The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 35

The guards rushed from the swinging Emergency Room doors, utility belts rattling and radios blaring. The supervisor's blunt and increasingly impatient voice communicated the last known sighting of the 'trespasser' through the radio speaker—code brown: about six-foot-five, dark colored cloak—his imposing voiced paused—face covered in scars. The two guards burst onto the central parkway roundabout passing a parked ambulance, and a man illegally smoking a cigarette whom they would've quickly escorted off the premise if not for the matter at hand.

One of the guards turn to the man. "Did you see a man wearing a black cloak walk this way?" The man thought about it, sensing their urgency while hiding his cigarette and simply shrugged.

The guards rushed off towards the parking lot scanning the immediate area when one of them stumbled. He'd gotten snagged on a dark cloak. He picked it up showing the garment to the other guard, perplexed. "This the cloak?"

The other guard frowned and made one last pass over the lot. Cars were silent and parked. Lights off. He stepped into a vacant spot. A piece of white paper flittered by catching his attention. He watched it blow along about ten yards between a small sedan and a pickup, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a hunched over, old figure hobbling and slipping behind a row of cars. The guards motioned simultaneously, leaving the cloak on the pavement, and made their way back to the hospital resigned to the very real possibility the trespasser was gone by now.

~~~~~~

The air was still though possessed a replenishing quality of completion, like a spent match, or the smell of worn tires after a long drive. That unequivocal feeling you've come to the right place where traveling down a winding and dark road ends. A place to finally rest. Qulin reached the end of hospital parking lot, and began up the hill struggling mightily up the incline, his legs hampered by a profound heaviness as if he was trudging through thick mud. He reached the top of the incline, and perhaps out of a collective respect, no cars were present in the street to disrupt his path. As he crossed towards Old South, his walk grew more labored, into a shuffle, as he came to the main gate. His body immersed in a blanketing fatigue, so in need of rest, shoulders hunched towards his chest, back curved sharply. Old South was home—it called loudly, clearly, that there was room to come sleep, that there was finally a bed for a three-hundred year old man. His legs buckled and clattered loudly, unable to bear his weight, he steadied himself on the concrete beam, the cool stone imbuing him with this wonderful sense of belonging. His fine, thick black hair had taken on a deep gray complexion like pale smoke. Long frail locks dangled passed his neck and rested in the concave part of his chest as a wilted grape vine lies against a crumbling tree trunk. Clothing dangled from his body. He coughed hard and labored to collect his breath.

He wondered what was happening to his body, more curious than fearful, as he gently caressed the wrinkled skin on his arms, smirking as it reminded him of one of his scrolls. His body didn't feel like a breaking nor a decay but a comfortable and desired slowing down. A natural process that had evaded him for too long. To finally be within its necessary clutches, a luxury. He glanced back at the hospital. He thought about Lucas growing up, and living a purposeful life. He had witnessed Lucas' courage and knew it would be everlasting. He believed no matter what seemingly insurmountable odds Lucas encountered henceforth, he'd do what was required. A brisk smile formed across his withered lips. Lucas would grow into the man Qulin never could be. Giving life back to Lucas was the greatest joy, in spite of his deteriorating condition it was as if for the first time he was floating alongside the stars and not the subject of their gawking and judging presence. He moved onward through the first row of headstones. His fingers curling in on themselves like shriveled blades of grass. His embattled life had been worth it afterall.

As his mind served to finally mend the meaning of his life, he slowed to rest. Something soft rubbed his leg. He looked down. A black cat circled his foot, tame and amorous red eyes gazed up.

Qulin winced. He recognized those feline eyes—those once vicious eyes gazing from a single head. The cat purred gently, continuing to knead affectionately into his leg. The cat's eyes widened, obliging him to reach down. He struggled to a knee. With his feeble hands, he ran his fingers across the cat's arching back.

"What's happening to me?" he choked out, gasping.

The cat leapt into Qulin's arms, its eyes unwavering. He pressed its silk-like fur closely and headed towards Cora. The cat gently patted his face, a familiar tingle rushed from the bow of his jaw, up through his cheeks and over his forehead—in place of rigid scars, the wilted flesh of a wrinkled face appeared. The face of a long buried man, finally resurrected. He broke into a veritable grin. "Three-hundred years catches up fast."

The cat acknowledged with a deep purr then leapt from his arms and trotted off.

He followed through the last headstones, his boots slipping off his bony feet, slack ends dragging in the soil, breath growing shorter and shorter. Rest welcomed.

He stumbled to Cora's opened grave. Her headstone stood anew, the giant crack, gone. Intense purring fluttered up from the grave. The sound of Cora humming followed. He lowered himself into the open grave and lifted the casket cover with what remained of his strength. Luminous blue light beamed out.