Read Online Pretty Little Dead Things by Gary McMahon - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary McMahon
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clumped hair. What can only be brain matter oozes through the cracks, bulging like porridge from a shattered bowl. His narrow back is bare; the light green T-shirt he is wearing has torn right down the middle, the split in the material following the line of his spine.
  Damaged vertebrae show through his pale skin like the plastic components of a child's toy.
  I press my lips together, holding back a scream. I can feel my eyes growing bigger and wider and coming loose in their sockets.
  Those bones. So clean and white. Poking through his back.
  Then, slowly, the young man stands, and once again he turns to face me. Tears shine on his cheeks like slivers of broken glass; his eyes are becoming dull, glazing over.
  "I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to think of anything else to say. "So sorry." Sadness replaces the fear, acceptance pushes aside the doubt. I am not insane. This is all too matter-of-fact to be anything other than reality.
  The young man waves at me, still smiling, but the smile is fading like the final rays of a weak winter sun. He leaves the room by the door: no walking through walls, no magical vanishing acts. He even closes the door behind him.
  The bloodstains he leaves behind soon recede to dusty marks on the wall and floor, and after a short time they fade completely. I sit and stare at the spot on the wall, and at the floor around the place he had been. There is nothing there, not even the shape of my fear.
  Nothing there: everything there. This , I think, is where it be gins . And then I wonder where the thought came from, and what it could possibly mean.
  I know that I will never forget that young man.
  The following day I ask a nurse if anyone with head injuries has been admitted overnight. She looks at me strangely, backing away a couple of steps without even realising it, and nods. "A nineteen year old boy. Billy Adams. He and his girlfriend were involved in a motorcycle accident. She was driving his bike. He died five minutes after we got him in the emergency room. Why do you ask? Did you know him?"
  "No. No, I didn't. Not really." I thank her for the information and stare at the wall whose subtle imperfections I am growing to know and love. The fact that the boy met his end in a similar type of accident to the one I have survived is not lost on me. Is it simple irony, or a small component of some kind of grand design?
  After staring at the breakfast I cannot even think about eating I leave my bed for the first time in over a week (apart from reluctant trips to the toilet) and go looking for the young girl who was in the crash with Billy Adams.
  I find her on the women's ward â she is lying on her back with her face turned to the wall. The nurses are busy so no one sees me approach her bed. I sit down at her side, clasp her hand, and wait for her to see me. Finally, after long minutes of pretending that I am not there, she reluctantly turns to face me.
  Looking at her battered face, into her eyes, the fear returns. Am I doing the right thing, here? Is that what is expected of me? Was that a dream last night, a fragment of nightmare wedging itself into my broken little corner of reality? I have no way of knowing; all I have is a memory, and the hope that I am not losing my mind.
  All I have is belief.
  "Billy sends his love," I tell her, tightening my grip on her hand. I am still not sure if I am clinging on to her because I feel like I might faint or if I am just holding her there in case she tries to bolt. "He came to me last night." I picture his thin lips, the words they had formed: the interesting shapes they made.
  "Your name is Sally." It was not a question.
  Her eyes widen. Silence smothers us, cutting us off from the rest of the ward. At last I hear Billy Adams's words: they come into my mind like a song that has been stuck in your head all day because
  Damaged vertebrae show through his pale skin like the plastic components of a child's toy.
  I press my lips together, holding back a scream. I can feel my eyes growing bigger and wider and coming loose in their sockets.
  Those bones. So clean and white. Poking through his back.
  Then, slowly, the young man stands, and once again he turns to face me. Tears shine on his cheeks like slivers of broken glass; his eyes are becoming dull, glazing over.
  "I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to think of anything else to say. "So sorry." Sadness replaces the fear, acceptance pushes aside the doubt. I am not insane. This is all too matter-of-fact to be anything other than reality.
  The young man waves at me, still smiling, but the smile is fading like the final rays of a weak winter sun. He leaves the room by the door: no walking through walls, no magical vanishing acts. He even closes the door behind him.
  The bloodstains he leaves behind soon recede to dusty marks on the wall and floor, and after a short time they fade completely. I sit and stare at the spot on the wall, and at the floor around the place he had been. There is nothing there, not even the shape of my fear.
  Nothing there: everything there. This , I think, is where it be gins . And then I wonder where the thought came from, and what it could possibly mean.
  I know that I will never forget that young man.
  The following day I ask a nurse if anyone with head injuries has been admitted overnight. She looks at me strangely, backing away a couple of steps without even realising it, and nods. "A nineteen year old boy. Billy Adams. He and his girlfriend were involved in a motorcycle accident. She was driving his bike. He died five minutes after we got him in the emergency room. Why do you ask? Did you know him?"
  "No. No, I didn't. Not really." I thank her for the information and stare at the wall whose subtle imperfections I am growing to know and love. The fact that the boy met his end in a similar type of accident to the one I have survived is not lost on me. Is it simple irony, or a small component of some kind of grand design?
  After staring at the breakfast I cannot even think about eating I leave my bed for the first time in over a week (apart from reluctant trips to the toilet) and go looking for the young girl who was in the crash with Billy Adams.
  I find her on the women's ward â she is lying on her back with her face turned to the wall. The nurses are busy so no one sees me approach her bed. I sit down at her side, clasp her hand, and wait for her to see me. Finally, after long minutes of pretending that I am not there, she reluctantly turns to face me.
  Looking at her battered face, into her eyes, the fear returns. Am I doing the right thing, here? Is that what is expected of me? Was that a dream last night, a fragment of nightmare wedging itself into my broken little corner of reality? I have no way of knowing; all I have is a memory, and the hope that I am not losing my mind.
  All I have is belief.
  "Billy sends his love," I tell her, tightening my grip on her hand. I am still not sure if I am clinging on to her because I feel like I might faint or if I am just holding her there in case she tries to bolt. "He came to me last night." I picture his thin lips, the words they had formed: the interesting shapes they made.
  "Your name is Sally." It was not a question.
  Her eyes widen. Silence smothers us, cutting us off from the rest of the ward. At last I hear Billy Adams's words: they come into my mind like a song that has been stuck in your head all day because
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