Cruel World by Joe Hart Read Free Book Online Page B

broken syllables amid sobs that twisted his insides into a plucked guitar string.
    He sunk into the chair again and sat forward, his face resting against her hand, the scent of rose petals everywhere, the smell of his childhood long since passed.
    It was forever before he sat up, his own tears drying. A dream had surrounded him, so he must have slept leaning against her bed with her palm pressed to his face. In it he had walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean. The sea had undulated in a strange way, not moving as water should, and it took him several moments to realize that there was no ocean below but only bodies floating together, dead flesh interlaced as waves of blood brought them onto the shore and drew them away.
    He stood and looked at the woman in the bed, the only mother he’d ever known. She was shrunken and small, flattened in a way that made her appear like one of the blankets. When he stepped closer, he saw that it wasn’t an illusion.
    Teresa was sinking in on herself.
    Her body was slumping inward, her features smoothing so that her face was nearly level, a two-dimensional drawing of how she looked in life. A foul odor met him and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. A scream wanted to tear from his lungs. It would rip through his chest if he didn’t let it out. He struggled with himself as the room canted at his feet, threatening to slide him into a corner where he could sit and fall in upon himself just like Teresa. Collapse into nothing and be done with the nightmare.
    Quinn bit down hard on the inside of his mouth, clenching his jaws until he tasted blood. The room righted itself and he breathed in the stink that filled it. Unwilling to look at what she had become, he drew the blankets the rest of the way over her form, turning the ever-present scream into a moan as he heard and felt her body implode more with the movement. The odor increased and he gagged, turning away from the bed and its shrinking occupant.
    The hallway held blessedly clean air that he drank in with long breaths, filling himself over and over. As he made his way to his father’s room, he slowed, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. What would he find inside? The same as what he’d just left? Worse? His stomach roiled and the urge to simply sit down nearly overcame him, but instead he turned the handle and stepped inside.
    The room was dark but enough light shone in from behind him to see the rise and fall of his father’s chest.
    He went in and sat beside him, fumbling for a second in the dark looking for the other man’s hand. And when he found it, it was warm.
    Quinn swallowed, looking at his father. “Dad?”
    There was a pause and quiet, longer and more silent than any he’d ever known, then James opened his eyes. He looked around the room as if studying it for the first time before his gaze slid onto Quinn. Nothing there for a long moment, no recognition, no softness or love, just a dull comprehension that he saw him.
    “Can you hear me, dad?”
    James licked his lips and his tongue made a scratching sound.
    “Quinn.”
    “I’m here, dad, I’m right here.”
    “Run away.”
    “I’m not leaving you.”
    “You run. If there’s something wrong, you run and don’t look back. Run and hide.”
    Quinn searched his father’s face for some other meaning. The man that lay before him didn’t look like someone barely past fifty years old but instead closer to eighty. His hair, so lush before, receded from his forehead, creeping away to expose the withering effects of the disease on his features. Did he know where he was now? Did he know what was happening? The sickness had taken Teresa so quickly, but his father was still here, still surviving. He reached out to place a hand on his forehead but stopped and dropped it back into his lap.
    “I’m going to get you help, okay? You just need to stay with me and rest.”
    Barely a nod, then more words that he couldn’t make out echoing up from