Page 67 of Fear No Hell

Sam

“Hey.” Dillon leans against the arm of the couch in the breakroom, tapping their purple nails on the scratchy fabric. “It’s lunchtime!”

I raise an eyebrow at them from where I’m sitting. As I finish changing out my prosthetic sock for a thicker ply one before rolling on my liner, I drawl, “Good job, Dill, you finally learned to tell time.”

“Ha ha.” They roll their eyes at me as I stuff the used sock into my gym bag and zip it back up. “Don’t quit your day job, Sammy. A comedian you most definitely are not.”

“Very funny.” I slide my prosthesis back on, rolling the sleeve up until it seals properly, and pull down my pant leg. “Did you come in here just to crow at me about the time, or you got something you actually want?”

Huffing, they cross their arms over their chest. “You’ve been in a bitchy mood all day. What gives?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. They’re not wrong, not that I can explain why I’m being an asshole.

I woke up irritable, and it only got worse after I crawled out of bed, leaving my beautiful goddess sleeping in our bed, clad only in one of my old band t-shirts.

My attitude plunged into something I would call borderline homicidal once I left the house.

Four hours into my shift, and something feels off.

A weird twinge in my stomach that has me jumpy, my already shitty mood taking a turn into something I would call paranoia.

“Sorry,” I mutter with an apologetic grin to offset the sting of my grumpiness. “I dunno what’s up with me. Just off, I guess.”

“Hmmph.” Dillon plops themself onto the couch next to me. “It’s okay. You can’t be Sunshine Sam all the time.”

“I’m sorry. What did you just call me?”

“Sunshine Sam.”

I blink at them. “Do people actually call me that?”

“Well… no.” They purse their lips thoughtfully. “But they totally should. One of the patients does call you Dr. Edible, though. That’s not a bad one!”

“Which patient was that?” I’m 99% certain I know who it was, though. Assuming I’m right, it’s not the compliment they’re trying to make it out to be.

“Um.”

“Dillon.”

“Okay, fine, it was the cannibal with the lesions, but I think they meant it as a compliment!”

“Yeah, because they thought I was literally edible.” Something uncontrollable starts prowling under my skin, something angry and forceful.

Pressing against the boundaries of my flesh.

Making my skin crawl and feel like it’s two sizes too small for my body.

“Not a compliment. Plus—” I rub at the back of my neck where goosebumps are rising for seemingly no reason.

“I don’t need patients to find me sexy.”

“That’s right because you found the love of your life.” Sighing wistfully, they elbow me. “Does she have any siblings? Because I need some love too. And I’m pretty sure you won’t share your girl with me.”

“Damn fucking right I won’t share her with you,” I growl seconds before my stomach turns then drops suddenly.

Fuck. Did I eat something bad recently? Lila’s latest attempt at dinner was leagues better than her past efforts.

No way did she poison me. So what the fuck is going on with me?

I press a hand against my stomach. “And yeah, she has eight other sisters, but they’re not super close. ”

“Eight sisters? Didn’t her dad ever learn how to pull out? Jesus Christ.”

I shrug. From what Mnemosyne said, it sounded like Zeus only wanted to get his dick wet and didn’t care about having kids or, if she did conceive, actually caring for them.

Fuckboy piece of shit. My stomach pulses again, and bile rises in my throat.

I swallow it down. Seriously. What the fuck is going on with me?

“I did come in here for a reason, though.” Dillon is back onto their initial thought, but my head is pounding now, so badly I can barely follow what they’re saying.

“It’s lunchtime, so we’re going out to eat.

I only agreed to working days this month because we haven’t hung out in ages, so get your ass up off this disgusting couch and come get lunch with me. ”

“I-sure—” My stomach turns in a roil so strong I’m legitimately concerned about vomiting on the yellowing linoleum floor.

I’m lurching towards the sink when a powerful rage flies through me, replaced quickly by panic so strong it rips my breath away.

My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, vacuum sealing my lungs into non-functioning organs.

Jesus, I haven’t had a panic attack like this in years.

Fuck.

Hands braced on either side of the break room sink, I force myself to do the breathing exercises I’ve been teaching Lila.

Deep inhale. Hold. Deep exhale. Hold. Each cycle of breathing has air coming in more easily, which is a relief no matter how rancid the air over the sink is with its scent of burnt coffee, popcorn, and tuna fish, all mixed together in a garbage disposal that no longer works and hasn’t been cleaned in years.

The anxiety clears without warning. One minute it’s there, the next it’s not. My stomach stops rebelling. I’m able to breathe again. In the absence of every physiological panic-based trigger is one brain-melting word.

Lila.

I have to go. Right fucking now.

I can’t explain why, don’t even bother to try when I sprint past a pale, sputtering Dillon, only shouting, “Sorry, I gotta go, I’ll make it up to you,” as I race through the hospital corridors, out the entry bay, and to my car.

I don’t stop for red lights. I barely stop for other cars. I go 20 miles over the speed limit the entire drive home.

All courtesy of this inexplicable knowledge that I have to get home because Lila needs me. Immediately.

Fortunately, there aren’t any cops on the road between the hospital and the house because I’m not totally sure where my wallet is. The only reason I know I have my keys is because the car is running.

The second I pull up in front of the house, I throw the car into park, fling open the car door, and leap out of the car, only to realize I’m still buckled in when the seatbelt catches tight around my torso.

With a muffled swear, I shove down the release button, jerk the steel tongue out of the latch, and stumble onto the sidewalk.

I’m already halfway up the walkway when an alarm begins beeping repetitively behind me.

I ignore it, abandoning my still-running Jetta in the middle of the street, and bound up the porch steps.

The house is quiet when I fling open the front door. I’m not sure if I close it behind me.

“Lila!” I call, darting into the kitchen.

Not there.

Sprint to the bedroom.

She’s not there.

Only one place left.

I rip open the basement door and tear down the stairs, tripping down the last three steps, catching myself on the railing at the bottom seconds before I land face first on the concrete floor.

As I turn the corner, the first thing I notice is a glare of white next to the staircase.

I squint at it in confusion before realizing it’s a rib bone.

One of the true ribs—my brain spits the information out idly like there’s any importance to the type of rib it is when it’s sitting on my floor—if the scoring on either side where it once sat attached to the sternum and spine is any indicator.

The second thing I notice is Lila, standing in front of a very dead Arthur.