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The longer he stays, the worse he gets. He knows this.
James pivots, fingers going tight along the weapon in his hand. How long has he been here, in this hospital? It feels like hours. Like days. Melting and reforming in the shape of every hospital visit he’s made before. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter then. It doesn’t matter now. He needs to leave.
The door behind him was locked before, but now he sees a latch, a way out. But it isn’t really leaving. It’s an escape from one corridor to the next. One nightmare after another. His stomach turns, empty but for bile and the acidic aftertaste of the health drinks who-knows-how-long expired. Poisoned, maybe, working its way through his system. In twenty minutes time he could be like Maria.
He lets out a stuttered breath and opens his eyes. Doesn’t remember closing them. Tells himself that the faster he explores, the quicker he can get out of here. Puts a hand on the handle.
And still doesn’t move.
What is wrong with him? What can he possibly find next that’s worse than what he’s already encountered? He’s been through this before, the sting of antiseptic in his eye, the stench of decay, the tremble in his hand with each door he pushes open. What’s one hospital from another? Mary isn’t here. There’s nothing to hesitate over.
There’s no reason to go on . Behind his lips, his teeth grind. This whole trip has been a waste of time thus far, traipsing from one miserable location to the next. In the wake of all the horrifying things he’s seen, James has just gone numb. He wasn’t lying when he told Angela he didn’t care if it was dangerous. He still doesn’t.
But a hospital. Of all the places to hide.
It would be stupid to assume Laura knows or understands what it means to James. She claims she knew Mary. Okay. But James is certain this is the first time he’s met her. There’s no way she grasps the depths of his hatred for hospitals. The feeling that this is some sort of punishment, an aimed attack on him is just - just ridiculous . Even if she did know, it’s still on him to be the bigger man, the adult in the situation. To care for her because there’s no one else around who will.
The noise the door makes when James pushes it open could wake the dead, and that’s about all he’s seen here. He can’t imagine these monsters as living, breathing beings. What does that say about him? In the dim light he doubts himself, staring into each reflective surface to make sure he hasn’t started to change. None of them show his face with clarity. Maybe that’s for the better. Maybe he never left his car this morning / yesterday / a week ago / a year ago. Maybe he’s still there. Maybe he’s in his garage with the motor running.
Locked. Locked. Broken. Open but empty. Jammed. Locked. Not once does James remember to mark on his map the rooms he’s tried. The flimsy paper could fall apart in his hands for all the good it’s doing him. He’s not even sure which direction he came from anymore. Every room that isn’t locked looks the same anyway: an upturned mess of beds and writhing bodies.
Memories flood to the surface, dizzying. James tries to hold them back with an angry blink, spots dancing in the beam of light his flashlight provides. What happen ed doesn’t matter as much as what’s happen ing . No need to confess if he atones.
Maybe he should head up to the roof. He’s had this key burning a hole in his pocket, but he’s been unmotivated to make his way out of the building. James knows that it’s not really leaving, and that’s his problem. If he goes up on the roof, he’ll just try to jump. Anything to get away.
His left eye twitches, imagining his body falling from a great height, the dull thud he’ll make against the ground when he lands. In the back of his head he hears the grief counselor’s practiced cheerful tone, Suicide may be a question, but it is never an answer . He makes himself think of Maria and Laura and Mary, Mary, Mary , the catalyst. His eye twitches again, covering his face with his hand and leaning against the wall.
He keeps wondering when he’s going to wake up. Why else would he be in yet another hospital if not a malevolent daydream? Any moment now, an orderly will come and tap his shoulder, and he’ll be back to the antiseptic smell and flickering lights and bleached tile.
Asleep at Mary’s bedside.
No, because that ended three years ago . James remembers. James never forgot. His memory warps and confuses, but the sound of her last breath has never left his ear. He hears it in every little thing, regardless of where he is or who he’s with or what he’s doing. Other people hear a ringing when silence reigns; James hears her exhale. He doesn’t even hear his own breath, labored and exhausted. He hears hers, weak and afraid, clinging so desperately to life, struggling to make noise.
The breathing’s only gotten louder since he arrived at the hospital. The longer he stays, the worse he gets: the more his breathing matches hers.
It would be so easy to let himself be taken by it. To strangle to death. He used to drift off in the unpadded plastic chair next to her bed and slow his heart rate down until his pulse matched the reading on the machine. If the machine stopped, so would he. She wouldn’t have to be alone again.
Except she is now, isn’t she? In their special place.
James barely feels the fingers on his face - they may as well not even belong to him. They don’t seem attached to his body, his arms and legs moving in a mockery of life as he turns in some direction, aiming for the stairs.