Lost Souls

By Benny Smith

Those without souls are lost among a society of Angels. Terry, Sabrina, and Bella did not suspect that they were such lost souls. Reared in Jeffersonville, of north Georgia, Terry and Bella were from spiritual families; Sabrina was beautiful and street smart.
In search of his wife, Sabrina, the only woman he had loved, Terry survived head trauma but lost four years of life and endured twelve years of unjust imprisonment, resulting in countless hardships and struggles in search of his soul, a worthy being.
Sabrina mothered three children, two of whom were taken by the courts. She later married, mothered two more, and deserted them. Found dead but unidentified, she was buried in an unmarked grave.
Bella was forced into a planned marriage by her father to her third cousin. After a year and daily prayers, she was freed by her husbands demise. But she suffered for years a life of loneliness, feeling unworthy of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468588187

Benny Smith

The author, Benny Smith, is originally from Macon, Georgia, and presently resides in New York City.

Book preview

Lost Souls

I was very cold. I was lying faceup but unable to move, open my eyes, feel, or speak. It seemed clear that I had nearly frozen but sensed unfamiliar surroundings. I was confused as to whether it was day, night, or a dream. Sounds of nearby vehicle traffic constantly zoomed past before fading away. Over time I learned an expressway was only feet from my window. It was impossible for me to formulate words into sentences, and unmercifully I inhaled a mixture of odors: coffee and food overpowered by a nasty tang of urine and feces.

Suddenly, as if a light bulb had switched on, my eyelids opened; however, everything was cloudy, and I was barely able to focus. I feared going blind. Uncertain of anything, I threw caution to the wind, even if it worsened matters. I was determined to attract attention. With an unfamiliar raspy voice I repeatedly shouted for help in what sounded like whispers. Hopeful without negative consequences. At last I was surrounded by figures I saw only in silhouette, who frightened me terribly but soon proved helpful.

My vision was cloudy as if I was looking through a steamy shower door. The silhouettes I learned some years later had been a few probing and concerned residents. Who they were didn’t matter; I was relieved someone had come, and I clung to their every word. He’s awake! A voice shouted excitedly, followed by another one who asked rather shocked why I had been hidden in an unused room.

A different female’s voice ordered all residents out of the room and began giving orders. One was to remove a net I didn’t realize was over the bed. As soon as it was removed, my vision became clearer—but only briefly, because my face was immediately covered with a veil. I was greeted warmly by the officious female. My nervousness evidently had been crystal clear because she assured me consolingly I was in good hands, and my distressed mind to some extent relaxed. I had no sensations but knew my body was being washed. I later understood her name to be Nurse Cotton.

Good morning, Doctor, I heard in unison. Once again I could no longer comprehend. Bewildered, frightened, unfamiliar with medical terminology or even simple groups of words, I was terrified. Unaware of time, I remember fading in and out of consciousness.

At some point the veil was removed, and I looked into the eyes of a female who stared down into my face and said it was time she and I met. She introduced herself as my doctor, whose name I forgot. I do recall bright lights before falling asleep and her saying aloud I was to have a liquid diet. She also visited me a number of times.

Besides the ailments I’ve mentioned, even though at times awake I failed to realize when someone had entered the room and stood at my bedside. As when faced with adversities we overcome, at times my vision was fair, but what I saw failed to register with my mind. Teams of psychiatrists at times came into my room and stared down into my face. I had gotten accustomed to being gawked at by doctors, staffers, residents and visitors alike. At times people, not thinking, stood over me as if I was dead.

From one team a female expressed delight I had awaken, introduced herself and commenced to ask simple questions, which I couldn’t answer—such as my name, who was the president and the day of the week. I couldn’t answer any, but instead of admitting it, I pretended to ignore her and asked my whereabouts. As I was fading into unconsciousness a male from the team said that I was in a rehabilitation center.

During months of therapy sessions, I learned bits and pieces in regard to how and why I was there. Originally I had been taken to a city hospital traumatized, and although comatose, I was treated and discharged after nine months—still comatose, but medically nothing more could be done. Consequently I was sent to two short-stay rehabilitation centers in hopes I would awaken. I spent a year in each, with no signs of improvement, I was admitted into Spring Valley’s Rehabilitation Center, for long-term care. Three years before I had survived gunshot wounds to the head, back, and private area. It had taken years to learn all the above, but I failed to understand I had slept for four years.

