Bodies Are Disgusting

by S. Gates

  The more attention you pay to the thing, the less forward movement you possess, until you're left inching forward through the rotting leaves (which have begun to have more in common with other rotting things in your peripheral vision, like a slurry of food and internal organs). The creature matches your pace such that now it is less like a queerly lumbering thing and more like a nimbus of black flame flickering from one tree to the next when you blink. The bitter wind ensures that you blink often.

  The more you try to concentrate on what's hiding in the trees, the more convinced your brain becomes that there is more than decaying vegetable matter under the soles of your shoes. It's less a suspicion and more an irrational hybrid-knowledge-fear that causes you to seize up mid-stride. The feeling that the next thing you'll set your foot down on will be wet and warm and steaming and only recently deceased congeals into an immutable fact.

  In your pocket, your phone vibrates. The ringtone sounds distant and vague with most of the nuance scoured away by the wind, but it is still unmistakably the snippet of song you had assigned to Amanda's number. With one foot lingering a few inches off the ground, it's difficult to both maintain your balance and pull your phone out of your pocket, but you succeed. The creature in the distance still has the lion's share of your attention, but you accept the call anyway.

  "Hello?" you say, your voice quivering in the cold.

  "Hey, Doug," Amanda responds. Her tone seems flat and mechanical, reminiscent of the synthesized voice reading off numbers. "I just... fuck. I don't know. I thought I'd call and say... something, I guess." The edges of the thing following you coalesce, seemingly in response to her words, shifting from indefinite and smoky to sharp and jagged. It no longer flickers.

  "Listen," you say, slowly lowering your foot until it's resting on the slimy remains of what might not be leaves, "now is not exactly a great time for me." You can see the thing's eye-analogs glimmering as spines sprout along the edges of its form. "I'll call you back." You end the call with your thumb and shove your phone back in your pocket. Every muscle in your body is trembling now; you've been staring straight at the thing since Amanda started talking, and it's right in front of you. A jagged tear in the creature's black "head" opens in an approximation of a mouth, and it is lined with hundreds of glittering needles that might be teeth.

  A scream rises in your throat, but you've already turned before so much as a gasp leaves your lips. Your shriek is strangled and the wind snatches it as soon as it's out, but it doesn't matter. You're already running, and the monster is following. Your entire being narrows to the feel of your feet pounding the ground as you throw yourself forward and the burning of the icy air you gulp down. There are other stabbing pains, too, but none of them come from your legs or your lungs, and thus they are ancillary.

  A gust of wind catches your back with enough force to send you toppling forward into the gutter. You try to catch yourself, keep your already damaged face from hitting the ground, but your fingers sink ineffectually into the slimy detritus before sliding out from under you. You yelp in both shock and pain, and get a mouthful of dead plant matter for your troubles. Tears prick at your eyes as you push yourself up and forward, find your feet, spit the dirt out without aspirating it.

  The monster is like a barbed and icy sheepdog at your back. It keeps an uneven pace with you, nips at your heels, lashes out at you if you aren't quick enough for its liking, feints and lunges to drive you. The sounds it makes are only distinguishable from the howling wind because of their source.

  You're beyond anything as dignified as running, now. Your limbs are barely coordinated enough to maintain a shambling gait, but you've passed the entrance to your neighborhood. It's only matter of pushing just a little... a little farther, a little faster, and then you'll be safe. You know it, deeply and intimately. The knowledge consumes you and gives you the strength you need to make it the last grueling quarter mile to your front step.

  The door mat slides forward when you land on it, sending you skidding face-first into the door with a dull thud. There's not enough fight left in you to cry out at the pain or wince when you feel blood trickling from your nose again. Your hand flails weakly against the door until it lands on the knob. Belatedly, you wonder if you'd remembered to lock it on your way out, but the point is moot. The doorknob turns and the door swings open under your weight, sending you toppling, again, to the ground.

