Page 28 of Drawn to Death
“Follow me.”
I enter the door Mickey’s blood trail leads to, the room I hoped never to show Quell. The room I built specially, just for this kind of work.
I flip the light switch. Cold fluorescents stutter, then catch, and the whole room goes white. Floor, ceiling, walls, the same sterile tile, no color, no comfort. There is a drain in the middle, and the floor slopes just enough so that everything finds its way there. Stainless steel table. Hoses, all neatly looped on hooks. Rolls of plastic sheeting. A pair of thick rubber gloves, waiting.
The smell hits before anything else. Bleach, sharp enough to sting, but under that is something metallic. The room was used yesterday, but not for anything messy. Just prep for the banker. Choosing what I needed was easy with Quell’s drawing haunting my mind. Still, the chemicals cling to everything. It is the kind of clean that makes you think about what needed washing away.
Quell stops dead in the doorway. He makes this little sound, almost like choking on his own breath.
“Grab the plastic,” I tell him. I keep my voice low, steady. No point in making a big deal out of it. This is just something that needs doing.
He steps in, but he moves as if he is wading through water. His eyes keep darting around, never landing anywhere for long. There is nothing to focus on, really. No pictures, no calendar, not even a clock. Just the stuff you need, and nothing you don’t.
“You do this a lot,” Quell croaks softly. His voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
“Yeah.” I don’t bother pretending. “The plastic, Quell.”
He goes to the shelf, but his hands shake. I keep watching him, mostly out of habit, and see how his breathing speeds up, shallow and ragged. He looks awful, honestly. The lights make his skin look gray.
I’ve seen that look before. Usually, it means someone isn’t going to walk out of this room.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned by the green hint to his pale cheeks. My priorities seem to shift back to him once again. I’m picking a pale complexion over body disposal.
He nods fast. “Fine. I’m fine.”
He is lying, but I let it go. At least he is trying.
I move Mickey, twisting his body until he's face up, staring up as if he wishes he believed in heaven before it was too late. The only way is down for men like us, but for Quell… he's too good for this life.
The sound of congealing blood sloshing makes Quell flinch. He looks at Mickey’s face, sees what’s left of that last second of fear, and then looks away.
“Help me roll him onto the plastic,” I order.
Quell moves stiffly, almost like he isn’t inside his own body. He reaches for Mickey’s legs, hands hovering just above the fabric, fingers twitching. Finally, his palms land on the rough cotton of Mickey’s pants. Together, we roll the body onto the sheeting. Blood smears across the white tiles, bright and shocking against all that sterile white.
That’s when it hits him. The sight, or maybe the smell, I can’t tell. Suddenly Quell doubles over, one hand grabbing the edge of the steel table, the other clamped over his mouth. He makes a sound, strangled and sharp, like something caught in his throat.
I am at his side before I even think about it, steering him toward the utility sink in the corner. He barely makes it. He retches hard into the basin, his whole body jerking with the force of it. His shoulders bunch up, his spine curves so tight it looks like it might snap.
I reach for him without thinking, gathering his hair in my hand to keep it out of his face. My other hand settles between his shoulder blades, feeling every tremor that goes through him. His back is hot, even through the thin shirt.
He retches again, but there is nothing left in him. Just bile. He hasn’t eaten much today. I’ll have to fix that later, after I get him cleaned up and feeling better.
Oh, and the body disposal.
“Easy.” My voice sounds low and weird in the hard, white room. “Just breathe.”
He tries, but his breathing keeps catching, every inhale shaky. Sweat beads at his hairline, dampening the strands tangled in my fingers. I hold him steady, just letting him get through it. My thumb moves in slow circles on his back, and I don’t even notice I am doing it until I feel him start to relax under my hand.
When the retching finally stops, Quell slumps against the sink, shivering. I lean past his shoulder and turn on the tap, letting cold water run over the mess. He scoops some up in his hands, splashes his face, rinses out his mouth.
I keep my hand in his hair. He straightens up after a minute, but his face is pale, almost gray. Water drips from his chin, soaking the collar of his shirt. That’s when I notice the blood. Tiny dots spattered across his chest and shoulders, a spray, darkand sharp, from Mickey’s throat. The pattern is obvious, a fan of red specks. Some still wet enough to shine in the light.
“You didn’t even flinch when I killed him,” I say. My voice is quiet, just a little curious. “But this? This is what gets you?”
Quell stares at me, eyes empty. “What?”
“When I cut Mickey’s throat. You were right there. You watched. You didn’t look away, didn’t say anything.” I study him, waiting for something to show on his face. “But now you can’t stand to touch him.”
