like ice, stare back at me.
My last thought:
OBITUARY WRITER DIES IN HAUNTED HOUSE .
NO ONE MOURNS .
CHAPTER FOUR: AWAKE
S queak, squeak, squeak. The room is moving. No, wait—it’s me that’s moving. My right hand begins to shake—I feel the neurons trembling, filaments that are jumpy, nervous, like a radio with bad reception. I want to reach behind my head and see if it’s still there, but my arms won’t cooperate. In fact, I can’t feel them at all, which is strange—what was I dreaming again? I was on a slab in a morgue and there was a flayed corpse and a nurse in bloody scrubs, the stink of formaldehyde. Was that a nightmare? Some kind of hallucinogenic flashback? And then the deeper dream, the woman in the water. My leg burns where she gripped me— impossible .
“Is he conscious?”
Am I? My eyes flit open. Guess so. The ceiling is covered by cheap beige panels, which pass by in a blur. My head jiggles to the right. Two men in light blue scrubs; one has a cheesy seventies mustache and hobo-style stubble (did the Village People recently lose a band member?), and the other is Nordic and blond, like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. They clutch the side of the gurney, faces beaded with nervous sweat, and there’s a frantic edge to the way they look at me. I want to reassure them, but my mouth won’t cooperate, so instead I just lie there. It’s comforting somehow, not being able to do anything, handing it all over.
“Mr. Petrov, can you hear me?” asks Village People doctor.
Why are they talking to my dad? Oh, that’s right, I’m Mr. Petrov these days.
A woman now comes into view, all angles and loose skin, as if she stopped eating years ago. She’s very corporate in a prim black suit with small glasses perched on her pinched nose.
“Mr. Petrov, if you can hear me, I want to let you know that Grace Memorial is going to do everything necessary to make sure you enjoy a speedy recovery.” Her voice is smooth and practiced.
“I’ve got you a private room on the top floor. I’m putting my personal assistant Jessica at your complete disposal, so if you need anything—and I do mean anything —she’ll see to it personally. If there’s anyone you want to have visit, we’ll be more than happy to fly them out and put them up in the finest nearby hotel.”
There’s a fine hotel nearby? Where, Boston?
“Do you mind ,” J. Crew doctor says curtly. He has one of those testosterone-square jaws and is probably sleeping with a few nurses, damn him. “He’s still a patient and not a litigant yet.”
“My card,” she says, studiously ignoring him. She slips it in my pocket (apparently I have a pocket now) and pats it firmly, as if she wants to make sure it doesn’t escape.
Then, whoosh , she disappears as I’m pushed into an elevator. There’s a mirror on the ceiling, so I get a good look at myself.
I look like shit.
There’s no, and I mean no , color in my normally pale skin. I am freakishly white, blindingly arctic-tundra white—in fact an albino who’d spent his entire life in a cave would look positively tan next to me. Ditto my lips, which have a cadaver-quality blue tint, and—hold on—even the irises of my eyes have gone from a deep, earthy brown to something approaching a wintry dull gray. I’m sure I could easily terrify everyone in the confines of the elevator by holding my breath and not blinking, because damn if I don’t resemble a newly resuscitated zombie. I try a grin. Impressively creepy. In fact, the overall effect would make Stephen King fall over and have a heart attack from fright.
I glance over at Village People doctor, and his eyes nervously flick to mine. Is that a tremor in his hand? Muzak plays in the background, a symphonic version of “Dancing Queen.” Irritating. I stare at Village People doctor and bare my teeth, try a frightening hiss. Instantly his back is against the stainless steel elevator wall, and he holds up his hands defensively.
J.
My last thought:
OBITUARY WRITER DIES IN HAUNTED HOUSE .
NO ONE MOURNS .
CHAPTER FOUR: AWAKE
S queak, squeak, squeak. The room is moving. No, wait—it’s me that’s moving. My right hand begins to shake—I feel the neurons trembling, filaments that are jumpy, nervous, like a radio with bad reception. I want to reach behind my head and see if it’s still there, but my arms won’t cooperate. In fact, I can’t feel them at all, which is strange—what was I dreaming again? I was on a slab in a morgue and there was a flayed corpse and a nurse in bloody scrubs, the stink of formaldehyde. Was that a nightmare? Some kind of hallucinogenic flashback? And then the deeper dream, the woman in the water. My leg burns where she gripped me— impossible .
“Is he conscious?”
Am I? My eyes flit open. Guess so. The ceiling is covered by cheap beige panels, which pass by in a blur. My head jiggles to the right. Two men in light blue scrubs; one has a cheesy seventies mustache and hobo-style stubble (did the Village People recently lose a band member?), and the other is Nordic and blond, like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog. They clutch the side of the gurney, faces beaded with nervous sweat, and there’s a frantic edge to the way they look at me. I want to reassure them, but my mouth won’t cooperate, so instead I just lie there. It’s comforting somehow, not being able to do anything, handing it all over.
“Mr. Petrov, can you hear me?” asks Village People doctor.
Why are they talking to my dad? Oh, that’s right, I’m Mr. Petrov these days.
A woman now comes into view, all angles and loose skin, as if she stopped eating years ago. She’s very corporate in a prim black suit with small glasses perched on her pinched nose.
“Mr. Petrov, if you can hear me, I want to let you know that Grace Memorial is going to do everything necessary to make sure you enjoy a speedy recovery.” Her voice is smooth and practiced.
“I’ve got you a private room on the top floor. I’m putting my personal assistant Jessica at your complete disposal, so if you need anything—and I do mean anything —she’ll see to it personally. If there’s anyone you want to have visit, we’ll be more than happy to fly them out and put them up in the finest nearby hotel.”
There’s a fine hotel nearby? Where, Boston?
“Do you mind ,” J. Crew doctor says curtly. He has one of those testosterone-square jaws and is probably sleeping with a few nurses, damn him. “He’s still a patient and not a litigant yet.”
“My card,” she says, studiously ignoring him. She slips it in my pocket (apparently I have a pocket now) and pats it firmly, as if she wants to make sure it doesn’t escape.
Then, whoosh , she disappears as I’m pushed into an elevator. There’s a mirror on the ceiling, so I get a good look at myself.
I look like shit.
There’s no, and I mean no , color in my normally pale skin. I am freakishly white, blindingly arctic-tundra white—in fact an albino who’d spent his entire life in a cave would look positively tan next to me. Ditto my lips, which have a cadaver-quality blue tint, and—hold on—even the irises of my eyes have gone from a deep, earthy brown to something approaching a wintry dull gray. I’m sure I could easily terrify everyone in the confines of the elevator by holding my breath and not blinking, because damn if I don’t resemble a newly resuscitated zombie. I try a grin. Impressively creepy. In fact, the overall effect would make Stephen King fall over and have a heart attack from fright.
I glance over at Village People doctor, and his eyes nervously flick to mine. Is that a tremor in his hand? Muzak plays in the background, a symphonic version of “Dancing Queen.” Irritating. I stare at Village People doctor and bare my teeth, try a frightening hiss. Instantly his back is against the stainless steel elevator wall, and he holds up his hands defensively.
J.
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