  Without wasting any time scrambling to your feet, you drag yourself away from the door and kick it shut.

  It takes a while before you can do more than just lay quivering and panting on the floor. When your limbs start responding to your commands, you pull yourself up to the bathroom and into the tub. There's no point to looking in the mirror; you know what you'll see. Instead, you pull off your shoes and throw them onto the bathroom floor, followed by your hoodie, sweater, shirt, pants, and binder (god, no wonder it was so hard to breath). After a few abortive attempts to work the faucet, you finally turn on the hot water and let it start filling up the tub.

  You lean over the side and fish around until you can grab your jeans and drag them closer. Still shaking, your fingers find your phone (miraculously intact) and pull it out of your pocket. You pick Amanda's number out of your call history almost automatically and bring the phone up to your ear. The water level rises while you listen to the call connect, the temperature growing warmer by the second. Steam wafts up from the surface and clouds the mirror you'd so recently wiped clean.

  The call rolls over to voicemail, so you hang up.

  You reach over and adjust the tap so a little more cold water tempers the heat, then make another call. Gavin picks up after the second ring. "Doug."

  "I think I fucked up," you say unsteadily.

  An uneasy silence follows, then Gavin clears his throat. "I think you might have, yeah," he responds. "What happened?"

  With halting words, you tell him what's transpired since you spoke to him last. It's possible, by the time you've caught him up on current events, that tears may be rolling down your face, but it might also be sweat from sitting in the slowly rising, steamy water. You turn off the flow without looking at the faucet, instead keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the pile of clothing on the floor.

  "That's some serious shit," Gavin says at length when more hiccups than words are coming out of your mouth. "You have no idea what you did, do you? No, don't answer that, I can't stand listening to grown people crying." He sighs heavily, and you get the impression of someone pinching the bridge of their nose to stave off a headache. Except you're fairly certain that the headache is you're own stupidity at this point, and there is no fighting it.

  "Listen, Doug," he continues in a weary tone, "what you did was monumentally stupid for a number of reasons, the first of which being that Ori is fucking batshit and you gave it leverage over you. The way you gave it leverage over you is my second point, because that ring? It's like a–a get out of jail free card. Or a protective charm. Something in between, maybe. It makes you off-limits to the other players. Without it, anyone can make your life miserable.

  "You want my advice? Ask Ori for it back. If you're lucky, Ori'll do it with no questions asked, and then it's just a matter of waiting for all of this to blow over. If you're unlucky, it's taken umbridge with the fact that you declined its advances, and it's just going to withhold its protection until you submit. Or die."

  "Th-thanks," you mutter numbly. Gavin grunts in a noncommittal fashion. "I'll–" What? You'll talk to him later? You'll let him know how this works out? You let the fragment hang there while you flounder, trying to find an accurate way to end the sentence, before truncating it entirely. There's no point. "Thanks. Bye."

  "Be careful, kid."

  You toss your phone onto the pile of clothes before the line's even dead.

  * * *

  Ori is waiting for you when you finally haul yourself out of the tepid water and venture into your bedroom for un-bloodied clothing to wear. She perches on the edge of your bed with
her slender legs crossed at the ankles and her hands folded politely in her lap. Her head is cocked down such that her white hair falls in front of her face and makes seeing her eyes impossible.

  Everything aches, and you don't have the energy to rise to whatever bait she is surely leaving for you, so you nod vaguely in her direction as you shamble toward your dresser. A part of you wishes for a towel to at least clutch to your chest, but it's tiny and cold and lacks any real substance.

  She speaks first. "You're hurt."

  And whose fault is that? you want to demand, but you don't. "I hate cars," you say instead. It's a safe response, but not an informative one. You're certain she knows all the things those three words don't cover anyway.

  She extends a hand toward you and beckons you closer with the crook of a finger. "Oh, my dearest Douglas," she coos, "let me have a look at you."

