Free Death Rhythm by Joel Arnold

the bathroom, and dry heaved over the toilet. Bile burned in her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. The bright whiteness of the porcelain made her dizzy.
    Oh Jesus, oh God...
    Her heart raced in her chest. It felt like it would explode from her ribcage.
    She tried to get the image out of her mind. Tried to push it as far away as possible.
    It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be, she told herself over and over again. She wiped the spittle off her lips with a shaking hand.
    She began to cry. The sobs wracked her body as she shook her head. No, no, no. It can’t be.
    But it was and she forced herself to face it once again. If she had learned anything in therapy, it was how to face the things that frightened you, the things that sickened you.
    “Holden,” she finally whispered, looking out the window, the tears dripping salty into her mouth. “Holden.”
     
    Andy followed Natalie through her backyard, passing a large vegetable garden, about thirty by twenty feet, and a cluster of apple trees. The yard was clear of fallen apples, and a few clusters of rotten, bird-picked ones clung desperately to the uppermost branches.
    Natalie opened the back screen door and went inside the house. Andy waited outside, expecting her to reappear with a bandage. Instead, the screen door opened. Natalie leaned against the doorframe. “You can come in,” she said. “It’d be a good idea if you washed the blood off your hand.”
    They walked through the kitchen; dishes piled high in the sink, the garbage can filled to the top. T-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts lay strewn across the living room couch. The remnants of a meal sat on a chipped coffee table. The television was tuned to a football game.
    “Excuse the mess. You can wash up in the bathroom.” Natalie led Andy through a door to the left.
    She turned on the faucet in the sink and grabbed Andy’s hand, holding it under the running water. It was hot. Andy jerked his hand away, but Natalie forced it back under, rubbing a bar of soap over the cut. It stung.
    “You don’t want it to get infected,” she said.
    She turned off the faucet and patted Andy’s hand dry with a towel, then took a large gauze bandage from a drawer beneath the sink and wrapped Andy’s hand in it.
    The way she held him, the pressure as she applied the bandage - her skin touching his. He remembered her the night before; her long hair falling over her shoulders, the same hair that now brushed against his lips as she held his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, off the back of her head as she checked the tightness of the gauze wrapping.
    “How does it feel?” she asked.
    He flexed his hand, raising his head quickly as she looked up. “Feels good,” he said.
    She patted his hand. “It should be all right.”
    “Thanks,” Andy said, wishing she hadn’t let go.
    He followed her into the living room, his eyes trained on her ass.
    “Who’s this?” The voice was gruff, heavy.
    Andy looked up, embarrassed. An old man sat in a wheelchair in front of Natalie, wearing light blue boxers and a white T-shirt. He sat hunched over, his stomach erupting in a potbelly. His hair was a thin white wisp that flopped forward from the back of his head, his face wrinkled and red, full of gray stubble.
    “This is Andy Byrd, Dad,” Natalie said. “He cut himself at the cemetery on that window ledge. I brought him here to fix him up.”
    Andy held up his bandaged hand, smiling slightly, wondering if the man’s dull green eyes had caught him staring at his daughter’s ass.
    “What the hell were you doing looking in there? There’s nothing in there.”
    Natalie answered for Andy. “He’s here visiting Mae. He’s got relatives out there.”
    Natalie’s father narrowed his eyes. “Mae Stone? You a relative of Mae Stone?”
    Andy looked at Natalie, then back at her dad. “I’m her nephew.”
    “This is Hector,” Natalie said, motioning to her father.
    Andy held out his un-bandaged hand.
    “What the hell