The Button

Looking at my watch and striding up to the doors of the hospital, an impatient sigh left my lips. I had to be in court in three hours, but I needed to stop and get the last piece of testimony from a client first. My firm was working on a high profile case in which a woman had escaped from being held captive in a soundproof shed for years. She still wasn’t stable enough to leave the hospital but was willing to give a statement. Willowbrook Medical Center, where she was recovering, gave me the creeps so my reasons for rushing were more than one. Pausing before the double doors, I pulled my vibrating phone from my pocket. 

A glance at the screen told me it was my assistant, Lucille. “Hey, I’m about to go in. Is everything okay?” As she began to speak, an unkempt, limping man in strange, old fashioned clothing walked towards me. His coat was hanging off his skeletal frame. “Oh excuse me, sorry” I muttered and stepped aside to let him by. “Who are you talking to, Arryn?” I looked and at the same time swung the phone in the direction the man had gone and said, “I was talking to-where’d he go?” Lucille’s eyebrows went up and she said, “There’s no one there. You’re imagining things, Arryn.” I blinked to clear my vision, and said, “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t get much sleep last night because I was going over this case.” Lucille agreed and we finished talking and hung up.  

Making my way through security, the volunteer at the desk asked for my and the patient's name. Giving her both, I then stuck the visitor's pass on the handle of my bag. I refused to show up to court with sticky residue on my clothes. Heading for the elevator bank to the right, I murmured to myself. “I need…room 4210.” The elevator dinged a greeting and the doors wheezed open. Stepping inside, I smoothed down my black pants suit even though it wasn’t wrinkled. I pressed the button for the fourth floor, noticing the emptiness and thinking it odd for that time of day. 

The doors clanked close, and it began to move. Second floor…third floor…fourth floor. Stepping forward expecting the doors to open, I felt it instead drop and the light for the basement was lit. Huffing, I mashed the fourth floor button, nothing happened. Beginning to panic, thinking it was broken, I kneeled down and braced myself for when it would stop moving. My body rocked forward as it came to a halt. Hearing and feeling something clink against my shoe, I picked it up. It was a coat button similar to the ones that had been hanging on the man who had passed me outside. Or not passed me. The button was forgotten after placing it in my pocket as a cry for help could be heard through the doors before they slapped open. 

Heart racing, I took in the scene in front of me. A strange haze tinted the room, as if I was looking through red glass. A man wearing the remains of a woolen gray uniform was laying on a bloodstained, hard pallet and screaming. We locked eyes and he cried out, “NO! MISS! DON’T LET THEM TAKE MY LEG!” Standing over him was a stocky, older man wearing what used to be a white uniform, covered in blood. He was holding a filthy hacksaw above his head, intent on taking said leg with or without permission. The limb the man was fighting so hard to keep was an oozing, mangled mess and far beyond saving. Shifting my gaze, I noticed the room was full of dead or dying war soldiers. The room was filled with the sound of moaning, groaning and whispered half-prayers. The scent of gangrene, unwashed man, and blood filled my nose.

No longer at Willowbrook, I had been transported to a what appeared to be a Civil War era field hospital. The doctor wielding the hacksaw turned to me, where I had taken one brainless step out of the elevator. The doors closed behind me and my heart dropped. In an eerie, flat voice he said “Grab some bandages, Nurse. This will be a tough one.”

I looked down at myself in confusion and screamed. Gone was the chic pants suit I had chosen for today. In its place was a knee length gray dress made out of wool and over it a white apron, also covered in blood. The soldier on the table was still fighting for ownership of his limb. Over his protests, the Dr. barked, “Someone give him whiskey to shut him up. And where’s that nurse with the bandages??” He tossed the hacksaw down and shuffled off, muttering. “Nurses-never where you need them-get it myself.” 

With my hand clutching my chest and tears in my eyes, I whipped around and mashed the open doors button for the elevator frantically. The men's screams sent chills down my spine. They had noticed me and were all calling out. For water, for mercy, for Mother. I flinched at the ache in my chest at not being able to give them any of those things. Despite having every intention of fleeing, my feet carried me instead towards the nightmare. 

Still having a hard time believing my eyes, my hand reached out to the soldier who had seen me first. Nothing but an icy chill grazed my palm. His ocean blue eyes seemed to stare through me and he said through gritted teeth, “Tell my Ma. Tell Ma I-I’m sorry.” A leather belt appeared between his teeth and those beautiful eyes closed. Soon the doctor was done. It felt like time had frozen, my feet rooted to the floor. Finally, finally, the elevator opened. It seemed to break the spell and I walked backwards without taking my eyes off of the room. The doctor's shoulders were slumped as if he was carrying the weight of the world. “You can’t save them all, Miss...” he said, turning to his next ghost amputation, the now dripping hacksaw in his grip. 

The elevator doors slid blissfully closed and I took a breath for what felt like the first time in hours. Shaking, I looked down at myself and the cotton dress was gone. No blood anywhere. Watching the floor lights warily, and trying to breathe through the adrenaline racing through me, the fourth floor which was my destination all along appeared. My thoughts were racing, trying but failing to rationalize what I had just seen. My client, Reesa Allen was tucked away safely at the end of the hall, Willowbrook’s finest guarding her door, and at the moment was all that mattered. 

Reesa had escaped from the soundproof shed where she’d been imprisoned the past six years. The cretin responsible, Julius Baesard, was in a hospital across town, recovering from his inexplicable fall down the stairs following his arrest. The officers, who were familiar with me by now, gave me a nod and shifted out of the way so I could knock, then enter. 

By the time we finished, my folder was full of wobbly signatures and Reesa looked exhausted. Tucking the folder into my bag, I stood to leave. Something beneath the bed caught the light and my attention. Leaning down to look, thinking it was a dropped piece of medical equipment, a button that matched the one in my pocket was laying there instead. Ignoring the chants of the voices in my head telling me never to pick something up from a hospital floor, I picked it up anyway and asked Reesa, “Is this yours?’

She held out her hand. I dropped the button into her palm, and she rolled it between her fingers. “Yes,” she said tiredly. “These were on the coat Julius always wore.”