Vulture (a Stepbrother Romance) -(7)

In a daze I’d managed to dress myself and later sat quietly in the back of the police car as they drove me to the hospital. The only noise was the occasional squawk of the police radio up front and the rumble of the tarmac beneath the wheels. My mind filled with blank thoughts as I stared out the window at everyone just going about their normal everyday lives, whilst mine was being turned upside down.

I was alone, with no one left to care for me. Eric was lying cold and lifeless somewhere, unable to help me. Even after everything he’d put me through, I still didn’t know how I was going to survive without him.

I looked up, and Officer Pierce was opening the car door for me. “Mrs Chambers?” Too lost in my own pity party, I hadn’t even realised we’d arrived.

They escorted me into the hospital, the thick odour of antiseptic and sickness greeting us as soon as we breached the entrance. I walked ahead of the men, though they occasionally led the way, pointing out which corridor to take next as we made our way deeper within the maze-like building. They must do this often, I thought, to know the way so easily.

We finally arrived at a quiet station, only one nurse behind the sage green counter. “This is Mrs Chambers,” Officer Samuels—I finally remembered his name—informed the expectant nurse. She nodded.

I wanted to speak, to ask where my husband was, but the massive lump in my throat had other ideas, and I was too weak and drained to fight past it.

The nurse inclined her head and came from around the station. “This way please,” she said and began to walk forward down another bland corridor, and I followed. Realising the officers weren’t coming with us, I turned and provided Officer Pierce with a timid smile of thanks before he took his leave.

Our footsteps padded against the icy marbled floor. The sound they made matched the loud rhythm of my heart. My belly was in a knot, as if a pair of invisible hands gripped my intestines, twisting them without mercy. Trying to be brave, I continued to follow the other woman, curling my fingers until my nails burrowed deep into my skin, deep enough to leave dents and to cause the cut to throb.

I concentrated on the scratched corridor walls, avoiding looking ahead. Taking in the happy yellow painted surface as if the shade could bring some cheer back into the lives of those who’d made this dreaded journey. Dents marred the surface, plaster chipped away little by little by laden trolleys grazing the walls. The pictures dotted periodically along the corridor were inexpensive, sympathetic prints of heartening scenery. Too sunny and bright for this area of the hospital, I thought. It was as if they were trying to compensate for all the gloom that penetrated the walls over the years.

Above the blue double doors an aged sign read Morgue.

My feet halted. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to walk through the doors, to stroll inside as if nothing significant waited for me, as if I were about to visit a friend. Nothing about this was normal.

If I walked through, everything about this day became real, it would become official. It would mean my husband was dead, and the hope that I clung to that it was all a big mistake would be stripped away from me.

“Ma’am?” the nurse’s voice cut through the silence, bringing me back to earth as I nodded and began to walk again. I had to do this. I had to be strong.

I can do this.

I repeated it over and over again, playing it inside my head like a mantra. Yet when I stepped closer to the double doors, I stopped once again. I felt my body shake in uncontrollable shivers, but I drew in a breath and pushed onwards.

“When you’re ready, we can go in and see your husband,” she said with a reassuring pat upon my arm.

“I-I’m ready,” I stuttered. Shivering, I pulled my sweater closer to my body as I attempted to drive away the cold that had set up home in my bones. The type of cold that makes you feel like you’ll never feel the touch of warmth ever again.

Antiseptic mingled with bleach, and the unusual smell closed around me. The hair at the back of my neck rose and prickled at the odd feeling that gripped me. Death was in the house, and it felt like he was watching me with mild amusement.

The room was eerily quiet; it felt deserted, vacant even. Soulless. Feeling a rise of hysteria and panic, I tried to look at anything other than the lone trolley covered with a pale blue sheet in the middle of the room.

“Mrs Chambers?” A man who seemed to be in his forties, a dusting of grey at his temples, approached my side. “Come this way, please,” he asked as he placed his fingertips upon my elbow, leading me closer to the centre, ever closer to the figure beneath the sheet.

“Is there no one who can be with you?” he asked. His voice was kind, his face softened with age.