Run by Michaelbrent Collings Read Free Book Online

mass that turned in on itself, like a malignant black hole above John’s scapula.
    He still didn't know where the scar had come from.
    The whole shoulder had been shattered, he knew that much.  He knew that his father had died, that he had somehow survived the aftermath of a bloody attack, and that he had taken a long time to recover from the day.  But he had no memories of those facts.  They were gone, not faded away but barricaded somewhere deep and secure, with thick walls that would serve equally well to keep intruders out...or to confine the occupants within.
    John took several deep breaths, and as always tried to remember what he had dreamed.  What he had seen.  What he had been.
    That the dreams were important was a foregone conclusion.  They started soon after Annie died.  Every night he woke (always at the half hour!), feeling heavy, feeling the heart pound within his body, feeling...
    (afraid.)
    ...alone.
    That was how he knew the dreams had started after Annie was gone.  He never felt alone when she was near. And she had always been near.
    Now, as he struggled to remember his dream, the feeling struck him that tonight’s sleeping journey was something of crucial import.  It meant the end of something.  Or the beginning.
    Someone is coming.
    He frowned as the thought echoed in his mind with a concrete firmness that was unusual.  Where had that come from?
    John stood, letting the covers fall to the floor.  Annie wouldn’t have scolded him for that, he knew.  She would roll her eyes, and make some comment about living with a pig instead of a man, but her eyes would smile lovingly as she spoke so that he would know she was joking and that she loved him.  But she would not scold.  Annie had never been a nag.
    He went into the bathroom, flipping on the light that hung over the sink.  Seven bulbs were affixed, but only three glowed when the light was turned on.  It was a vanity mirror, with enough light for Annie to apply her makeup or do her hair.  But now that she was gone, there was no need for such a large amount of light.  John's lip curled in bitter almost-laughter as a thought struck him: "How long has my wife been dead?"  And the answer: "About four light bulbs." 
    It was better with dim lights, anyway.  Dim lights were less like hospital lights.  Just thinking of that pushed him back into a place he preferred not to be.  He suddenly could smell antiseptic cleaning solutions, with the strong undercurrent of feces and death that always hung in the air of the terminal patients unit. 
    Annie weighed seventy-two pounds when she died.  At least John was there when it happened.  No surprise, there, he had been with her almost constantly.  He remembered that he held her hand, and kissed it.  She made no sound – she had been asleep for almost a week – but he fancied he could see her lips upturn ever so slightly.  He imagined she was smiling as she died.  And so he kissed her lips, and tried to smile, too, so that she would not feel bad for leaving him.  She always got upset when he was feeling sad, and he didn’t want to send her away thinking she had made him anything but happy.  He kissed her, and left a trail of bright tears on her soft, sunken cheek. 
    John shivered, and tried to force his mind away from the image of his dead wife; tried to focus on his dream and attempt to recall that instead.  Nightmares, to him, were often safer and far less terrifying than reality. 
    The dream had frightened him, he knew.  In fact, it still frightened him.  His heart was still racing, and sweat kept beading at his hairline.  But though the fear was real and palpable, he could not find what he was afraid of.  As always, the dream was hiding in one of the many locked-away portions of his mind.  John had no way to bring it back.
    He turned on the faucet and wiped his face with cool water, letting it wash away the last vestiges of a dream that was already more ethereal than most.  Down