He never used her name. The man had dementia.

And where had she heard those words before?

He cranked his mouth wide, glaring at the ceiling. The lights crackled, then flickered.

“Let go and your mind will be resurrected. For it is through suffering that we reach a pure state of being! Join me!” he called to the heavens.

What the h—

“Death is beautiful. It’s just sleep. And it wants you, Vera. Oh, how it wants you….”

A hollow laugh broke out, his bald head tossed back with a film of sweat, black eyes crazed. “It wants you. It wants you. It wants you…,” he sang like a child keeping time with a jump rope on a playground in Hell.

Vera didn’t reach for a call button. She didn’t check if he was okay. She sprinted, an animal fleeing with a pulse faster than her feet. She wheeled her cart down the hall, nearly colliding with a nurse. She didn’t stop. She didn’t apologize. Vera panted, clambering away from the room, from the shrine, from…whatever that was, whoever that was…until she couldn’t hear his murderous laugh anymore.

CHAPTER SIX

The Gift

In a sterile hospital room, an old man begs for peace. His wife is dying, of that he is certain. The years have been good to them. Their children are healthy. Their days are quiet. But their minds, oh, their minds.

Age is a cruel beast.

The wife slipped first—years ago, maybe even a decade, if he were being truly honest. And at a time like this, why not be honest?

The first time he noticed, she forgot her father’s name. Then she forgot what day it was. Then she forgot she had grandkids.

Their children decided on a “home.” Though there was nothing homey about it. The room stank of Lysol, and the bed was lined with buttons. The walls were white. There were few pictures.

She slept. The light rise and fall of her frail chest the only way he knew she still existed. Through it all, the husband rubbed the loose skin on her hand. She was still her.

Then their son visited, dispensing questions with a familiar look in his eyes. Did he know what day it was? Who was president? The old man had watched this happen before. They’d stripped his wife of her humanity, her dignity. He’d let her become something they promised each other they would never, ever be.

Now he was next.

So he placed the statue of the Angel of Tears by her bedside, its ivory wings soaring toward the heavens, the extinguished torch pointed her way.

“Please show her mercy. Please give her peace.”

There was no answered prayer.

Next, he brought an offering, a bottle of sweet red wine. “Please let her leave this earth with grace.”

The following morning, a flush appeared on her cheeks.

He brought bread.

Then flowers.

With each gift, he felt a fresh vibration tingle within him, nothing dramatic, just a little hum. Slowly, she stopped moaning in her sleep. Her bedsores looked better. Her hair gleamed, more silver than ashen.