First Kiss, Last Breath

by Lee Mather

  You are now entering the sitting room.

  Andy stopped, trembling with exertion. His ears pricked. There was a faint sound beyond the noise of the television, a quiet scratching maybe, some gentle movement.

  “...untapped riches of the rainforest. Experts believe that the cures for many of the world’s ailments lie undiscovered in the forests of the Amazon.”

  Andy studied the bulky television. There was no buzzing, no crackle of insects, but some quiet sound he couldn’t place, something disconcerting.

  “Get a grip,” he scolded. He took another step and crept farther into the room, not daring to look in the direction of the armchair. He was careful to avoid Grandpa as he moved his gaze from the television to the bookcase containing the biscuit tin. His foot nudged an air freshener and sent it skidding into the shadows. He started, breath catching in his throat.

  Andy calmed himself and took another step. He heard it again, above the noise of his heartbeat. He froze, listened. There was something subtle, something soft. He craned his head but couldn’t make sense of it.

  Andy remembered the moans from when he had tried to reanimate Grandpa and a terrible grief fell upon him.

  “Just your mind playing tricks,” he told himself.

  Andy thought of Nor at the concert, laughing and carefree, and felt surprisingly stronger. He took another step.

  The phone burst into a shrill, startled cry. Andy gasped and stood perfectly still. He looked to the ringing phone in a daze. His gaze fell on Grandpa then. It was an accident, an instinctive movement he couldn’t control. Maybe on some level he looked to see whether the noise had disturbed Grandpa from his eternal sleep.

  Andy wished he hadn’t. Revulsion climbed quickly from the base of his belly. Nausea pierced his numbness and threatened to overcome him.

  Grandpa’s skin shimmered under strobes of light produced by the television. His skin was green and waxen. It was dotted with pustules and blisters that bulged with pus. In places, the skin had peeled loose where the flesh sloughed from the bone to reveal gore-stained teases of skull. Grandpa’s face appeared to quiver. It moved. Andy stared, repulsed. The movement wasn’t due to the flickering light. He staggered, punch-drunk. He didn’t need to hear the subtle noise anymore lost beneath the howl of the phone, but he could see the cause. Maggots writhed, wriggled, chewed and squirmed in the hollows where Grandpa’s cheeks used to be. Andy cried out as he stumbled to his knees. The phone continued to ring, although the sound was quieter and seemed farther away than before.

  He wept, more helpless than he had ever been, watching as the fattened grubs devoured what was left of Grandpa.

  A better man would act.

  Andy cried out fiercely, forced himself to his feet, determination burning the tears from his face. He leapt for the phone. It had stopped by the time he reached it, as if it had never rung in the first place. For once Andy didn’t dwell on this thought.

  Instead, he dialed 999.

  Chapter 13

  The hospital was creaking at the seams.

  Stretcher after stretcher poured in without relenting and the staff worked at a frenzy to deal with the overwhelming levels of injured, some moaning, some screaming and others so quiet only the worst seemed possible. Andy vaguely heard something regarding a road traffic accident but, in truth, he was consumed by his own miserable situation. He had been here for an absolute age already, although due to the lack of windows, the brightly lit emergency department gave no clue as to the status of the dawn. Hawkins, the accompanying police officer, had left after ten minutes or so, something Andy found strange as he was here on the demand of the police. To be checked for crazy.

  Andy buried his head in his hands, although he didn’t weep. There was nothing left, only shriveled self-contempt. Grandpa was cooling at the mortuary while the morticians sharpened scalpels and prepared for the formalities of carrying out a postmortem on his rotting corpse. Meanwhile Andy waited for the psychiatrist, the doctor who would decide his fate. He closed his eyes and wobbled, then opened them, rubbed the fatigue away. He was glad, in a way, of the battlefield around him. The doctors and nurses were frenzied, focused only on the physically sick, not the mentally infirm. He went unnoticed and this didn’t hurt. Anonymity protected him from his scolding shame.

  Andy looked away when a screaming woman came too close, her bloodied face a mask of tortured agony. He saw maggots eating Grandpa.

