Blackstar, the real Blackstar woke up confused. He could feel pain in just about every part of his body. His mind was ragged and his thoughts were muddled and unclear. He also couldn’t help but feel… odd. It was almost as if he wasn’t quite right. He opened his eyes and groaned as bright lights clouded his vision. He shook his head and opened his eyes again, this time at a much slower pace.
Blackstar noticed that he was in a hospital room with a few machines and tubes clustered around him. Confusion quickly turned to fear, his eyes widened and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Blackstar called out, hoping someone would hear him.
“What’s going on here? Where am I? What am I doing here?!” In a matter of moments Blackstar could hear voices just outside of his room.
“Doctor, it seems the car accident patient is finally conscious!”
A little later, an older man with thin framed glasses and salt and pepper colored hair entered the room. His face was a mask of indifference as he stared at a clipboard. Then he examined Blackstar a little which resulted in a few grunts and moans. “Alright then, you seem to be recovering well considering what happened to you. Tell me, what do you remember about your accident?” The man asked, never looking away from the clipboard.
Blackstar racked his brain for what seemed like an eternity, but nothing came to him. Even his own name was a mystery to him. “I…I can’t remember anything.” Blackstar whimpered. “What happened to me? Who am I?” He asked frantically, his words becoming more and more incoherent the longer he spoke. At one point he moved is arm wrong and a jolt of pain erupted down to his fingers. He let out a choked groan but calmed down a little when the pain stopped.
“Relax,” The man said, completely devoid of sympathy. “We have your paperwork here. Your ex-foster father was more than happy to come forward and identify you to avoid accusations to his involvement in what happened to you. After that we were able to contact your caseworker and were able to acquire all of your records.”
“Can you just tell me why I’m here, and why I can’t remember anything?” Blackstar groaned.
“A car hit you and caused severe damage to many major systems of your body. You suffered from a cranial fracture which could account for your retrograde amnesia. Your spinal column was also severely damaged, but the spinal cord was only slightly bruised so you should be able to walk again. A few of your ribs were broken but none of them punctured your lungs and other organs. You even suffered from a slight organ shift. You’ve been unconscious for a little over two weeks now. All in all it should be considered a miracle that you didn’t die.”
Didn’t die. Those words stuck with Blackstar for a few moments. Something felt off about them. A sharp pain shot through his head as he tried to remember something. A minute later the pain subsided and Blackstar was confident in one thing. The doctor was wrong, he had died.
“Can you tell me who I am now?” Blackstar asked, hesitantly.
“Of course, your name is, [Your Name].”
[Your Name], it sounded strange to Blackstar, but it would have to do. “Thank you, Doctor. How long will it be until I recover?”
“It’s hard to say, but I’d say about a month or so. So, you should get as comfortable as possible. I’ll have one of the nurses bring in your case folder so you can learn a little bit about yourself. That is assuming if you still remember how to read.”
With that the doctor left the room and left Blackstar with his thoughts. ‘Something isn’t right here. None of this seems familiar. I guess that’s because I have amnesia, but it seems like it’s more than that.’ He thought, looking at his one good arm. ‘I feel like I don’t belong here. Like the entire world is foreign to me. Maybe I’m just overreacting. I hope I’ll be able to figure things out once I recover.’
A nurse came in about an hour later and dropped off a tray of food and a manila folder. “There’s also a letter that someone sent you in there.” The nurse carefully stated.
Blackstar quickly thanked the nurse and opened the folder fervently. He almost whooped in joy when he discovered that he did in fact remember how to read. But his heart quickly sank when he saw what was written in it. It started out with some date, his name, and the name of the caseworker and the location of the office. The rest seemed to be a personal report with dates at the top of each entry.
August 16, 2003
Today I started working with, [Your name]. All I can think to say is how much I feel for this kid. I had been told about what happened to him and I still can’t believe how hard he’s had it: Losing his mom on his seventh birthday due to surgical complications, and the recent suicide of his father. When he was let into my office I noticed three things about him right away. One, he had welts and bruises all along his face. I was expecting that because I was told about his fight in the orphanage he was sent to. The second was that he was clutching onto a shoulder bag and violin case like he was afraid he was going to lose them. He didn’t say what was in the bag, but I get the sense that whatever it was, it was immensely important to him.
I pointed at the case and asked him if he was any good at the violin. All he said was, “Not really, my mom was the real virtuoso.” That was the first time I had heard a nine year old use the word virtuoso. I would’ve been impressed if it wasn’t for the third thing I noticed. It was the look in his eyes. There was almost no light in them. It was like he was dead inside, desperately clinging onto some desperate sliver of hope. I’ve dealt with a lot of kids that have been in tough situations before and I thought I had seen everything, but that look was a first for me. So far it’s obvious he has signs of Major Depressive Disorder, so I’ll recommend treatment to the family that’s taking custody and hope he improves. I really hope he does, he seems like he could have a bright future.