Time had no meaning; therefore I couldn’t understand years. Fortunately during those years, continued physical therapy kept my muscles and body functions in working order. Aside from physical therapy, I was nurtured and washed by aides. After I regained consciousness, I heard someone say hopefully my medical history could be tracked down.

A Dr. Harden explained that I wasn’t in a hospital where medical attention was required. I was back from purgatory, his cute way of saying coma. According to his information, head trauma caused the comatose state associated with memory loss. Trauma had also damaged my spine and caused paralysis. My private area had been severely damaged and healed but with irreversible damage. Doctors had predicted my motor functions and memory should soon follow. I was encouraged significantly by their prognoses.

Dark clouds lurked with silver linings. A newly discovered cousin became my surrogate. Lora worked as a nurse in the city hospital where I had been taken. As fate had it, Lora’s mother finally revealed our relationship. Lora met my parents, and amazingly she right away became my surrogate and compiled a scrapbook. One year later, I was discharged, and Lora held steadfast and continued as my surrogate and persistently visited three nights a week.

Lara said that, one night before leaving for home, as she adjusted the protective net, she noticed my complexion had darkened and my temperature was extremely high. Not only did she immediately report it, but she documented it because, being a nurse, she knew the importance of documentation. Her conscience persuaded her to wait a while longer before leaving. After two hours my complexion and temperature were normal, so she left for home.

Next morning she received a wonderful and exciting phone call, reporting that I had awakened! Lora later enjoyed recalling her excitement and how she had immediately phoned my parents. She recalled it all with some amusement because Mother understandably wanted to pray. My father had gotten the news through Mother and wanted to speak with Lora. But instead of insisting, he kept reminding Mama the call was long distance. My parents hadn’t heard anything positive about me in over a decade. I had been transferred three times since my parents’ only visit years before. Therefore, Lora gave them all the needed information and suggested they phone and inform the center of their intentions.

Lora continued that her mother, who lived upstate, along with many others, was skeptical of her efforts. Later she was elated over the news and praised Lora for a job well done. Her mother had written me off, feeling I wouldn’t recover, and wished Lora to be free of her pledge. Lora made a final call to her job. Her co-workers over the years had cooperated in her efforts by switching tours, reporting for duty, or providing her transportation when needed.

However; nearly all the hospital’s employees knew of her deep involvement and devotion. Although some had been quite critical, most shared in her joy over my progress, even doubters who had wagered against it. In anticipation of her arrival for duty, her co-workers were disappointed. Everyone expected her to report late for duty. She arrived earlier than expected and spoiled a party being planned for her.

Lora had rushed to the center but to her disappointment was not allowed to see me. Even though she was my proxy, it carried no weight. Fully aware of undisclosed details of my arrest, she had been disheartened that policemen only allowed doctors and selected staff members to enter my room. Television news reporters lingered patiently in expectation of breaking news. Lora finally asked the center’s administrator to keep her informed and rushed off for work.

Due to financial and physical difficulties, my parents had only visited me once. I had been comatose, and no one could predict my outcome. On very limited time my parents had to mournfully leave not knowing if I would live or sleep away. However, three years later they came a second time. Lora said that, even though I was heavily sedated, in and out of consciousness, I instantly recognized their voices. I never revealed to her I had been awake and hoped someone would notice my tears and realize I was conscious.

Now I heard three voices: my parents and one I didn’t recognize. My dear mother’s was at full volume. She thanked God and asked that Lora be blessed. Even thought Lora was my health-care proxy and had sat with me for years, I had no idea who she was. My father’s voice wasn’t as loud, but he expressed thanks I had awakened. Unable to speak, I questioned his sincerity. He complained about complications of travel, as well as their disabilities and their lack of finances.

He ranted about their church had granted them a second loan, citing it hadn’t been a year since he paid off the first. As I thought of the circumstances I felt unworthy of their involvement. My thoughts were that my death would cost everyone less. Lora, however, had taken my father’s revelations as truthful and realistic and the result of his need to vent. Nor had she seen him as airing his business in public because she was family. My father also expressed his belief that my wife, Sabrina, had been instrumental in my being in New York.