  “Andrew Rowly.”

  He blinked.

  The nurse wore dark overalls and he was maybe forty, but it was hard to tell through the fatigue in his appearance. His facial expression revealed a complexity of competing problems.

  Andy stood, his legs trembling. If only the ground could swallow him whole.

  “Are you on your own?”

  Andy nodded and ignored the deeper implication of this question.

  “Come with me.” The nurse motioned to a corridor that twisted out of sight. He gave an anxious glance to a small boy on a gurney. The boy was missing a chunk of flesh from his bloodied leg. It looked like a shark bite, from Grandpa’s mako perhaps. A busying troop of nurses closed in and the boy disappeared.

  Nerves chewed at Andy’s belly.

  “Was it the bus crash?”

  The nurse looked at him blankly. “No. Two cars on the motorway. One of the drivers was drunk.” He paused. “Bus crash?”

  Andy’s flesh began to creep. “Umm, yes, earlier tonight. Near Hal’s Place. Not far from here.”

  The nurse shrugged. “Nothing’s come in.”

  Andy stared at him, horrified. Had he imagined it?

  The nurse offered a reassuring smile. “Well, to be honest, I’ve been on a patient transfer and I only got back half an hour ago. I might have missed it. Anyone you know involved? I could find out?”

  Andy shook his head.

  “Lucky you,” the nurse said. He motioned for Andy to wait as another bloodied body was wheeled past by frantic-looking staff.

  Andy nervously watched them race away. It wasn’t the bloodshed that unsettled him. It was the concept of death. In the hospital death never seemed far away. He shuddered then noticed a side room with a partially open door. A body lay on top of a bed. It was rigid, familiar and grotesque. Andy’s heart sank.

  Mr. Masters stared into eternity with one broken eye. The other was retracted in his head. His lips were dark with traces of blue.

  “You okay?” The nurse laid a hand on his shoulder. Andy stared at him dizzily then back to Mr. Masters. A medic in a dark-green overall had drawn a curtain around the bed. Andy couldn’t be certain of what he had seen. He shook as the old doubts returned. Was he crazy? Was that it?

  Disoriented, Andy looked back to the nurse who waited for a reply. He managed a nod, although in truth he wasn’t sure what he nodded to.

  “Good. Follow me then.” The nurse directed Andy inside a small office. “Wait in here. Doctor’s on her way.”

  Andy did so, his world lurching. He glanced around, his head aching. He struggled to take in his environment at first, but knew that if he kept still and concentrated then calmness would eventually find him. And it did. The tension soon left him and the blur before his eyes took shape.

  The office was messier than he would have expected, the desk hardly visible beneath the clutter. There were papers, some pens, a scribbled on notepad, and a couple of empty coffee cups. Behind the desk was a large notice board eclipsing the widest of the magnolia-colored walls. It was littered with pamphlets and flyers depicting a variety of medical schemes offered by a trust. His gaze couldn’t settle on any one thing and so much detail aggravated the pain in his head. As such he was grateful when the door shut with a thump and the contents of the room immediately lost importance. A middle-aged woman in a creased suit stood over him. She was instantly familiar.

  “It’s Andrew isn’t it? I’m Dr. Weller.”

  Dr. Weller. She had seen him before, a few years ago. He remembered then, like some valve had opened inside his h
ead. She sat in the seat nearest to the exit, either to block his route, or to make sure she could get out if she needed to. She held a manila folder in one hand and, with the other, she gestured for Andy to sit on the opposite side of the desk, which he did without a word. The room seemed a few feet smaller on either side.

  Dr. Weller smiled at him kindly. “It’s been a while, Andrew.”

  “You can call me Andy,” he said then, in spite of everything, stifled a grin. He was reminded of when he first met Nor.

  Dr. Weller nodded. She didn’t acknowledge his smile, but the pen in her hand, formally upright, relaxed to a slight angle. She began to tap it unconsciously, opened the manila folder on the desk and read whatever was written on the first page. When she looked up, the kindness in her smile seemed more functional than before.

