The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 9: No Requiem (Part 3 of 7)

Horus leaned forward clasping his hands together in a posture of total absorption.  It was a worn-out gesture that came up frequently in the sessions, just like the tired expressions he used.

"Go on," he said, coaxing Amy.

"Well...."  She turned away, her hand covering her chin.  She sought out the dark corner—the one place in the room, where the lights always cast deep shadows up near the ceiling. 

During the day, there was peace from the harsh flood of the halogen bulbs that mimicked the sun and the florescent tubes radiating ultraviolet rays in that spot.  At night, it was an area of consistency from the wavering, anemic nightlights.  It was a place of darkness.  If she could ever reach it, she would be able to hide there. 

"I don't really know what you want to hear." Her voice was distracted.  Her thoughts, far away.

"It's not about what I want to hear, it's about you opening up.  I know that the loss of your family has affected you deeply but to come to terms with it, you need to talk about it.  Tell me about your mother, your father, your brother."

Amy didn't want to talk about them.  Talking about them meant thinking about them.  And it meant remembering what she had done to them. 

The last night with her family lay scattered across her mind like shattered glass.  Each jagged shard reflected a moment in time—a broken picture that never quite came together.

She had been sick for two days.  A headache like something burrowing into her skull had crippled her ability to function.  She was barely able to think past the pain and nausea.  Every few hours, she'd vomit a harsh, yellow stream of acid into the toilet until her body wracked itself in drive heaves.

Somehow—for some reason—she dragged herself downstairs for dinner, despite her having no appetite.  It wasn't hunger that got her up, but mom's faint call summoning them all to the table.  It stirred an impulse in her brain that she should have ignored, but she was on her feet and moving before her sickness and fatigue registered.

She almost slipped on the stairs.  It was a strange thing to remember so clearly.  But no memory of that night came without the vivid sight of her socked foot missing its step and bouncing down two stairs.  Her hand lurched out for the banister saving herself at the last second. The sudden movement brought a raw spasm that ran from her kidneys to her lungs.  A fresh wave of nausea clutched at her gut. 

Dad was home.  She didn't remember him getting home any more than she remembered sitting down at the table.

"How you doing, sweetie?"  He spoke softly and caressed her arm with his large hand, so big that most of the fingers stroked only the air around her thin limb.  His skin felt like ice against hers.  "Any better?"

"A little."

"She's faking," Donny said.

"Shut up."  Her throat betrayed her and there was no strength to the words.  They came out a weak whimper.  She resented not being able to put her little brother in his place.

"Leave your sister alone."  Mom was there with her hand on the top of Amy's head.  She petted her hair and then ran her palm across her forehead and the back of her hand against her cheek.  "You're a little warm.  Maybe you should stay in bed.  Go up and I'll bring you some food."

"No, mom.  I'm tired of being in bed."  It was a thin moan that hurt her own ears.

There was talking around her—nothing but a swirl of meaningless chatter—as she poked a piece of tortellini with her fork and dragged it around the small plate.