August 21, 2003
Today I checked in with, [Your Name] in his new foster home. He’s shown no signs of improvement and whenever I ask him questions his answers are short and rigid. The family talked to me and says that he spends all his time away from others. They say he’s either: studying, playing the violin, or out looking up at the stars. I was expecting him to be despondent, and only time will tell if he’ll ever be normal.
September 5, 2003
[Your Name] has been sent to another home. Apparently the other family gave up on him. I was shocked and appalled by this, but he didn’t seem to care. He told me, “What did you expect? These people brought me into their lives to fix me. When they figured out I didn’t want their help, they tossed me aside to get their warm, fuzzy feelings somewhere else.” I’m in utter disbelief at that statement. Does he really feel that people only support the foster care system to feel good about themselves?
I was eventually able to ask him why he didn’t want their help. He said, “Like I said, they didn’t genuinely care about me. And there’s another reason.” I asked him what it was and he asked me if I was married and had kids. I told him I was married but I didn’t have any children. He nodded his head with an odd expression for a moment and then said, “Your wife is the most important person in your life, right?” I just nodded my head and let him continue. “Imagine if you’re wife killed herself.” That sent a chill down my spine. It was more than the thought of having Karen kill herself. It was the way he said it. His voice was full of malice, bile, and remorse. I could even see tears trying to form at the corners of his eyes.
“Now imagine she wrote a suicide note where she said she did it to make your life better somehow, and that she was sorry that she couldn’t find some other way, and at the end of it all said she would always love you. How would you feel then?” I told him I didn’t know. He snorted slightly and said. “Neither do I. And that’s what I’m dealing with because of my father. Do I hate him for doing something like this? Do I blame him for doing something he thought was right? Or do I just miss him and wish he hadn’t done it? And what’s more, what if it does make my life better? How would I feel then? Until I can find a way to answer these questions, I won’t feel any better.”
Blackstar decided to close the folder. He felt a crushing weight forming in his chest. He couldn’t believe he had said things like that. Not to mention the fact that his family was dead. None of it felt quite right, like everything else that had happened to him since he had woken up, except for the studying and looking at the stars part. Something about that was oddly familiar. He sighed for a moment and started to eat the cold food he had been presented. His mind wandered as he ate the tasteless food. Eventually, he was able to convince himself to read more.
March 15, 2012
It’s been nearly nine years since I started working with, [Your Name]. And there’s been virtually no progress. He’s almost as unresponsive to people as when he first walked into my office all those years ago. He still hasn’t found a permanent home to adopt him, and he doesn’t have a lot of time left. In a few months he’s going to turn 18 and the government loses responsibility and he’ll have to take care of himself. He knows this, and told me that he’d manage somehow when it came down to it. I didn’t like the way he had said, “when” and not, “if”. But a part of me felt like it was right. He’s been moving from one home to another for nine years and every single one has given back custody. And every time things seem to improve, or a home seems to stick, something happens to ruin it.
People around here gave him the nickname, Murphy. He knows about it, but to most it would seem like it doesn’t faze him. But I’ve been working with him long enough to read beneath his deadpan. It does bother him, but only because the name seems to fit. I want to help [Your Name], I do, but I don’t know what I can do at this point.
A few years ago, Karen and I talked it over and we agreed that we could try to take him in. We invited him over to our house for dinner to talk it over with him. He shook his head and told me, “I can’t live here. You and I both know that when I’m put in a home with good people that something terrible happens to them. Stan, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend in my life right now. It tears me up when someone I barely know gets hurt just because they wanted to try and take me in. If I did the same thing to you or your family I don’t know what I’d do. For Christ’s sake Stan, you have a newborn son! So please, if not for your sake, or mine, then don’t take me in for his.”
Karen and I teared up at that. [Your Name] really is a good kid. No one seems to know that because he doesn’t talk to anyone much, but that’s just another defense mechanism of his. After that he asked if he could see Derek, our son. Derek cried a little at first, but [Your Name] started humming a few bars from some piece of music and calmed him right down. I couldn’t really tell, but I think I saw [Your Name] smile a little. [Your Name] still comes over to our house every now and then, and Derek absolutely loves him. [Your Name] teaches him little facts and plays with him. I think it helps him in some small way. Whenever [Your Name] leaves to go to another home Derek always asks when he’s going to come over again.
I look back on that night when I offered to take him in and I always wonder if I should ignore what he said and just adopt him anyway. I know it’ll be a waste of time. [Your Name] is stubborn and would only do something drastic to avoid seeing us get hurt. Right now, he’s in the care of some politician and has been admitted to a psychiatrist. I hope this one sticks. He deserves a good home and a happy life. But at this point I think it would take a miracle for something like that to happen, and I don’t know if I believe in those anymore.
Blackstar closed the manila folder and stared out the window into the night sky, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I hope you’re wrong about miracles, Stan because I need one more than ever now."