for him, Doc?”

I shook my head.

Shaking in sheer terror, the condemned man drew his revolver. Realising what his friend was preparing to do, the soldier shouted “Don’t do it! John Brandon Junior for God’s sake hear me now, don’t do it. Just hold on!”

The dying man handed me his revolver, a Colt 1982. My eyes widened in horror as I drew back the gun’s hammer - preparing to fulfill the man’s last request. His friend, who was openly sobbing, turned away. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.

I awoke suddenly to the sound of the howling wind. Drinking in my surroundings I realised I had returned to the abandoned hospital. The stone walls were slowly deteriorating - like the minds of its residents. Only a singular torch at the end of the corridor remained lit. Amidst it all lay a steel gurney. A soldier with mangled legs hobbled forward to greet me. Roughly grabbing me by the shoulder, the man guided me towards the gurney. An older soldier stood beside the cart. He smiled. The two soldiers then laid me down on the gurney, securing leather straps at my ankles, wrists and neck.

“Settle down, Mr Ackerman” began the younger soldier in a feminine voice, “we can help you.”

The other soldier then chuckled, “Yes we can. One simple incision and all this will end.”

I struggled against the straitjacket and my bonds. The younger soldier took a slip of paper out of my pocket. Unfolding it, he held the note up to the light. It read:

John Brandon, Snr

Shaking with terror, I realised what I had done. The younger soldier then held a steel piton against my forehead while the elder took measurements of my skull. It was my fault. Holding a hammer above my head, the older soldier prepared to end it all. I did not deserve redemption. He then brought the tool down upon the piton, penetrating my skull with a liberating clang. The father and son preached “God bless America” as the fortress of my mind finally collapsed inwards. The majestic hospital, once a sign of progress, was now just rubble. My memories swiftly faded away alongside any semblance of self as    the last echoes of a dying mind fell silent.