  Not seeing the point in fighting, you drift toward her until she's close enough that she can catch your wrist and pull you nearly into her lap. The hand not holding your arm comes to rest on your shoulder and pushes you down into a kneeling position in front of her. She lets your arm fall to your side and rests her forehead against yours.

  From this vantage point, her eyes are giant and infinitely dark, and you can barely see yourself reflected in them. Her fingers rest lightly on your cheek for a moment before she swipes away some of the blood under your nose with the pad of her thumb. Her skin is cool against yours in contrast to the soak you've just had, and you feel the aches flow out of you in the wake of her touch.

  "It's all right," Ori whispers. "I could never leave you in such a state, unless I were the one responsible for putting you there." Her left hand finds your right; her fingers tangle with yours. As you stare up into the darkness, you feel her slip a ring on your right index finger. "I forgive you."

  * * *

  You jolt upright, grasping the lip of the bathtub to keep yourself from slipping under the water. You feel refreshed and warm, and as you look around you note no sign of your previous distress. Your clothes are folded neatly on the toilet, with your phone resting atop them, and a fresh set of underwear and pajamas are laid over the sink. There's even a towel hanging on the bar that's closest to the tub, within easy reach even sitting down as you are.

  Using your toes, you unstopper the drain and stand, grabbing the clean towel and wrapping it around yourself. You can feel the comforting weight of the metal band on your finger and you know that you will not have to face the horrors from the previous days again. Still, Ori's message in laying pajamas out for you is clear: you will not be leaving the house again today.

  You dry yourself off and put on the PJs. "Pizza it is," you mutter to yourself. You grab your phone and head to Simon's room to get his input on the order.

  Once the pizza arrives, you bring it back to his room along with the DVDs for a stuffy British costume drama and settle in to enjoy the rest of the day. Later, you sleep as soundly as you've ever slept, and you do not have any nightmares that night or the next.

  * * *

  Two days later, you wake up to the sound of your phone ringing.

  Everything has a queer, surreal quality to it, as if you've been bundled in plastic wrap and can't quite breathe. Sunlight streams through your window, but it seems wrong, somehow. Shouldn't you have been awake? How were you dreaming? Next to your head, your right hand is balled into a fist. Silver gleams around your index finger.

  The generic tone for a number not in your contact list continues to nag your consciousness, and a bleary inspection of the screen reveals that it's a local number. Likely not a telemarketer, but also not anyone you know. Especially since it's ten in the morning, according to the display. No one calls you this early; everyone knows you work nights.

  Unless it's an emergency.

  Feeling like you've been drenched in ice-water, you hit the answer button and bring the phone to your ear. "'Lo?"

  You don't recognize the voice, but the tone is unmistakable. "Mister Fitzmoriah?"

  The way the caller forms your name out of sounds, detached and clinical... you know what's coming next. "Yeah."

  "I'm calling on behalf of Amanda Ebonlee. There's been an accident. Could you possibly come down to Northside Hospital?"

  * * *

  Simon's not moving from his bed; he doesn't even respond to you when you try to tell him where you're going. Not that you're surprised. Still, you squeeze his hand and leave a glass of water at his bedside before bundling yourself up and snatching his keys. He certainly won't mind that you're borrowing his beloved Bug. At least not now.

  It takes you less than twenty minutes to get to the hospital; it's after rush hour and you're speeding. Finding a parking place takes another five minutes, and locating the ICU takes a bit longer. You didn't have enough time to make yourself presentable, but the doctor doesn't seem fazed. He tries to shake your hand, looking worn around the edges. Probably at the tail end of a twenty-hour shift.

  "Mister–er, Miss Fitzmoriah, I'm glad you could make it. You... well, you were the only ICE contact we could find. I'm Alistair Rayez, I've been tending to Ms. Ebonlee since she came in. I'm afraid the prognosis... isn't good." When you don't take his hand, he stuffs it in the pocket of his coat.

