Page 4 of The Ecstasy of Sin
“They’re almost there, honey,” she assures me. “Just make sure your front door is open.”
I hear the distant wail of sirens, growing louder and closer with every passing second. I turn and stumble toward the front door, weaving around piles of junk like a soldier in a minefield, each step sending spikes of pain through my skull.
I unlock the door and fling it open, ignoring the way it bounces off the wall with enough force to leave a dent. I don’t stop to check the damage, it’s just another bruise on a house that used to be my safe place.
I rush back to my dad, my eyes locked on his chest, praying for movement. He takes a deep breath, his ribs rising in a desperate swell.
The phone slips from my fingers. My arms fall uselessly at my sides, heavy with the weight of my world as it crashes down around me.
I watch, wide-eyed and trembling, as my father lies deathly still for one impossibly long minute… and then he gasps his final breath.
Everything inside of me shatters into a thousand irreparable pieces.
My tears are flowing so fast that my vision blurs, my father’s face warped and wavering—burned into my memory like a smudged photograph I’ll never unsee. I blink hard, trying to clear the image, but it only manages to sharpen the horror.
His body slumps deeper into the couch, overtaken by an eerie stillness. Whatever life was once shining through his eyes has vanished.
I’m breathless as I stare at my dad, my lungs refusing the draw in the breath I desperately need. Pink-tinged foam clings to the corners of his dry, cracked lips. A few drops of blood stain the curve of his swollen belly, his grey shirt riding up and exposing the distended flesh beneath.
Red and white lights flicker across the living room, spilling through the windows in fractured beams. The sound of someone screaming accompanies the loud wail of the sirens, and I wonder who it is making that terrible noise as the medics storm into the house.
I focus on their grim faces as they grab my father and pull him down to the floor. One drops to his knees and begins chest compressions, while the other pops open a case and starts attaching leads to my father’s lifeless body.
I stare at my father, grief and misery raging through me like a hurricane, as the medics try and pull him back from the void. A void that I know will never let him go.
A different medic, an older man with a greying mustache, appears in front of me. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him. Whoever is screaming really needs to stop.
His gloved hands gently frame my face, pulling my gaze from my father’s body to his own. His eyes are kind, they remind me of the colour of the whiskey my dad was obsessed with.
My dad is dead.
This can’t be real.
“I need you to stop screaming so we can figure out what happened,” the medic says, his tone firm but not unkind. His hands squeeze slightly, and pain blooms across my skull in protest. I blink, trying to orient myself.
I lift a trembling hand to my mouth—and find it wide open.
It’s me. I’m the one screaming.
I shut my mouth and press my palm over my lips, smothering the sound.
“What happened here?” he asks again, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos.
I stare at him, still trembling. Nausea twists my stomach, and the left side of my face is going numb.
Even with my father lying dead beside me, the migraine won’t let up. A disordered brain doesn’t pause for grief.
“I’ve been in bed with a migraine,” I manage, my voice thick and slurred as the electrical storm behind my eyes rages on. “I found him like this.”
“You’re doing great. Can you tell me if he has any disabilities or illnesses? Is he on any drugs or alcohol?” the medic asks. He keeps his hands firm on my face, guiding my gaze back to his when I try to glance toward the sudden beeping behind me.
I fight to focus, but my condition is deteriorating by the second. “He… he’s in liver failure from drinking sever day.Everyday.” I quickly correct myself as the wrong word slips out.
“Thank you,” he says gently. “We’re going to try and help him. Do you need medical attention?”
I nod, the motion clumsy. His voice is calm and commanding, grounding me in the moment. It sounds like the kind of voice superheroes are supposed to have.
“M-Medication,” I mumble. “F-ffforr… uhhhh… migraine…” I fumble for the words, as the aura hits my temporal lobe, and language starts to break apart on my tongue.
