Lay Me Down

12. Window.

{Cary}

They had closed his chest with thick staples, each precisely the same distance apart. Cary ran his fingers over the bumps that made a Y across his chest and down his torso, watching the door to the red room out of the corner of his eye. It had been some time since they buried him in this room, and he didn't know if they were coming back. He wasn't hungry or thirsty—they had pumped something into the hollow space inside his ribs. He tasted it, sour on his breath. He could think and move and hear and see as if he were alive, but he was afraid he wasn't quite human anymore.

He was cold.

A tap-tap-tap made him startle, and his head jerked to find the sound. He got to his feet, dizzy with emptiness for a moment, then staggered over the concrete floor to the other room. There was a window in there—the brightness of its light made his eyes blink and water.

Tap-tap-creeaak.

The window swung open, a brown hand shoving it inward.

"Hey!" There was a man kneeling in the gravel outside, turning his head to the side to see in the narrow window. "Cary, come out!"

Cary leaned against the doorjamb, trying to understand the light, the man and the open window.

"Take my hand and come out!" The man stretched his arm into the room, thrusting his shoulders against the window frame. Cary's feet had carried him closer, and he tipped his head back to look at the outstretched hand. He thought he could fit through the window frame, but the stuff they had put inside him was as heavy as it was cold.

The man had his cheek against the ground, one brown eye finding Cary's upturned gaze. "They're going to bury this window like they did the door." The man's voice was muffled and urgent. "I can lift you out if you give me your hand."

The colour and life of him rippled through Cary, and he felt something. He stretched as high as he could and slapped his hand against the man's ropey forearm. He felt the man's hand grip his arm tightly back and heave.

Cary's feet came off the ground, scrabbling against the smooth red wall, and he thought his shoulder would tear out of its socket. He grabbed onto the man's arm with his other hand, ducking his head between his shoulders as he felt the opened window bump against their joined arms and then against back of his head.

The man cried out, dragging him through the window, and they both fell onto the gravel outside. Cary curled, whimpering with the relief of drawing his shoulders down, then found the damage with his fingers. The window frame had caught him under his arm, and there was a cold, wet gap open nearly to his waist. He staggered away to try and press the lumps of flesh back into place over his ribs. There wasn't any blood, and if he'd had a stomach left, it would have climbed into his mouth at the sight of the flap of damp, greyish flesh hanging off his ribs.

"Let me see," the man said.

Cary's shoulders hunched. He turned, his arms crossed tightly over the mess they had made of him, his fingers holding his flesh in place under his arm. "I'm fine," he said in a dry, tight voice. He tried to swallow some moisture into his mouth. "Thank you."

"Let me look at you," the man said more softly.

He could only touch the man's face with a look for a second, but nothing he saw there told him to be afraid. What could he do to a dead person anyway? Cary opened his arms, one at a time. He felt the tug of his flesh falling open and the change in air pressure as the man came closer.

"I can heal this if you'll let me," the man said.

Cary nodded stiffly and held still with his arms open, closing his fists. He knew this man a little, enough to believe he wouldn't use his hands to hurt him. The man's touch was so hot against his cold skin that Cary flinched and drew a harsh breath. A brown hand pressed like a brand against Cary's chest as another held his side, closing the wound.

"I don't even bleed." The words grated out his throat. "There's something wrong with me."

He felt the man touch the staples on his chest. "We need to open you. Drain the poison."

Cary jerked away, wrapping his arms over his front and pressing the piece of flesh in place with his fingers again. "No." He sagged a little without the man's hands to prop him up. The idea of being open again, of anyone being able to grope inside him and pull things out, brought the sour taste up into his mouth, and he gagged and sank to his knees.

"You can't come with me like this," the man said. Cary heard the crunch of his feet on gravel. He was leaving, and Cary was too weak to follow.

The force of his cry jerked him awake, and his arms flew out to either side, hitting the wall and the bed. He strained to see in the dark, dragging in one long breath after another. Jon's house. Pete's room—his room.

He thrust his hands under his shirt to check for stitches, running his fingers over the bare, smooth skin of his chest. He dug his fingers into his throat, feeling the pulse of his blood, hot and steady, under his fingertips. A noise came out of him, like gears grinding and failing to catch. His eyes were hot and his throat was tight, but no tears came out. What the hell was wrong with him?

He pulled himself onto the bed, curling with his face to the wall and drawing the covers around his shoulders as tightly as a shroud. He wanted to call the man back, but there was nothing he knew how to say.

There was a light tap on his open door. "Cary?" Jon's voice came hesitantly out of the darkness.

"I'm not crying," Cary said.

A step and the creak of his door, as Jon came into his room. "I heard you fall out of bed. Did you have another bad dream?"

Cary's breath caught like there was a hole torn in his side instead of living muscles and skin wrapped around his ribs. "I dreamed I was dead. That I was walking around, but dead."

There was a pause. "You're not dead." Jon said softly.

Cary shoved himself into a sitting position, slapping on the lamp. He glared at Jon, hunkered just inside his doorway. "There's nothing in here." He dug his hand against his chest. That harsh voice seemed to be all he had left to speak with. "What if that's just what I am now? How can I even be a person and stay here with you?"

Jon bent his head. His hair was messed into a wave on the side of his head. "Maybe it just takes time. You've got time here."

Cary shivered, pressing his numb lips closed. His throat moved like there was another way to speak, without sound, to say wait for me!

Jon got to his feet. "You want me to read you some Psalms to fall asleep?"

Cary nodded, and his eyes followed Jon out the door. His stomach turned, hearing the man say we need to open you. Was there a way to be open like Jon without everyone touching him while he bled out? Was there a reason to want that?