SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

sorry?” he asked, reaching for an errant piece of my hair and put it behind my ear. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
    “The … the pain,” I stammered. “I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.”
    “You’re sad for me?” He looked at me like no one had ever looked at me, like there was something special about me that only he could see and appreciate. I finally existed, and I didn’t know how to react to his attention.
    He stood uncomfortably close. I felt a peculiar sensation inside my body–everything awake and humming. The feeling was unpleasant, nauseating, but I also felt a peculiar gratification–something like rubbing sore muscles after a workout, or pushing one’s thumb into a tender bruise.
    Then I saw into John’s eyes. If ever the light found a way beneath the shadow of his brow bone, they were a deep blue-green. So dark, they almost looked black. They were fathomless, his eyes, a never-ending pelagic zone. Then he kissed me.
    My life had meaning after that. I had a purpose. I would love him till all his pain went away.
    The years passed, and throughout our marriage, we never left that doctor’s office. One doctor after another puzzled after John’s mysterious conditions. He bled so easily; he was always covered in bruises in various stages of healing. He’d be black, purple, blue, green, and yellow. His bones broke at the slightest strain. He had food allergies, pollen allergies, skin rashes, bleeding gums. Over the years there were ulcers, a ruptured spleen, an appendicitis scare, colds, and flus. John was outraged when one doctor suggested he may have HIV, but the only explanation for his body to seemingly destroy itself was some sort of insidious autoimmune disease.
    The mystery continued, and no matter what I did, I felt him slowly slipping away from me. One day, something would kill him. No matter how strong my love was, it couldn’t heal him. I was failing, and I would end up all alone.
     
    *
     
    The next morning, I dressed for work quickly and quietly, not wanting to wake up John. I sneaked downstairs into the kitchen and made a quick tray for his breakfast. He liked to eat Gerber baby food. It was one of his weird quirks that I had gotten used to. He said it reminded him of the hospital. I guessed he was there so much he sometimes missed the food.
    I put the jar of pears on his tray. The Gerber baby stared from the label, its chubby, toothless face so cute I wanted to crush it. I wondered if I’d feel the same way about my own baby.
    I placed a small box of milk and a bowl of dry raisin bran on the tray (the drugs kept John chronically constipated). I laid all his pills on a napkin and admired the colorful bouquet of medications. I planned to wake him after setting down the tray to say good-bye and try to leave before he invented a reason for me to stay.
    I unfolded the TV table and set his tray down. His plastic urinal was full, so I walked to the bathroom and dumped it into the toilet. It didn’t even smell like urine. It smelled like medicine. When I reentered, John was awake and looking frantic.
    “What’s happening? Where are you going?” he asked.
    “I have work. You remember, don’t you?” I passed him the urinal. “Do you have to go?”
    “I hate going in that bottle.”
    “I don’t have time to take you to the bathroom right now.”
    “But I have to go number two.”
    “Oh John!” I slid the breakfast table against the wall. “Give me your hands.”
    “You’re mad at me already,”
    “I’m not mad. I’m late.”
    “I can’t help it, Suze. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”
    We shuffled to the bathroom. I squatted, my arms around his waist, as I lowered him onto the toilet. I left the door cracked in case he needed me. I took the opportunity to straighten out the bed and call Greta to ask her to come during lunch.
    “Suze!” When I entered the bathroom, John held out a small tuft of toilet paper. I had to wipe for him. It was too