  You ignore the bitter rush of satisfaction at hearing that you are the only emergency contact Amanda has. "What happened?"

  "Emergency responders think it may have been a suicide attempt. Witnesses saw her step out into the street a few seconds before a bus passed." He schools his expression to be contrite, a little belatedly. As if he realized he should be sorry for mentioning the possibility of suicide. "Under normal circumstances, we would need to move her to the psychiatric ward for monitoring, but... I'm sorry. I don't know how long she has to live."

  "Can I see her?" Your voice is dead in your ears.

  "Of course." Dr. Rayez motions for you to follow, which you do. Amanda's room is down the hall, and she does not share it with anyone else. "She's as comfortable as we can make her," he tells you as you approach Amanda's bed. When you don't respond, he shifts from foot to foot. "I'll... let you have some time." You don't even turn to watch him leave.

  Amanda looks like shit. In your memory, she's vivid, fiery, so painfully alive, even when she's disappointed and upset with you. Now, she's wan and bruised. If the doctor is to be believed, she doesn't even wish to be that much. You can't reconcile the two images, no matter how hard you try. The words "Amanda" and "suicide" feel like such immiscible things to you. All you can do is stare.

  You reach for her, your hand trembling, but can't seem to reach far enough to bridge the space between you. Your hand drops back to your side. It hangs there for a moment before something brushes against it. "I am very sorry," Ori whispers, appearing next to you

  "What do you know about being sorry?" you demand through gritted teeth.

  "I know that you do not wish Amanda to die," he says. "I know that you wish her to not be in pain. I know that you wish her to remain a part of your life." Like a cat, he rubs his head against your arm and runs the tips of his fingers across your knuckles. "I know that you are in pain and I wish you not to be. Whatever you feel about me, do not mistake the fact that I am fond of you.

  "You can fix this." Ori's words ring in your ears more surely than if a giant bell that had just been struck next to them. "It doesn't need to end like this. You can fix this, Douglas. I can help." His voice is soft and kind; it reassures you somehow, hearing him so tender. You remember when you'd first awoken in the hospital bed what seems like ages ago, and you remember the soothing words he'd whispered in what you thought was a hallucination. Whatever may have happened, you have no doubt that he does not want you to suffer like this.

  You look at Amanda lying there on the hospital bed, skin ashen, hair limp, eyes shut. Her life is beating out of her, one blip on the machine at a time. You don't need Ori's eerie abilities to tell that. Her hand is listless in yours, her fingers clammy. She's wearing the silvery band from
Ori that you'd given her what seems like centuries ago. Jesus. There's not much point to it now.

  You slide it off her finger and hold it up to the light. As much as you think you might want to, you can't bring yourself to look at Ori. "If... just say for a second that I wanted to accept your offer..." You clear your throat. You are not going to cry. "If I wanted to accept, what would I have to do?"

  At your side, you hear Ori shift. "I can't really tell you. That would be interference, and it wouldn't count. Just do what you like, and if you mean it, I'll know."

  Neither of you say anything for a few moments while your brain runs through your options. You could walk away now, let Amanda die, let Simon rot. You could try to pick up the pieces if you stayed, help plan Amanda's funeral, make arrangements for Simon. You could wait at Amanda's bedside for the end to come, because you're sure it will soon, one way or another.

  Or, as Ori says, you can fix this.

  Like there's any point in pretending that you actually have a choice.

  You pull the ring off your index finger and hold it in your palm with the one from Amanda. They're both unreasonably warm and heavy in your hand, uncomfortable reminders of how you both got here. After a few breaths, you pick up both rings between your thumb and index finger of your left hand; the rings fit together almost perfectly.

  "I'm going to give these back to you," you say slowly. "I don't need them anymore." You hold them out to Ori, who nods approvingly. Rather than extending his hands to take them from you, though, he merely stands placidly, waiting. It's not unlike watching a shark circling a kill.