Prodigal Blues

Then one of Christopher's shoes passed by and kicked Blossom away.  I was so startled that I blinked and looked up at the table where Grendel, covered in gore, was on his knees ejaculating into the opened stomach cavity of something that looked like it might have once been a human being but was now only a steaming heap of bones and liquids and tissue and blood and—

—I lurched forward, shoving everything out of my way as I tried to get to the bathroom but my foot caught on the typewriter stand and I fell forward onto the bone pile, then dropped to the floor, the bones raining down on my face and chest as my arms jerked and flailed, knocking them away in a chorus of clattering as I rolled to the side before my stomach exploded, reaching out for the other bed as I felt the first burp of bile splatter into my throat, then I was on my feet and staggering ahead, hands over my mouth and praying my legs didn't melt away beneath me and there it was, there was the bathroom, but now someone was yelling my name and someone else was yelling Christopher's and a part of the doorway splintered away with the chirping of a bird and I threw myself forward and onto my knees, sliding across the smooth blue tile to the toilet whose seat Rebecca had thought to leave up and then I was doubled over, clutching the sides of the bowl as my torso heaved and my stomach blew up and my throat was scorched by the flood of vomit that came sailing out for what seemed hours, giving me so little time to pull in a breath between bursts I thought I'd pass out again and I didn't want to do that because then the bones would get me….

When it was finally done, I fell backward, coughing, the foul taste of everything I'd eaten in the last twelve hours swimming in my mouth and forcing dry heaves; I had one arm pressed against the toilet, the other against the wall behind me, and my legs splayed out like a marionette hastily dropped in mid-performance.  I gasped and spit and coughed and groaned, my throat and chest feeling far to swollen for my body to contain, my vision obscured by the tears in my eyes and my eyes forever seared but what they'd seen after Blossom had been kicked away…

"Are you all right?" asked someone.  "He did not hit you, did he?"

I looked up and saw Thomas in the middle of the doorway; Arnold and Rebecca stood behind him.  I saw where Christopher's shot had struck the door frame and realized how close he'd come to hitting the back of my skull and almost vomited again, only there was nothing left.

"He only helped Grendel to protect us," said Arnold.  "If Christopher ever refused to help with a cleansing, then one of us would have been next."

"And he would have made Christopher pick," said Thomas.

Rebecca was crying.  "We were the four who had been with him the longest, you see?  The four of us were all the family we had.  He had to help him, don't you see?"  At realizing she'd just a contraction, she gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes widened with terror.  Arnold and Thomas looked as if they were waiting for the next bomb to go off.

"Whatta you know," I choked out.  "The world didn't end."

Tears welled in her eyes—I hadn't until that moment realized that tear ducts could still function with a glass eye—and shook her head, not blinking.

"It's okay," I said.  "It's okay, really."

Thomas rolled his chair a little farther into the doorway.  "We want to go home.  Will you help us?"

"Do not beg him!" shouted Christopher from somewhere behind them.  "I will not have any of you ever beg for anything again!"

"What do you say, man?" asked Arnold.

Rebecca lowered her hands, then pushed past Thomas, knelt down in front of me, and laid her palm gently against my cheek.  When she spoke, her voice was a sad and ruined whisper from a darkness where bones were known by name and faces were things other people took for granted:  "…p-please…ohgod, Mark, please…."

Her hand so soft and sad against my cheek; Thomas so small in his chair; Arnold so tired with a face so scarred; these three little ones, with big brother stewing behind them; my captors, who were, in their way, as much at my mercy as I was at theirs.

I reached up and took hold of Rebecca's hand, then turned my face into her palm and kissed it.  It seemed like the right thing to do.

"How touching," said Christopher from the doorway.  "If we are all finished with the lovey-dovey, perhaps we could gather up our stuff and get the hell out of here."  He stopped, then laughed at his having just cursed.  "You're right," he said.  "Curses and contractions, and the world didn't end."  His eyes narrowed; he looked at Arnold.  "It feels strange."

"Seriously?"

"Yes.  It actually feels strange on my tongue to use a contraction again."

Arnold nodded his head.  "Do it again."

"No.  You try it."

"I don't think so—whoa.  That does feel weird, man."

"Let me!  Let me!"  Thomas was actually bouncing in his chair.  "I want to try it."

Christopher laughed.  "Go ahead.  Bet you can't."

"Bet I can."

"Then do it."

Arnold knelt by the arm of the wheelchair.  "C'mon, Thomas—dude, that feels good!  I'm go

"Okay, okay," said Thomas.  "Let me see…"

Christopher sighed in mock irritation, then winked at Arnold.

"Okay, okay, I got," Thomas all but squealed.  "I can use contractions anytime I want!  There!"

"Didn't quite make, dude," said Arnold.

Thomas looked crestfallen.  "I didn't?"

"You did that time."

"I—?"  Then his face brightened as he replayed it.  "Oh, yeah…I did, didn't I?"

"My man is on a serious roll," laughed Arnold, slapping Thomas's shoulder with great affection.

Thomas wasn't stopping.  "Can't!  Won't!  Ain't!"

"Turning into a regular party animal, my man."

"Isn't.  Wasn't!  Couldn't!  Wouldn't!  Shouldn't!"

"Don't get carried away, now," said Rebecca.  Then, to me:  "I gave him a pain shot just before you woke up.  It takes a little while before it kicks in with him.  Then he just becomes goofy."

"Didn't…uh…aren't!  Yeah!  Uh…."

"I think that's most of them," said Arnold.  Then:  "Hold on a second.  'That's' a contraction."

"It's!" shouted Thomas  "What's!  Oh, boy!  Uh…uh…"

"Don't," said Christopher.

"Yeah—don't, that's another one.  Then there's—there's there's, and then—"

"No," said Christopher.  "I wasn't prompting you—"

"Wasn't!" squealed Thomas.

"Already said that," whispered Arnold.

"Knock it off!"  Christopher wasn't trying to dampen their fun—it was obvious they hadn't enjoyed anything in a long, long time—but he was trying to get things under control.  "What I meant was don't keep doing that, okay?  Thomas?"

"…okay…"

"Please don't pout."

"I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm…I'm thinking."

"About what?"

A shrug.  "Stuff."

"Care to let the rest of us in on it?"

"Nope.  It's secret stuff."

"Thomas?  We don't keep secrets from each other, remember?"

"Okay."

"So what were you thinking about?"