Page 233 of Remy

Dad’s not there.

I scramble along the hall, rushing toward the place I’ve found parental sanctuary my entire life and skitter to a stop at my father’s bedroom doorway.

The familiar sight of him peacefully resting in the hospital bed brings another burst of hope. “Dad?”

He’s still wearing the clothes I left him in, his cheek snuggled against a pillow, his hands gently placed atop the comforter.

“Dad?” I swallow over razor blades.

He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“Dad?”

Footsteps approach behind me, Remy’s tentative grip coming to rest on my shoulders as I fight to keep my breathing level. “I’m sorry, Ollie.”

The pained sorrow in his voice breaks me.

I choke on a sob and hurry to clasp a hand over my mouth, forcing the weakness to remain inside.

We don’t cry.

The memory of my mother’s voice has never been more punishing. It squeezes at my heart without mercy.

This isn’t right. I was supposed to have more time.

“I don’t understand.” My voice breaks as I pad forward, unable to drag my gaze off my father.

I thought my job would’ve better prepared me for this. The years of intrenched sterility. The constant chill that accompanies death. But it’s never felt this way before. Not even with my mother’s passing. It’s as if the devil’s claws are tearing my father’s soul from mine, leaving me raw and ravaged.

“I thought we had months.” I pause beside the clinical single bed, my stomach twisted in churning knots.

“I thought we did, too.” Remy follows, rounding the opposite side of the bed as I grasp my father’s fingers.

He’s still warm. Still flexible. Without rigor.

“It doesn’t make sense.” I scrunch my nose to combat the burn blurring my vision. “We saw him a few hours ago. He was fine. There were no signs… right?” I glance to Remy, finding him hunched over, picking up something from the floor.

I blink through my foggy vision as he gracefully straightens to his full height, casually sliding his hands into his pockets. “Remy?”

“No, Pyro.” He approaches my father’s side, his movements measured. “There were no signs.”

My throat tightens with unease.

Something about Remy doesn’t sit right with me. I sense more than grief from him. There’s trepidation, too.

“Did you pick something up off the floor?” I sniff back the tingle in my nose.

“Hmm?” His brow furrows as he breaks our gaze to focus on my father. “Do you want me to give you space? I can wait in the living room.”

I keep staring at him. Scrutinizing.

Why did he ignore my question?

“What was on the floor?” I guide my dad’s hand back to the comforter, fixated on Remy’s haunted expression. He continues to deny me eye contact, intensifying my anxiety, making it swirl with overwhelming despair.

“Why are you ignoring me?” I beg.

His stark gaze turns to mine, but he remains silent.

---