Obscuring Tears

Chapter Ten:

Living Dead

My skin is cut but does not hurt

I see red and then I feel

'Cause blood is the only thing that

Can make me feel somewhat real.

Her body shuddered and shook. Small beads of cold sweat lined her forehead and glistened in the slivers of moonlight that slipped though the closed blinds and painted her face. In attempt to stop the trembling, Ruthie pulled her knees to her chest, curling into a tight ball. She needed something, something sharp to cut with, but there was nothing. Lucy had cleaned her out.

Ruthie couldn't believe how stupid she had been to actually go along with the bit they fed her about how they would all help each other through this. Now she realized how ridiculous it really was. She especially couldn't get over Matt and what a hypocrite he had become in just one day. Whenever she thought of him, severe hatred coursed through her body and the need to destroy something was stronger than ever.

Pushing up her sleeves, she clawed at her scabs, wanting to rip them open and feel the warm blood - the proof that she was alive and this wasn't some sort of hell she had imagined - run over her skin and watch drip slowly onto the sheets. Getting a nail under one rather large and long scab, she picked until she was able the grasp the layer with her thumb and forefinger and pulled it back, exposing the wound. Instantly, blood sprang from the open lesion like water flowing in a river snaking down a mountainside.

The young woman smiled slightly as her breathing began to slow. A silent calm settled over her for a few blissful moments while she watched the dark liquid fall from her arm to the soft sheets of her bed. She wore an expression so blank and so emotionless it was difficult to tell if she even harbored a soul.

Clink.

A pebble had gently knocked against the glass of her window. Ruthie's gaze shifted from her arm to the casement so simply as if someone threw rocks at her windowpane every night. She hadn't moved, just sort of sat there with her head cocked slightly to the side and stared.

Clink.

It hit again, but this time her name was called softly only seconds afterward. Sighing, she yanked a tissue out of the box on her nightstand and wiped the blood away before tugging her sleeve down. She pushed the covers off her legs and got to her knees to peek out through the blinds slits. Bert stood outside with a handful of small, gray stones, hoping that someone would answer him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, leaning out her window.

He shrugged, dropping the rocks. Smiling he said, "I couldn't get you off my mind."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you couldn't have just come over tomorrow morning because…?"

Bert shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Because I couldn't sleep without seeing you first. You were awake, so what does it matter?"

Ruthie sighed. "I guess it doesn't."

"Come out with me," he offered with a nod of his head. When she didn't reply right away, he asked, "What, do you have something better to do?"

A slight twinge came from her wrist. "No," she lied. "Let me get my coat."

In your eyes I saw

What was to be your fate

And only then I knew

That I was too late.

Simon stood staring into his mother's face at the wake before the funeral services the next day. She looked oddly plain – not peaceful like most of the people who came through here. Though her eyes were closed and therefore unreadable, Simon could see what she was thinking. It wasn't her time; she had seven kids at home to take care of and love. The corners of her ruby red lips were down turned and her perfectly groomed eyebrows were seemingly placed in a frightened position. This wasn't his mother; it couldn't be.

Maybe that was why the young man felt no emotion towards this woman who lay in the casket before him with his mother's name. He didn't cry, felt no sadness whatsoever, even though those around him had tearstained faces. He didn't feel angry, like this wasn't right. There were no feelings left to feel; Simon was completely drained.

It was the same when he saw his father just a few feet down. He and Annie wore identical expressions, and Simon was sure they were thinking the same thoughts when their car became nothing more than a twisted piece of metal.

Simon stirred but did not wake.

He was riding in Kevin's car, in the passenger's seat, as he and the older police officer swept the city looking for Ruthie. Simon was staring out the window, looking past his disheveled reflection on the pane. The streets were abandoned and wet, showing no signs of life at all. Everything seemed so desolate and depressing, he was beginning to wonder if they would ever find his sister.

"We…need something hot," Kevin had been mumbling.

Simon looked at him. "What?" he asked.

Kevin glanced at him briefly as if this man sitting beside him were crazy. "Soup," he replied. "Hot soup. I'm hungry and need to replenish myself." Looking back to the road, he muttered, "Soup will do that."

Oddly, Simon didn't feel as if this was something to be confused about. In fact, it seemed to make perfect sense, and he went back to scanning the sidewalks that glistened in the moonlight.

Kevin pulled into his drive and parked the car. They stepped out onto the cement and closed the doors behind them. As soon as Simon went to turn around to make his way into the house, he found himself in the second floor hallway of his childhood home – the one owned by his father's church.

"Kevin?" he called out, his voice bouncing off the walls and echoing right back to him. There was no reply, and Simon looked around, noticing for the first time that he was alone. "Hello?"

The house was eerily quiet and was apparently vacant. He took a step to leave but the moment his foot came down on the carpet, the corridor came to life. There was a piercing scream and Simon whipped around, catching sight of Matt and Lucy, both looking horrified and frightened. Simon's eyes slid father to the right and that was when his heart started pounding. Ruthie was standing in front of them all, her face drenched with sweat and tears, holding a shiny black pistol to her head.

Lucy was pleading with Ruthie to give her the gun, saying anything and everything that might calm her younger sister down and get her to think rationally. Matt acted as if he was glued to the floor, not able to move. Simon watched helplessly, feeling the blood in his veins drop a thousand degrees.

Ruthie screwed her eyes shut and tightened her grip. Nothing Lucy was saying was working. He knew he had to do something, but there was nothing. Simon stopped breathing and he found it impossible to draw in any oxygen.

What happened next was so surreal that Simon had a hard time believing it was even taking place. Ruthie had opened her eyes and looked straight at him, their gazes locking. It was in those few, critical moments that Simon realized that whatever he could have done was already too late to do. He realized how damaged she was, how incredibly depressed she had become.

She shed a final tear then pulled the trigger.

"No!" Simon cried, but he knew he was too late. The blood was on the walls, on his face, in his hair. Ruthie's body was sprawled out on the ground, a pool of the dark fluid spreading around it. There was a giant hole in what was left of her skull. The bullet had blasted almost everything away, causing her to be barely recognizable.

She was dead even before she hit the floor.

Simon sat bolt upright, cold sweat dripping off his face. His body shook uncontrollably as his mind scrambled to decipher if that was nothing more than a nightmare or a memory. He felt sick.

Matt woke beside him and sat up, sensing that something was wrong. "Are you okay?" he asked, studying his brother's upset appearance.

Without a word, Simon flung the bedcovers off his body and stepped onto the carpet. He practically flew down the hall to Ruthie's room and opened her door. Simon was greeted with an icy wind that blew in from the open window. He leaned over her bed to close the pane, and when he leaned back, he saw something that did not ease his mind at all: scattered drops of blood on her white sheets.