The Blessed Blade

Jacob Bailes hospital room
Methodist Hospital – Indianapolis, IN

Walking through a hospital was always eerie to him for some reason. Everything was always quiet, cold and unwelcoming. It reminded him of the time he had been wounded during combat. He hated hospitals and the thought of being told he had to stay in one until somebody else cleared him to leave was one of his versions of torture. He got his brother’s room number from the nurses’ station and stepped down the hall into Jacobs’ room. Looking in the room at his little brother Jacob, who was six when he left home, seemed so surreal to him.
Much like his mother, Jeremiah realized his father would never call him again to try to get him to seek peace and accept God’s forgiveness. Jeremiah shook his head as he entered Jacobs room. Where was God’s forgiveness today? Where was the peace?
There was a teenage girl sitting next to Jacob’s bed. Her eyes were closed, she had an open Bible in her lap and she appeared to be praying.
Jeremiah felt that familiar bile rising in his throat. Before he even realized it, he was speaking to her.
“He’s not listening, even if he decided too he never talks back.”
She finished praying, then looked up at him with a look of calmness he had not expected from one so young, especially after such an insult.
“He always answers. Most people are just too stubborn to listen to what he has to say, or they choose to ignore it because it’s not what they wish to hear.”
He had to admit he was caught off guard and wasn’t sure how to respond. He just shifted his gaze over to Jacob, plugged into so many machines he looked like a Borg in transformation from a Star Trek show. She spoke again.
“My name is Chelsea, I’m Jacob’s girlfriend.” Jeremiah just stood there looking at his little brother. The sight of him laying there in a coma caused a fire to light within him.
Chelsea continued. “You have to be Jeremiah, you are just as Jacob described you-“
“I know,” Jeremiah interrupted her. “I look like my father. I’ve heard it a million times before.” He looked over at her, the corner of his mouth rising in a knowing grin. “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
She gave him the look that all women give men when the man believes he is right but is WAY off.
“Actually I was going to say ‘bitter’. Jacob described you as bitter.”
Now it was the corner of her mouth that rose up knowingly.
“I can see we’re going to get along famously.” Jeremiah said with so much sarcasm he was surprised Jacob, lying there unconscious, didn’t chuckle.
Chelsea did chuckle though and got up and crossed the room and extended her hand. He was surprised at her petite body. She was shorter than he was, maybe 5’2”, and couldn’t have possibly weighed over a hundred pounds, but she did not look starved as a supermodel, all bony and skeletal. Despite her diminutive size she was rather shapely, and her fair skin and red-orange hair gave her quite a sense of confidence and strength. Jeremiah was actually somewhat impressed – good going Jacob.
Jeremiah looked at her outstretched hand. Years ago while in the service Jeremiah had plenty of time to think about the human race and some of the rituals we humans have decided to keep for no apparent reason than that they were used to them.
One of those rituals, Jeremiah had decided, was shaking hands. As far as he was concerned shaking hands was a bygone ritual that was used between rich men who decided amongst themselves how to best carve up the country for their own use. At the very least it was used by people who just simply felt that if they didn’t do it, then they would be disrespecting the other individual. Jeremiah decided years ago to only shake the hands of individuals he respected.
Considering the circumstances though, Jeremiah decided discretion was the better part and all that stuff so he gingerly reached out his hand and very briefly shook Chelsea’s. They both looked back at Jacob. Anger began to well up inside of him. In almost stark contrast to his own emotions, Chelsea walked over and, ever so gently, reached out and took Jacob’s hand in hers. She did not look at Jeremiah as she spoke.
“They still need someone to identify your father’s body, they wouldn’t let me do it because I’m not a family member. ” She then gingerly put Jacob’s hand back next to his unmoving form and softly moved a strand of hair away from his eyes.
Jeremiah had seen enough. “Somebody is going to pay for this.” He thought of his mother, at home alone and, more than likely, scared. He turned to leave and Chelsea spoke.
“‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the lord’. Their time of judgment will come and God will choose their fate.” He stopped to listen to her but he did not look at her as she continued.
“Nothing any man can or will do shall change Gods will.” Jeremiah glanced over his shoulder at her. Malice was evident in his eyes and a hellfire’s worth of hatred was forming in his heart. She sensed his uneasiness and moved closer to him.
“The anger in your heart is not Gods intent.” She reached out as if to hold his hand. He took an abrupt step back, well out of her reach. She folded her hands in front of her and had a sad look on her face.
“Whether God intended to anger me or not is of no consequence. I’m going home, I’m going to kiss my mother’s forehead, and bury my father. After that I’m going to put my government training to use and God will have plenty of souls to judge.”
With that he walked out and never looked back.