Tears of Blood

by Rachel Martin

  Tears of blood

  Our end is their beginning

  Rachel Martin

  Tears of Blood Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Martin. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Paper and Sage

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Rachel Martin

  Follow me on Twitter: @DirectedRage

  To Wayne, thank you for all your support.

  CONTENTS

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  one

  “Darling,” my Mother wheezes.

  She’s only just realised I’m standing beside her. I’m next to her bed, gazing down over her. Even in the dim lamplight, I can see that her face is red and blotchy. There is a darkness encasing me, wrapping me up tighter and tighter. My eyes have an intense pressure behind them. I feel as if I am about to explode. I want to scream. I don’t. My heart races. I flush. The heat is turning up. Tears are forming, ready to burst forth. I gulp down the acid rising within me. Everything’s going to be OK, I tell myself. It’s all going to be alright, I think, I hope, I pray. I clench my teeth together. I unclench them. My jaw feels the ache.

  “Yes,” I reply putting on my sweetest voice and forcing a broad smile.

  “Will you go to the shop and buy me some throat sweets, please. There’s some money in the drawer downstairs. My throat.” She gently rubs the front of her neck with her red, flaky fingertips, then falls into a coughing fit.

  The darkness is strangling me. I grab the glass sat beside her on the bedside table. I drip some water onto her mouth. It takes a few moments before she even realises there’s water on her chapped lips. A white slug-like tongue emerges from the dark recesses of her infected mouth. It flops out and onto her lip, lifelessly. It tries to absorb the moisture. I visibly shudder. This is bad. This is really, really bad. No it’s not, yes it bloody is. I can’t deny it, can I? I want to deny it. I want to ignore the evidence of my own eyes. They’re lying to me, aren’t they? Aren’t they? Please say yes... But no, I know this is bad. I just know it. Somehow I knew this would happen. Something inside of me is saying it’s the end. No it’s not, it’s not, things are going to be OK, but, still… I think she needs a lot more than bloody useless throat sweets.

  I scratch my head. I’m sweating. My head is hot and moist. I drop my hand to my side and stare down at her feeble figure cocooned inside the duvet. Under her eyes are the darkest circles I’ve ever seen. I realise my mouth is hanging open. I close it abruptly with a chop. What’s worse is that she looks as if she’s wearing blood-red coloured eyeliner, like her eyes are bleeding. I shudder again involuntarily and immediately regret it. I can’t let my feelings get the better of me. I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, hard. I try to block out all other senses, but I can’t.

  I don’t know why, but I actually feel guilty. It is escalating and taking hold of me. I feel guilty for shuddering. I feel guilty for being well. I feel guilty for being so useless. I gulp down the acid. This is not my fault. I grab the Vaseline from the dresser. I stick my finger into the goo and rub it over what used to be my Mother’s plump red lips. She smiles pathetically, her thanks. Dear God, this is not like her; this is not like her at all. Usually, even when she’s ill, she makes the best of herself, but today she can’t even be bothered to look in a mirror. In fact she hasn’t even left the bed. I can tell. She’s been festering away all day in here, with the curtains pulled shut. The air in here is thick like a steam room, and it stinks of… of… of body stuff. I don’t want to think that it smells of decay, of rot… of death, but that is what it does smell of. I clench my teeth once more. The memory of entering the bedroom just a few minutes ago hits me again, it is beating me. I audibly gasped at the smell, at the heat, at the moisture in the air. It kindled some kind of latent memory, something far, far away, something misty, out of view, something I am unable to grasp. Why? Something I have known, but not known. No… No, no, no, I am in shock. I run my hand over her head, she is boiling hot and clammy. My hand recoils instantly. I wipe it on my sweater. I can’t help but wring my hands together. I look down into her puffy, watery eyes. She looks up at me.

  “Maybe some Lemsip too,” she continues in her pathetic, willowy, rasp of a voice.

  My heart is aching to hear her like this. I hold back the fear from reaching my eyes. Her hand reveals itself from under the duvet. I don’t want to touch that sweaty thing, I stare at it for a moment, then go for it, I clasp it in mine, then withdraw my hand instantly. It’s boiling hot and wet. I don’t like it. A sense of death infiltrates me. She knows it’s coming. I know it’s coming. I sigh deeply. No, I don’t. I look up at the ceiling, hold my breath for a moment, then brave it. I grab her sweaty hand. She squeezes mine feebly.

  “And some painkillers too darling.” She coughs.

  I smile down at her and nod encouragingly.

  “Maybe you could get me some Co-codamol from the pharmacy, or something else, something stronger. Just see what the pharmacist says.”

  “OK,” I say.

