Finny

I honestly don’t remember how it happened. I just remember sitting with my mother in the booth on the train, my father sitting across the way with a smile. His top hat was sitting on his lap, looking rather agreeable on his knees, and my mother was in a yellow dress, her golden hair all done in curls. I remember being ever so slightly bored, looking out the window as the train pulled to a stop in the last station before we started on our way to the seaside. After that, I don’t remember much of anything at all, except being very hot and very frightened, and my father calling for me.

The next thing I knew, I was laying in an unfamiliar bed, my vision blurry as I opened my eyes. A man sat beside me on the down comforter, playing a violin.

“Ah, Finnegan,” he said, ceasing his tune, drawing the bow away from the strings with a smile. “You’re awake!” I think I might have grunted in return, which was rather rude, thinking back on it. He laughed lightly, his thin lips pulling into a lovely smile. I felt his long, thin hand slide behind my back as he helped me sit up, propping a pillow behind me. I looked around the room; large, richly decorated, the height of fashion. Large crown moldings adorned the high ceilings, and pale green wallpaper lined the walls. The ceiling was the image of a bright blue sky. Even the door was beautifully carved with scenes from old Norse lore; fairies dancing and elves peeking from behind oaken trees. I jumped slightly when the handle turned. An immaculate face peeked around the door, his bright eyes widening when I met his gaze. He quickly retreated, hiding behind the moulding. The man sitting beside me chuckled lightly.

“You may come in, Witt!” he cooed in the direction of the door. The boy emerged again and slipped silently around the doorframe, then leaned on the wall quietly, his hands behind his back. “Finnegan, this is Witt. He and his brother Rig live here as well.”

“Hello.” I said quiet weakly, offering him a little wave. He made no reply, and simply stared at me with his large, pale eyes. In fact, all of him was pale; his hair was white and his skin the color of dove’s wings. It was as if he were made of early morning fog; devoid of color but filled with mystery and feeling.

“Say hello to Finnegan, Witt. He’ll be staying with us.”

“Hello.” Witt said quickly and quietly, immediately turning his attention to Elliot. “Papa Rig isn’t feeling well he told me to get you.”

“Alright.” The man said with a smile. “I will be right back, Finnegan. Witt will look after you, won’t you, Witt?” Witt seemed to recoil into himself, his pale cheeks turning a ghostly pinkish hue. He seemed suddenly filled with dread, his massive eyes gleaming with anxiety as Elliot left the room, taking his violin case with him and resting a hand on Witt’s shoulder as he passed. Witt stood silently, looking at me with those haunting eyes. I must say it was incredibly unnerving.

“Is Mr. Elliot your papa?” I asked, trying to make conversation. He shook his head, but said nothing. “Where is your papa?” I tried again.

“Dead.” Witt replied quickly and quietly, sitting on the floor, holding his feet in his hands, playing with the laces on a pair of thin seal skin moccasins.

“Oh…I’m sorry.” I said, feeling rather badly. It was then that I thought of my own mother and father for the first time after waking up. “I suppose my mother and father are gone now as well…” I said, thinking aloud, tears coming to my eyes. Witt nodded.

“They were killed in the train wreck.” He explained, again, almost too quietly to hear. I felt tears spill over and I put my face in my hands. Witt sighed, tugging on his shoulder-length hair before standing silently.

“Sorry.” He said, suddenly close. I looked up from my hands and found that he was kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “You will always be sad…but after a bit, it won’t hurt so much anymore.” He smiled meekly at me for a fleeting second before sitting back on his haunches, looking me over.

“What?” I asked, wiping my eyes with my nightshirt. Witt shook his head and looked away. I sighed, putting my hands on my knees, startled when my right hand could not find my leg. I looked down, becoming dizzy when I realized that my right leg was gone below my mid thigh. I fell back against my pillow, finding it difficult to breathe. Witt rushed to hold up my head.

“Finn.” He said. My world became a tunnel as my vision began to blur. “Finnegan!” he called as I lost consciousness.

—o0o—

I woke once again to the gangly man playing the violin quietly in the corner of the room, his eyes closed, his hair all a mess and falling out of it’s ponytail. He seemed older somehow, sunken and tired as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

“What happened to me?” I asked, seeming to startle Elliot. He stopped playing mid-tune, his oddly green eyes seeming to become luminous as the light faded from the room. He sat down on the side of my bed again.

“I am sorry, Finnegan. I was hoping to tell you a bit later. You gave Witt quiet a scare!” he chuckled. “I am a doctor, you see, and I’m afraid I had to take your leg to save the rest of you. I am terribly sorry, Finnegan, but not to worry. I’ve made you a top-of-the-line replacement. It’s just over there, if you’d like to look.” He said with a smile, motioning to a silvery prosthetic leaning up against the wall under the window. “You were very badly burned by the train fire. The burns on your leg became infected and I feared sepsis would spread.” I was at a loss for words and only nodded in reply. “I promise you’ll be back to normal very soon.”

“I—okay.” I said, unable to think clearly about anything. I began to shiver, and Elliot laid me back down gently, then covered me with the light comforter.

“Easy, Finnegan, just lay down.” he said. My breathing quickened, and he took the pillow from the chair in the corner and propped my feet up.

“I’m cold.” I gasped, panicking. “What’s happening?”

“Just calm down. Breathe slowly.” I did my best to follow his directions, but found it difficult to keep focused.

“Slowly, Finnegan, in through your nose.” He placed his violin gracefully under his chin and began to play again, slowly and carefully, as if contemplating each note, though it was the same tune he had played earlier. He seemed to age as he played, his skin appeared to grey, his hands looked thin and bony—more so than before. I contemplated this for quite some time, but I shortly fell asleep, floating on his melody like a lazy sea.