Henry Franks(52)

“He’s not going to wake up, is he?” she asked. Limp hair covered her face as her head rose and fell, pillowed on Henry’s chest. Brittle fingers rested on her son’s cheek, the cracked finger-nails softly drumming on his skin.

“I don’t know.”

“You killed him,” she said. “I watched you cut his head off.”

“I’m still trying, Chrissy, please.”

“I think,” she said, brushing the hair out of her face so she could look up at him, “I don’t...”

“Don’t what?”

“Care.” She closed her eyes, a smile spreading from ear to ear, exposing bloody gums.

“Chrissy?”

She opened her eyes but they were cloudy and distant, the smile still plastered on her face. Then she laughed, a harsh sound like a hiss as her fingers clenched around Henry’s arm, the broken nails digging into his skin.

“Chrissy isn’t here, please leave a message at the beep,” she said, hissing again with every beep from the machinery attached to her son.

He closed the door behind him, leaving his wife snoring softly, a diseased smile across her prematurely aged face. Frank leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and cried. Great heaving sobs wracked his body and he pushed himself up, afraid he’d wake them with his cries. He stumbled to his office, falling into his chair and trying to will himself to sleep.

“Frank,” Chrissy said, the words a million miles away in a dream of happier times; almost, he thought, a moan. “Frank.” His name, so sweet on her supple lips; the honeymoon, the wedding itself. The dream wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“Frank.”

He blinked, and saw a strange room, lit with computer diodes. He blinked again. His office snapped into focus.

She stood in the doorway, whispering his name.

“Frank.”

Her skin was dark in the dim light, a glint of a reflection in her hand. The distant memory of a warm embrace … he looked down, caught the shadow lines of bloody handprints wrapped around his arms.

The chair fell over as he lunged to the light switch.

“Frank,” she said again, as the glare reflected off the scalpel in her hand.

Blood pooled at her feet, dripping in a steady flow from her wrists. Beneath her chin, a hideous gash smiled at him, drooling blood.

“Frank.”

She collapsed to the ground and he fell with her, trying to staunch the bleeding from her neck, her wrists, her beautiful face. Taking off his shirt, he wrapped it around her, tying it like a noose.

“Breathe,” he said, but she was beyond breathing. “Don’t leave me, Chrissy, please.” He kissed her cheek, tasting her blood, unable to focus, rocking her in his arms, screaming her name.

Blood dripped between his fingers, staining the hard wood floor.

“Why, Chrissy?” he asked, his voice raw and strained.

“Save me,” she said before drawing one last breath. And then she was still.





thirty




“There wasn’t time to find a donor,” his father said, still kneeling in a pool of blood.

“So you killed someone,” Justine said, her voice flat and quiet.

“Her name was Sheila. I didn’t even know if she was the right blood type.”

“What went wrong?” Henry asked, taking the last step that separated him from his father. His feet squished in the blood as he knelt beside him.

“I rushed the transplant,” his father said, “I was crying. I loved her; no, I love her. I cut her vocal cords with the scalpel. There was too much blood, and she’d already lost so much.”

Henry rested his hand on his father’s arm and William stared at the contact.

He took a deep breath, then looked up at his son and Justine. “For you, I’d stockpiled blood. I didn’t have any for your mom except my own. I was so weak, and she was dying.”

“You saved her,” Henry said.

“She’s not human anymore, Henry.” His father closed his eyes. “I don’t know what she is now. I’m sorry.”

Henry pulled his hand away, breaking the fragile connection with his father. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Lightning illuminated the room and he saw tears mixed with the blood on his father’s face. Henry swallowed, struggling to remember the stranger standing next to him. “How did we end up here?” he asked in the silence after the thunder.

William opened his eyes, the faint memory of a smile crossing his face. “Dr. Saville grew up in this house, married some guy named Richard, but it didn’t work out and she moved to Birmingham. When I needed a place to go, she gave me the keys.” The smile grew enough to be seen for just a moment before fading away. “I moved us—the three of us. You were both in comas, unresponsive. I didn’t know if the surgeries had worked, but you were both alive and too many people knew us in Birmingham. So we moved.”



Faint sunlight filtered into the room through thick curtains drawn tight. The ceiling fan was still and the sound of the air-conditioning was drowned out by the hum of the machinery in the room. On the beds, Henry and Chrissy slept on.

The outside light faded as Frank’s eyes fell closed, his last view that of his wife, sleeping peacefully.