I remembered the episode distinctly, and my heart went out to my parents. I wanted desperately to express my love. I thought being awake had its downside. The unspoken part of what my father said was easily understood. Once again I had caused them serious hardships, emotionally, financially, and physically. I admittedly neglected my responsibility by not going home, preferring to find my wife instead. My infatuated, thoughtless and injudicious actions had pulled them off base and put them in a situation of extreme destitution.

The difficult situations I regrettably created, more times than not, were costly as well as unforgivable. In all my adult life I had been about being my own man. However, it hurt deeply when I realized I had not heard the words transfer home—perhaps because I was without insurance coverage and my parents were without funds. Nonetheless, unknown to us, I had been a ward of the state and therefore hadn’t been allowed to leave under any circumstances. Because I was state’s property, medical bills incurred belonged to the state. To be transferred or not was a no-brainer.

Lora held all rights in regard to my health affairs. She, administrators, and a few staffers knew I was under house arrest. By court order they were prohibited from divulging any information about me under any circumstances, not even to my parents. There hadn’t been a need for police guards. I was totally paralyzed and therefore posed no risk of escape. I was closer to dead than alive.

I had no idea when my parents arrived, how long they stayed, or when they left for home. For me, events just happened with no beginning or ending. But once, while strapped to an exercise table, I was mesmerized by a woman who often appeared in my dreams. She stood at the door and visually searched the room. A nurse approached her and pointed in my direction. As she approached, I realized she was my twin sister, Teri. Before I could acknowledge her, I plunged into one of my emblematic sleeps. From what I was told by staffers, I was always put to bed.

I awakened and heard voices, but my eyelids refused to open. Consequently no one could know. Several people were conversing, but I only recognized two voices: Teri’s, which I hadn’t heard in years, and Lora’s mostly by their conversation. Eventually my eyes opened, and children curiously looked intently into my face. One yelled, Aunt Teri! He’s awake. Teri and Lora joined them around the bed and greeted me happily. But I disappointedly failed to recognize my children.

I can only surmise here. But perhaps had not Teri been present, I would have recognized my children or at least made a guess. I knew one had yelled, Aunt Teri! But I had never known her to involve herself with children. It was noteworthy I had recognized anyone; the four stared as if lost for words. Somehow I understood that Teri said my children were nine and seven years old before I fell into a slumber.

I am unaware of what time had passed, but maybe the next day, my son and daughter had been unable to conceal their disappointment. Lora fixed things by explaining my loss of memory was due to my illness and assured them I would remember everything soon. Years later, I learned their hurt had been a lot deeper than I had imagined, because not only had I deserted them; I had forgotten them as well.

According to Lora, Andrew moved closer to my face and asked if I remembered getting shot in the head. To their surprise I responded no and asked when. Years ago! Andrew continued You’re a hero—do you remember that? I became apprehensive, confused, and withdrawn. Years later I learned that a year had passed between my parents’ visit and theirs.

Teri repeatedly tried to stimulate my memory, totally ignoring my lack of concentration or interest in an album she and Lora had compiled. They had filled a large picture album with news article, pictures, and cards from well-wishers and covered the entire occurrence of the disaster. To include and maintain the children’s interest and trying to avoid boredom, Lora decided to plant some family seeds. How she learned of her unknown father and met his brother, my dad, for the first time and trusted him to be involved in my affairs. The word trusted summed up her generosity.

Her original intentions had been only to meet my parents. She hadn’t known anything of her late father or his family. As she recalled, she was in third grade, eight years old, when her mother calmly informed her of his death. It had been insignificant because she hadn’t known she had a father. As she grew older and occasionally asked questions, she saw it disturbed her mother deeply. Therefore, in adult hood she felt far removed from his family. However, looking forward to meeting my parents, she had been anxious but enthusiastic.

My parents’ arrival had been announced and many watched televised coverage of them being met and escorted hurriedly to police headquarters. Police had finally found a needle in the haystack. My parents were to be questioned as to why I hadn’t been reported missing, as if I weren’t fully grown. Lora’s mother, on the other hand, had gotten the shock of her life. She recognized my