feet, sort of like a painting about Greek goddesses I’ve seen in art books.
She’s leaning over another body stored in the cooler unit on a cart. Her back
is to me, and I can only see her pale skin and her burgundy-black hair
face is covered in dark blood. In her hand, she’s holding a big chunk of purple
flesh. Her eyes are half-closed. The autopsy incision on the elderly body below
her has been ripped open, and I’m pretty sure that what she’s holding is a
and I drop the laundry basket with a sharp crack of plastic on the tile floor.
This has to be a dream. A screwed-up anxiety dream that I’ll wake up from any
Canner,” I manage to answer. “She’s seventy-two and died of surgery
complications for varicose veins. Deep vein thrombosis, I think. I don’t
remember.” I’m babbling, trying to keep the bile down.
down. Her hands are trembling. She presses them to her temples. “I don’t
understand. I don’t understand.”
clothes. And, um. Food. You should get dressed.”
genuinely confused. She reaches for the clothes I’ve brought her. To be polite,
I know that I should really look away. But I can’t move. I am not turning my
back on her. My heart pounds, and I struggle to take deep, uneven breaths.
her shoulder and side are still torn open. But my mother hasn’t begun the
autopsy yet, so there is no Y-incision across her chest and abdomen.
having a rational thought. Woot.
remember…something was chasing me. Jesus, it hurt…” Her hand comes up to her
neck, and she seems to remember, fingering the edges of the wound. “Am I in a
hospital?” she asks again.
whose parents run the funeral home. The Ghoul Girl.”
truth. “I think we should get you upstairs, so you can talk to my parents…”
here because…somebody thought I was dead?”