Mortis

12.

A week and a half had passed with no sign of Mortis. In a way, I was glad for his absence after hearing of Cookie's sudden death. But I was also disappointed, the adventurer in me desired to know more. Whether Mortis was the reason for Cookie's passing or not is a question I still demand an answer for, making me more eager to find his lurking shadow in any dark corner. Though there was not enough evidence to indicate he was responsible for Cookie's passing, the chill down my spine and the quiet voice in my subconscious told me the idea was not far-fetched. The timing was all too perfect.

I went back to school right after hearing about Cookie's death, initially only missing almost a week. School was no longer a place I looked forward to, John's absence made this so. It was depressing and boring, but mostly just lonely. Our circle of friends stood together though, Ben still kept a careful distance from me. No more parties were thrown at his house until John was back with us, this was Ben's promise to the circle.

The hospital was now our meeting grounds. It was strange seeing the usual weekend party and after school shenanigans being replaced by hours spent at John's bedside. Sometimes we'd all go together and be the loudest people on the entire floor, and sometimes it would just be one at a time. The individual time spent with John's deteriorating frame was emotionally draining us all one by one. Every day he grew weaker and weaker, his skin appearing sallow and paper-like. Sometimes, he'd be talkative and excited for any company that didn't involve a pair of scrubs or a white coat. Other times, he'd send us away as he writhed in agony, holding his head, waiting for the painkillers to kick in.

No matter what horrid things he shouted my way, I remained by his side as sweat poured down his face and he begged for a gun to end his pain. I'd push the hair out of his eyes and wipe his sweat until the medication kicked in and he'd pass out in his sweat and drool. He'd awake in a daze from the heavy pain medication, his eyelids droopy and his words slow and repetitive.

"Oh God, Hay," he'd say with crusted drool on his dry lips, "I'm so fucking sorry. Oh God, oh fucking God...I wouldn't wish this pain on my worst enemy...this is what hell must be like."

I'd sit by his side and press a cup filled with cold water to his dry lips as he grappled with his thoughts and emotions. "Don't worry, John," I'd say to him soothingly, calming him down as his fingers closed around my wrist gently, making my stomach leap with butterflies.

We had all become acquainted with a nurse that worked the night shift on Mondays Tuesdays, Wednesdays and sometimes Saturdays.

Judith was a woman in her fifties with a rich British accent and blonde hair cut into a short bob. She was slender and taller than your average woman. She had large brown eyes and high cheekbones, leading anyone to believe she was a doll in her youth. She smelled of lavender despite the lingering hospital/sick people smell. She lived a large part of her life in London, swearing her accent had begun to lose its sparkle as years had passed for her in the Ray. She was funny and the most lenient out of all the nurses, allowing John to eat the horrid morsels of junk food I'd smuggle in for him whenever I was able.

"It's the tumor," she told me as we stood at the foot of his hospital bed, watching him fade in and out of consciousness after a heavy dose of medication. He was finally at rest from another horrible migraine. He had thrown up all over himself like a child, in so much pain that he was unable to even attempt to clean himself. He just laid in his yellow and chunky vomit, sobbing into his pillow as Judith and I removed his soiled sheets and hospital gown. It was heartbreaking to see him naked and shivering until a new gown was placed over his bony frame.

Vivianne would have died if she had seen this horrid display. I was grateful for her absence, it made things a little easier. Luckily, everyone was incredibly busy today.