Leave the Living Read Online Free

father’s eyelids. They stayed shut, and somehow, with them closed, he looked less at peace and more damaged—more dead.
    Mick let his breath whistle out from between his teeth, a deflating sound that filled the tiled room.
    “Hey, I’ll just step out and be in the other room if you need me. Take your time,” the attendant said, stripping his gloves off as he sidled away. The door clicked shut, and then he was alone. Mick ran his eyes over his father’s features, their lines still the same, undamaged: the long, regal nose he had inherited and subsequently passed down to Aaron, the receding hairline that would be in his future, the strong jaw that was always set in a determined way. His facial muscles were slack now, unburdened in the purest way.
    “Oh, Dad,” Mick said, trying to swallow the stubborn lump in his throat. “Damn it, why didn’t you listen to me? That woodstove—” His voice failed him, and fresh tears rose on his bottom eyelids. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. The tears, the words, anything within the life he possessed, there was nothing he could do or say that would make a difference now.
    “I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t get up here to see you as much as I should have. Sorry I didn’t fly you down more often to visit with Aaron. He’s gonna miss you.” He paused, a sob locked in the vault of his chest. “I’m gonna miss you.”
    Mick reached out and put a hand on one frigid shoulder, the skin like bleached stone.
    His father’s eyes slid halfway open, and his legs, still inside the morgue drawer, kicked, banging against the steel in a sudden movement.
    Mick issued a strangled cry and staggered back, yanking his hand away as he tripped and fell to the floor.
    “What the fuck? What the fuck?”
    “What’s going on, bro?”
    The attendant strode into the room, his magnified eyes shifted between the body and where Mick was sprawled on the floor.
    Mick raised a shaking hand. “He…he moved! He fucking moved!”
    The attendant frowned as if he’d just heard about some bad weather approaching.
    “Hmm. Yeah, that happens sometimes, but I’ve never seen it. The nervous system sends out a jolt to the spinal cord and the muscles twitch.” He looked away from the body, the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “Just science, bro.”
    Mick sagged, his head drooping. “Shit.”
    “Yeah. Pretty weird, right?”
    “Yeah. Look—” Mick said, slowly bringing himself to his feet. He had the intense urge to run his hands under scalding water and rub them raw with soap. “—it’s definitely my dad. Can we take care of the necessary paperwork?”
    “Sure, sure. There’s only one form to sign, and then you just have to write down which funeral home you’re using. I’ll take it from there.” The attendant spoke over his shoulder as he walked toward the adjacent room.
    Mick watched him go and cleared his throat, stopping the younger man at the doorway.
    “What’s up?”
    “Can you put him away, please?” Mick said, motioning toward his father’s body.
    “Oh, right. Can’t be too careful,” he said, moving back across the room as Mick closed his eyes and swallowed the taste of bile coating the back of his tongue.

 
     
     
    6
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The cheaply textured ceiling of the hotel room had pictures on its surface. Mick stared at it, lying on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, trying to sleep. The bumps and grooves meant to hide the dust and dirt of time was an architecture of scenes. Near the corner of the room was a stream flowing between two high banks. Next to the bathroom, a semi-deflated hot-air balloon hung above a forest of reaching branches. And in the center of the room was a skeletal hand turned halfway over, reminding him of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel depiction of Adam’s fingers reaching for God, except the hand on the ceiling was decayed and thin, twisted with disease that warped the bones into something unnatural.
    Mick sighed and turned