Extraordinary Sickness (on hold)

c h a p t e r . t w e n t y

I made a rash, but completely justified decision. I hated the rashness of it, but there wasn't a wide range of options.

I remembered being aware of stepping out from behind the wall, facing the old woman and the old man, peering at me with eyes like antique trinkets swallowed by a cat.

I remembered lunging forward, drawing back my arm and locking a fist.

I remembered a feeling that I couldn't describe. Like peaches rubbing against each other on the inside of my skull.

At some point, my bony fist connected with the soft face of the old man. Or the old woman. I couldn't tell anymore. I could have killed them. All that mattered at that point was seeing my parents again. No one chased me out, but I ran with a butchery of knifes slicing through my ribs, desperate to leave this planet. I ran through the streets, where nothing had a story anymore; they were all erased. I ran through the homes that didn't have soul.

My fists felt strange pounding on the door for the fifth time in about a minute. I didn't want to think about it. I pounded again.

The door swung open to a slice of the hallway; it was a good two inches.

"Unlock it, or I can very well promise you I'll break it down."

It was a kid I'd seen around the city. Gangly, soft face, boyish eyes. The kid that Hugh offered help to when his house was broken into. He kind of reminded me of a cookie.

"Password?"

"I'll slit your throat, kid. Let me in, now."

"Uhh, I'm really sorry," he awkwardly apologised. His eyes swept away as he rubbed the nape of his neck and said: "Hugh told me not to let anyone in without a password."

"I MEAN IT!" I heaved my body against the door, pushing the boy back on the ground. I heard him fall hard against the stairs leading to Hugh's apartment with a startled gasp. "OPEN IT," I spat over and over again, throwing myself against the feeble door until my side hurt. I could break it down, I could seriously injure the child, I realised.

I stepped back. A sharp pain jutted through my head, instantly throbbing and numbing my body.

"Miss? Um, are you still there?" the boy asked after a couple of minutes in silence.

I grunted, doubled over, panting.

"Yeah, I'm still here," I muttered as I straightened up. "Look, can you get Hugh? He didn't give me no password, okay?"

"Oh. Yeah, um, okay. Be right back."

The boy bounded up the stairs.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"I swore that you were right behind us, Mena. I'm so sorry. Nelson said that we couldn't turn back though. He said that you were in trouble. What happened? Are you alright?"

My acquaintance's burly head craned back to watch me come up the stairs behind him. His chunky brown hair curtained around his face like tassels.

"It's fine. I just overheard their conversation. Nothing else happened."

I shouldn't feel so guilty. They need to die. Both of them. Before we do.

I thought about the kid holding Hugh's door, what I've done. Everything I've done since I left. I thought about leaving the city, trying to cure them.

What have I done?

"Overheard their conversation? About what? Mena, this is great! We can do something, maybe."

We came to a landing. I'd always avoided Hugh's place like the plague. It was dingy and small, smaller than mine. A foul smell of canned soup was like an added layer of gas, only increasing a stifling pressure in the room. Yellow fading lights lit up the artificial day.

There were people at the main table. The boy who'd let me in, who had his head buried in a magazine, and the bushy haired kid I've always hated, picking at his nails. I heard others stirring the back room somewhere.

"I'm not talking about it now. Not until you show me my parents," I demanded lowly.

Hugh turned around, looked me in the eyes, which actually hurt quite a bit. I couldn't remember the last time I shared mutual eye-contact with anyone. He put his meaty hands on my dirty shoulders.

"Of course you can see your parents. Mena. I'm your friend. Remember?" he seemed genuinely hurt, pleading with me. Pleading with me to be who I was before. Pleading everything to be like it was before.

But that wouldn't be any better though, would it?

I could feel the others painfully trying to keep their gaze averted.

I didn't take my eyes off his. "Hugh. Where are they."

Reluctantly, his gaze pulled away. His face dropped. "They're over here."

He lead me to his bedroom, a closed, chipping door before a moldy bathroom. A light bulb flickered above us. "I'll leave you all alone," he mumbled and backed away.

I turned back to face the door, clutching a grimy golden knob in my palm. With a jerk, it cranked open, and a dingy bedroom with a moth-ball fragrance consumed me.

Two bodies were lying on top of a grandmother worthy quilt. It was so macabre that in such a maneuvering world, my mother and father had the eerie ability to stay so perfectly still.

I put a hand up to my face, only to see that it was blackened with dirt and that my fingernails were chipped to the nub. I rubbed my eyes on my sleeves instead, which weren't much better.

"Mom. Dad."

My thought caught on the words like a fishing hook on a catch that was actually worth while.

My father sat up. His small sturdy frame held up strong head covered in peppery hair that dusted his shoulders. His glasses must have been long gone. He squinted up at me, liquid, wondering eyes pondering my slow movements.

"Hi," I finally said, offering a small wave and a wet, wet smile. My lips were rubber. My face was water.

He didn't smile back at me. He hardly moved. "Excuse me," he said softly.

"Yes?" I choked, hoping, desperately waiting. Urges to melt in his arms surged over me. I was melting in my boots.

"Sorry. Can I have a glass of water please?"

I swallowed. Found strength to conjure up a smile. "Sure thing," and I was back in a bit with a glass of water.

My mother never got up.