  I stand silently and stare down at her, mesmerised, horrified, terrified. Before my very eyes she seems to transform from red and blotchy to grey. I blink and re-blink. I shake my head. This really is happening. Isn’t it? I can’t believe it. Sweat is running down her forehead and onto the pillow below. There is a circular wet patch around her head. Her usual glamorous forty-two-year-old self is gone. My Mother has completely vanished into the air, into this grotesque version of a sauna. Perhaps I am breathing her in. I am breathing her in. I fight back the tears. I fight back the shock in my eyes. I fight back the urge to run, anywhere but here. I don’t want her to see my fear. I don’t want her to feel any worse. Yet, I can’t help but think that this is a stranger lying before me, someone whom I’ve never met before, some bony old woman of sixty or seventy or more. The change in her from this morning is unprecedented. I have this rising dread growing and expanding within me. I do feel like I knew this would happen. I feel guilty that I am not lying there instead of her. I feel guilty, but this is not my fault, and I could be the next one to catch it. I gulp. The darkness is entering my soul. My body goes rigid. My heart freezes. Her eyes close, she passes out. I shake her hand.

  “Mum, Mum,” I cry, panicked. “Mum.”

  She cracks her eyes open.

  “Maybe you should call the doctor,” I urge, “I think you need to see a doctor. Don’t you think you need to see a doctor?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Cough, cough, cough, cough, she put
s a tissue to her mouth; it comes away speckled in blood.

  I can see the shiver in her, the break in her strength. She doesn’t want me to see her fear, but she can’t hide it, not at the sight of her own blood on the tissue. She knows something. She knows it’s going to get worse. She tries to hide the repulsion on her face, but she can’t. She looks up at me.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says unconvincingly. “It’s just the flu. Thousands of people get the flu every day, Love.”

  I want to scream at her for being so stoical. I repress it.

  “I don’t know Mum, half the school was off today, the teachers too. Loads of people went home early. I thought they were all faking it, you know like they do, but… well… I’m starting to think something’s really wrong.”

  She grips my hand.

  “I’ll be fine; it’s just this pain, it’s like… I don’t know… I feel like I’ve been beaten up.” She pauses to gasp for air.

  I gulp, then put my hand under her head, she is so hot. I lift her head so I can pour some water into her mouth. The sight of her white tongue is making me sick. I look away and manage to hold the vomit down. I rest her head back down on the wet pillow.

  “And I have this headache,” she says in a whimsical, mysterious tone, eyes glazing over, she is not talking to me anymore. I shake her hand. She wakes up and looks at me. “It’s taking it out of me. The paracetamols are doing nothing. Tell the pharmacist.”

  I walk to the window and open it, “you need some air,” I say.

  “Stop it darling, please close it now.” She is shivering all over, her teeth are chattering.

  I do as commanded. She relaxes back down. I stare at her, motionless, mouth hanging open. What is going on?

  “At least put the tele on, take your mind off of it,” I say as I grab the remote which is still in the same position I left it in this morning, on the chest of drawers, at a crooked angle, my signature way of leaving things.

  I stick on the 24 hour News channel. What a monumental mistake. It’s blaring out:

  ‘Stay home. A&E’s all over the country are full to capacity. Do not go to the hospitals you will not be seen. I repeat stay at home. Keep warm in bed if you are sick. Drink plenty of fluids. If you need to seek medical advice call your doctor. Alternatively, call the NHS Direct helpline. The NHS has uploaded a special self-diagnosis tool onto their website. I urge you all to go there. I repeat do not venture out to the hospitals.’ The news reporter wipes away a tear, her lip wobbles as she looks at the next cue card, she actually starts crying.

  My mouth is hanging wide open. I can’t cry. I can’t quite believe this is real. I realise I have been holding my breath. I breathe. I hold my breath again. The Newsreader manages to continue:

  ‘I am sorry to report that the death toll is beyond comprehension. It has already exceeded five million in this country alone. I am sorry. I wish you all well,’ she falls into a coughing fit.

  I watch on open-mouthed, hypnotised. The video from the studio is cut to feed from a helicopter. The first image on the screen is of an A&E entrance. The image is zoomed right in. At the door there are groups of people crowding around outside in the cold. Most of them are falling into coughing fits. Hands to mouths, white cold air breath coming out in big chunks, body’s heaving. The image begins zooming out. It spans out over the endless queues. They wrap around the hospital and down the road. There are people lying on the freezing tarmac. Others are coughing, gasping for breath, then falling down. The video zooms in on one of the fallen, there is blood coming out of his eyes and dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. The cold air breath that he was just expelling a mere second ago has ceased. People are stomping over him. They cut the feed to another city, then to another, then another. At the bottom of the screen, on the ticker, the words: ‘No comment,’ keep running along and repeating. I guess… what can they actually say that we are unable to see in these horrifying images? I blink, re-blink, rub my eyes, and shake my head. Is this actually happening? I pinch myself. I watch. The same scenes are repeated in every city in the country. Then the channel plays scenes from all over the world. It’s the same situation, as if a mirror is held up. People in the tropics lining up for miles outside of make-shift surgeries. Other cities from all over the world, Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, the dead and dying litter the streets and other people trample over them desperate to find help. No one is spared. There are traffic jams, crowds, fights, someone pulls out a gun. I can’t stand it anymore. I try to change the channel. I mute it instead in my panic. I turn it off. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This can’t be true… it’s a fucking joke isn’t it? Isn’t it? I try to convince myself, but I know it’s not. I scratch my sweaty head nervously. What am I going to do? I close my eyes and gulp down the huge rotten apple in my throat. I breathe deeply. One, two, three, four, five, calm down, calm down, and everything’s alright again... Not. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. I bite my tongue.

