Marcus
I had imagined that seeing him in this condition would bring me some sense of satisfaction.
Just look at him now… his skin is as pale as moonlight, his eyes glazed over like frosted glass, and his cheeks hollowed and worn. He is nothing more than an empty husk of a person now, a useless shell stripped of vitality and spirit.
You would think I'd feel something triumphant. But no. There's just a sick weight in my gut.
He lays there, the slow drag of air through his nose like an engine refusing to die, while the mother who never protected any of us acts as if she's dusting off a mantelpiece. I look at them, at the old quilt draped over his stick-thin legs, at the yellow pill organizers clustered on the nightstand, and mostly I just want to bolt.
But Rebecca's here. She stands just in reach but doesn't move to touch me. Her presence anchors me better than any bolt to the floor.
