bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and could smell Will everywhere, all over me. It felt good, which surprised me. I thought I’d feel something more along the lines of sadness and grief for what we’d lost, but I only felt comforted by the remnants of his presence.
Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.
Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.
The hospital morgue.
Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.
She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?
The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.
Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.
No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.
She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.
Still, the light tugged.
Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.
“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.
He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.
“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”
He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.
The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.
The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.
The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.
The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.
“Now, we wait,” the white one said.
Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.
And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.
She screamed inside.
Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!
The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the
Leaving on my underwear, I slipped under the covers, pulling them all around me, and snuggled down deep in the cool sheets.
Yeah, this was definitely what I needed.
The hospital morgue.
Two women were there. One on the cold, narrow table. And the other, a thought or conscience without form, hovering above, looking down at the sight with confusion and mild curiosity. That figure on the table was revolting. Gray, bruised, and beaten. Skull cracked open. Dead.
She, the one above, tried to remember by what. Was it a baseball bat? A crowbar? An iron staff?
The woman on the table was naked, covered to her armpits with a white sheet. She was a complete mess, but she hadn’t always been that way … She’d been pretty once. Had liked the shape of her breasts and her long legs. Liked the way her wavy mahogany hair brushed her lower back when she was naked. She liked the dimple when she smiled and the pouty lips that always drew men’s eyes. She’d been happy once.
Something tugged hard on the consciousness floating above the body, pulling her toward the ceiling. A light was there. But it was far, far away and before it swam shadows, darting in and out of the murkiness. She wondered if she could dodge the shadows without trial and pass into that soft, beckoning light.
No, no, she couldn’t go. Not yet.
She couldn’t remember why, but knew there was a reason, a monumental reason, why she couldn’t go.
Still, the light tugged.
Others came into the room. She could see their shapes but not their features; only the body on the table remained vivid and clear to her. They spoke, and it sounded as though the voices were underwater. She pulled away from the ceiling to hover closer.
“Can she be saved? She’s been gone for some time,” the tall figure said. He wore black. Perhaps it was hair, but it could’ve been a hood. She couldn’t tell. His voice, though muffled, was deep and powerful.
He was somebody. Somehow she knew this.
“If she can’t, then this won’t hurt her,” the other said. He was swathed in white. Perhaps it was a lab coat or a cloak, but he had no hood. His hair was brown, and he was tall, just not as tall as the other. “But if she can,” he said, “then all our work will be worth it.”
He pulled the white sheet to her waist, revealing her breasts, her startling injuries, and the bruises on her chest where they’d performed CPR. He turned her wrist, revealing the soft part of her arm. Then he stuck a needle into her vein.
The dark one smoothed her hair from her forehead, hair that was matted with blood. He whispered to her.
The light from behind pulled stronger. The shadows dipped and flew closer, crying out in screeching misery, though the volume was dulled by an unseen barrier.
The dark one looked up at the ceiling abruptly as though he sensed something there, but after a moment he turned his attention back to the woman.
The consciousness was caught suddenly in a tug of war; the light pulling her upward and the dead woman on the table pulling her down. Panicked, she fought against both.
“Now, we wait,” the white one said.
Amid the panic, she still knew she had to go back, had that reason, that thing just on the edge of her memory. And she was afraid of the shadows, afraid they’d get her before she could make it to the light. So she dove toward the body, away from the screams and cries of the shadows and away from the peace of the light.
And before she lost the sense of being separated, she realized as she melded with her body, that she’d just dove straight into hell.
She screamed inside.
Fire. Dear God, she was on fire!
The rush was so loud and hot, her eardrums felt as though they bled lava. And then the
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