  “Sorry Mum,” I say turning around and looking back down at her.

  She is asleep again, she didn’t see it. She didn’t see me, thank God, I sigh with relief. I shake her hand. She wakes up. Her docile, stupid, glassy eyes slowly begin to focus in on me. I try not to cry. I try not to scream. I shiver. I hesitate. I look her over. This does not feel right. Something is terribly wrong. I push down the black hole that has taken root inside me.

  “Would you like anything else?” I ask with a chirpy tone, trying to sound as casual as I can.

  “Do we have bread and milk?”

  “Yep.” I smile with all my teeth.

  “No then darling,” she pauses gasping for air. “If I do think of anything I’ll call your Father.”

  I kiss her on the forehead; my lips come away wet. I wipe them on my sleeve. Gross, I think, but I smile sweetly at her. She smiles pathetically back. What the Hell is happening?

  two

  “Come on you,” I say as I extend my hand to my little brother.

  He rips his wide, dark green eyes away from his cartoons and looks up at me imploringly.

  “Yes, you’re coming too,” I say.

  I grab his hand, pull him up, and lead him into the hallway.

  “Where are we going?” he asks as I wrap him up in his warm winter coat, scarf, and mittens.

  “We’re going on an adventure,” I tell him.

  “Really,” he says. “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  I kiss his cheek and open the front door. The cold air hits us immediately, along with the sounds of the city. We both shiver, look at each other and laugh nervously. We step outside, down the steps, through our little front garden, and out onto the pavement.

  The roads are already worse than they were when I arrived home. I can’t believe it. It’s gridlock. Cars line the street in both directions. Engines running, horns beeping, red and white lights shining and casting strange illuminations on all the shocked faces of the many, many people staggering about. They are crying, coughing, wincing in pain. I glance at the car windows. People are shaking their fists, and punching their steering wheels. Vapour is clouding from their mouths as they scream ‘arsehole’, out of their half wound down windows, spittoons flying. I can feel it, the collective panic, the mass hysteria, it is rising. They have no hope in their hearts. They thump down on their horns. All the tooting and shouting and crying and wailing are creating the impression of some sort of depraved orchestra. It is crushing down on me. It is all melting into one. I am inside the sound. I am lost. I shake my head and try to ignore it. I grip Olly’s hand tighter and bring him closer to me. I pick up the pace.

  My will flags. I can’t help but look at the cars. I notice the sick in the passenger and back seats. I am struck. It is suddenly silent save for that vision. They are far worse to behold than anything else. I am captivated. They sit quietly, their heads leaning against the windows, or just hanging forwards. They are so weak. Some of them are gasping for air. Some of them have tears of blood rolling down their gr
ey alien faces. Their friends and family are shaking them. They are trying in vain to rouse them. They have gone. It is far too late. There is a fearful knowing in the eyes of the living. They know their fate. They are next, despite themselves. I can feel their pain, it is emanating out of them. They have an intense dread infiltrating their veins, their organs, it is paralysing them. They are turning to stone. I can see them try to deny their coughs, their sniffs, their sweats, the cold. They can’t help themselves, they can’t help anyone. They cry, they scream, they toot their horns and curse. What else can they do? They can’t do anything. They hobble about in despair. The noise is permeating me. The panic. I look down at Olly. I step in front of him and kneel down. For a long while I just stare into his green eyes looking for signs of illness.

  “How are you feeling? Have you had a cough like Mummy had yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Proooo-mise,” I repeat, stretching out the word.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Good.” I hug the little guy, and he hugs me back, his small arms are barely able to reach around my back. I’d hate it if anything happens to him. I carry on walking faster and faster, dragging Olly with me.

  The situation doesn’t get any better as we enter the high street at the top of the road. In fact it is worse, much worse. I stop, we stop. We look about and absorb the scene playing out before us. For a minute we just stand, muted, and stare. Many of the shops are closed and have their shutters pulled down – something which is very weird in itself at this time of day. Others have their windows completely smashed in, and the shutters are ripped off and thrown into the high street. There are alarms going off all around. Another sound to add to the haunting cacophony. I know I will remember this. My brother looks up at me and I look down at him at the exact same moment. He does understand. I sigh then shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. I try to pretend like this is no big deal, but he knows I’m lying. I can see it in the way he looks at me, head cocked, eyes squinted, a gesture of a much older person, I realise. I shouldn’t have brought him with me, but I did. And as I feel this now, I need him, I knew I would need him, somehow, my bones knew it. I am scared to be out here all alone. Despite myself I am glad he is with me. He fills me with courage. With him here, I have to be strong, I have to succeed. We both look forward in unison, in our mutual silence there is an affinity between us, we understand. We have to get to the pharmacy. I don’t want to, but I have to. I have to do something to help. I have to try and save my Mother. How could I live with myself if I didn’t do something? I hesitantly put one foot forward and we step into the chaos.