Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,56

his son once more when the machines beeped. He listened to the beeping of Victor’s heart, Henry’s head resting between restraints to prevent movement, and began to cry.

“Well?” Chrissy asked, her fingers resting on her son’s cheek.

Frank shrugged, unable to face her. “He’s alive.”

Henry’s dad took another step closer, balancing with the lamp. His breath came in ragged gasps, and blood was still flowing from his scalp despite the towel he’d wrapped around it.

“And the rest of me?” Henry asked, the words forced out through clenched teeth as he waved his numb hand in front of his father’s face.

“I couldn’t figure out the dosages, the anti-rejection meds,” his father said. “Parts of you started to die.”

“Die?” Justine asked.

“I saved what I could, replaced what I couldn’t.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Henry shook his head, his hair falling in front of his eyes. “No,” he finally said. “We need to evacuate. We can talk later.”

“It’s too late,” his father said.

“Why?”

“She couldn’t live without you, Henry.” His father sank to his knees, sliding down the lamp until he was kneeling in a pool of his own blood. Lightning flashed right outside the window and the thunder was right on top of them. Hissing filled the room as the front door banged open in the wind. “I couldn’t live without her.”

“He’s not going to wake up, is he?” she asked. Limp hair covered her face as her head rose and fell, pillowed on Henry’s chest. Brittle fingers rested on her son’s cheek, the cracked fingernails softly drumming on his skin.

“I don’t know.”

“You killed him,” she said. “I watched you cut his head off.”

“I’m still trying, Chrissy, please.”

“I think,” she said, brushing the hair out of her face so she could look up at him, “I don’t...”

“Don’t what?”

“Care.” She closed her eyes, a smile spreading from ear to ear, exposing bloody gums.

“Chrissy?”

She opened her eyes but they were cloudy and distant, the smile still plastered on her face. Then she laughed, a harsh sound like a hiss as her fingers clenched around Henry’s arm, the broken nails digging into his skin.

“Chrissy isn’t here, please leave a message at the beep,” she said, hissing again with every beep from the machinery attached to her son.

He closed the door behind him, leaving his wife snoring softly, a diseased smile across her prematurely aged face. Frank leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and cried. Great heaving sobs wracked his body and he pushed himself up, afraid he’d wake them with his cries. He stumbled to his office, falling into his chair and trying to will himself to sleep.

“Frank,” Chrissy said, the words a million miles away in a dream of happier times; almost, he thought, a moan. “Frank.” His name, so sweet on her supple lips; the honeymoon, the wedding itself. The dream wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“Frank.”

He blinked, and saw a strange room, lit with computer diodes. He blinked again. His office snapped into focus.

She stood in the doorway, whispering his name.

“Frank.”

Her skin was dark in the dim light, a glint of a reflection in her hand. The distant memory of a warm embrace … he looked down, caught the shadow lines of bloody handprints wrapped around his arms.

The chair fell over as he lunged to the light switch.

“Frank,” she said again, as the glare reflected off the scalpel in her hand.

Blood pooled at her feet, dripping in a steady flow from her wrists. Beneath her chin, a hideous gash smiled at him, drooling blood.

“Frank.”

She collapsed to the ground and he fell with her, trying to staunch the bleeding from her neck, her wrists, her beautiful face. Taking off his shirt, he wrapped it around her, tying it like a noose.

“Breathe,” he said, but she was beyond breathing. “Don’t leave me, Chrissy, please.” He kissed her cheek, tasting her blood, unable to focus, rocking her in his arms, screaming her name.

Blood dripped between his fingers, staining the hard wood floor.

“Why, Chrissy?” he asked, his voice raw and strained.

“Save me,” she said before drawing one last breath. And then she was still.

thirty

“There wasn’t time to find a donor,” his father said, still kneeling in a pool of blood.

“So you killed someone,” Justine said, her voice flat and quiet.

“Her name was Sheila. I didn’t even know if she was the right blood type.”

“What went wrong?” Henry asked, taking the last step that separated him from his father. His feet squished in the blood as he knelt beside him.

“I rushed the transplant,” his father said,