  “Andy, I want to talk about your grandfather. Will that be okay with you?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve spoken with PC Hawkins. I want you to understand that this is a safe place. I’m only interested in your wellbeing. You can talk to me, so be honest. If you are truthful then I believe I can help you. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes widened and Andy saw concern reflected in them, even if only on a professional level. The wound inside gaped. Is that what his mum might have looked like if she had been there to tell him Grandpa had died? He imagined tears on her cheeks, her leaning closer to hold him.

  “Andy?”

  He nodded again, quicker than before. His eyes felt wet, his throat ached as if a noose tightened against the soft skin of his neck.

  “You have been through an awful lot. I have to make sure you’re going to be okay, that you have the means to leave this hospital and not come to any harm.”

  Or harm anyone else. He could see it in those wide eyes, just a little fear. He had been living with a dead body, after all.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  Andy stared at her. No words came. He had no desire to speak.

  “Stupid question, eh? Try and tell me, Andy, explain to me how you feel?”

  Andy felt the slightest anger, but it was distant. He met Dr. Weller’s stare. He imagined her as a glacier, a frozen waterfall. He gave a long blink. He would paint her as an impenetrable place, cold and slippery.

  “It doesn’t feel real,” he managed quietly. “Nothing feels real to me.”

  Dr. Weller nodded and wrote on her pad.

  “Forty milligrams of Prozac,” she muttered to herself then looked back to Andy. “Are the tablets helping?”

  Andy didn’t answer.

  Dr Weller arched an eyebrow. “Are you taking them?”

  He slumped back in the chair. Tears came. “I–I can hardly remember. I don’t even know how long Grandpa’s been dead for. I–I...”

  Dr. Weller tilted her head sympathetically. She pushed the manila folder away from herself and placed the pen down.

  “It’s okay,” she said slowly. “Death affects everyone, Andy. It hurts to lose our loved ones. Grief can be one of the most destructive forces we encounter in our lives. This is perfectly normal.” She paused as he composed himself. “You lived alone with your grandfather, yes?”

  Andy nodded distractedly. The mention of Grandpa felt like a knife in the belly. The maggots were back, writhing.

  “Can you remember why you take Prozac, Andy?”

  He stared at her dully. Part of him wanted to tell her something, anything to placate her. But he didn’t. He could guess, but he couldn’t remember exactly what was wrong with him.

  Dr. Weller nodded. “Extreme trauma can have this effect, particularly on people suffering with types of depression. Again this is a normal reaction.”

  The grip on Andy’s thorax lessened.

  “You’ve been following a course of medication for two years to help with a type of disorder known as depersonalization. Your history notes persistent symptoms of dissociation, of feeling isolated, of questioning reality. Life can feel like a dream. Is this fair to say?”

  Andy nodded. He felt exposed, as if the doctor could see through him. It wasn’t helpful. He gripped his hands together to stop them shaking.

  “What you’ve told me is consistent with these symptoms.” Dr. Weller sighed, collected the folder and the pen, and noted something down. “The treatment seemed to be working. Hmm... I’ve read the notes from your GP, Dr. Grant, and he states that you’ve enrolled at Aquinas College? So you were getting beyond the agoraphobia before you lost your grandfather?”

  “Yes,” Andy said, his throat dry. He pictured Dr. Grant. The doctor was older than time, with a huge mole on his cheek that had thick black hairs sprouting from it.

  “It is not uncommon that experiencing a loss like this could set you back a few steps, Andy, but there’s no reason for me to believe this state is permanent. We call it fugue and it is temporary. You will feel better.”

  “Thank you,” he said. It was a distant hope, but he needed it, needed something positive to cling to. Shards of memories were returning and none of them were good. He remembered missing the final year at school through his illness. He had lost weight, hardly spoke to anyone. Grandpa let him paint the Emerald Forest because he could hardly leave his room. Even the sunlight had hurt him. He recalled taking the tablets. They had tasted sweet on his tongue but felt bitter in his gut. Colors swirled in his head and he gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself. He knew then he had been broken long before Grandpa fell sick.

  Dr. Weller flicked through her notes. If she noticed the turmoil writhing beneath Andy’s skin she didn’t acknowledge it. She tapped her pen again. Andy could see she was deliberating on what to do with him. She nodded to herself and placed the file on the desk.

  “You’re eighteen, so child protection services don’t apply. That said, it might be best to keep you in for a few days while I establish the extent of your trauma and while I review the dosage of your medication–”

  “No,” he blurted.

  The surprise on Dr. Weller’s face was obvious. It hardened into a stoical expression.

  Anxiety reared in him. “Please don’t keep me in here.”

  Dr. Weller sat back and the pen bounced in her fingers again. She pursed her lips, wrestled with something. “Why don’t you want to stay, Andy?”

  He thought of Nor. “I–I–don’t want to be here, I’m going to a concert. I can’t be here.”

  Dr. Weller put the pen down. “It isn’t that simple, Andy. You were living with a dead body–”

  “I didn’t hurt him. I’d never hurt Grandpa!”

  Dr. Weller gestured with her open palms to calm him down. “There’s no suggestion that you did, Andy, but your reaction to this trauma is...unusual at best.”

  “Please. I don’t want to miss this.” he hesitated. “I feel like I’ve waited years for this. Please, doctor!”

  Dr. Weller looked away, then back at him. “It’s a good sign that you want to go to a concert. I don’t doubt that. But where would you stay tonight, if not here? Who would be there?”

  Andy thought of his house on the hill, the dark sitting room, of maggots wriggling in the cracks of the armchair and of the Emerald Forest being smothered by the darkness. Dr. Weller saw it in his expression. She started to stand.

  “Wait!” he pleaded.

  She hesitated.

  “There’s someone,” Andy said quietly.

  “Go on.”

  “Her name is Nor.”

  Chapter 14

  Nor numbly took a sip of the scalding coffee. She sat on a chair in the small office, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She chewed on her lip, none of the mischief that lived in her apparent. Her sister, Anita, paced the edges of the room, occasionally firing a malignant glance in Andy’s direction. He fidgeted, his arms crossed tightly, holding himself together.

  “Anita, can you give us five minutes?” Nor said. She placed her coffee on the table and gestured to her sister with a dismissive nod.

  “
He’s not coming back with us,” Anita said abruptly.

  “Anita!”

  “He’s not–Dad’s back. He’ll go apeshit! You must be crazy.”

  Nor stood, a physical barrier between Andy and Anita. Her sister, a little taller and broader than Nor, blinked in surprise.

  “Two words. Oasis tickets. You fucking owe me after the way Dad laid into me after you told him about the concert.”

  Anita looked at Andy then back to Nor. Her face softened slightly.

  “Five minutes. And then I’m taking you home.” She started to leave then stopped. “Oh and you better start thinking about what you’re going to tell Mum and Dad about why you left the house in the middle of the night.”

  “Just go.”

  Anita shook her head at Andy then left, slamming the door behind her. He watched her go and saw her as volcanic ground, uneven and barren with dark crevices and splits, red magma shining through from below. He wished he could have met her under better circumstances.

  Nor shrugged apologetically, but then her face collapsed into something like miserable confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, close to tears.

  Andy tried to answer but his throat closed. He swallowed, ashamed.

  Nor sat, rested her head against a shaking hand and stared ahead, through Andy.

  “Why didn’t you just...” She focused on him. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

  Andy stared at his feet wishing he never had to look up.

  “Andy, please, I’m trying to understand. You heard what the doctor said. She’ll only let you leave if you have somewhere to stay tonight–if you have someone there for you.”

  Andy met her gaze and fought to keep his eyes on hers. There was only concern in Nor’s expression. He tried to answer, but he couldn’t explain it. Was he weak, a coward? Or was it worse, was he genuinely crazy?

  Nor dragged her chair closer and held his hand. Her grip was surprisingly solid. She brushed her other hand across his cheek.