Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now. But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle’s face, making her look like a raccoon. T. J.’s little Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. The grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle’s mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T. J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.
I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me— through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn’t been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.
None of them seemed to notice me.
That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We’d done it. We’d pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They’d be okay in the long run.
I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.
A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.
I have gone out to find myself.
If I should get here before I return,
please hold me until I get back.
I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?
The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O’BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort— and then looked down.
And I screamed.
Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it— that thing wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. There was no way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn’t show it. Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head— were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.
Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they’re growing. Growing at an alarming rate. Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren’t just black— they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.
“Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”
“The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.
“I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”
I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.
“You’re terminal, Tommy, so live like there’s no tomorrow! Life’s a bitch, then you die!”
I opened my eyes again and yanked my arm away. It was covered with slime. The thing smiled at me through bleeding, ulcerated gums.
“Watch this.”
It exhaled something that smelled like the inside of a septic tank. Thin, weblike tendrils slithered out of its pores and twisted through the crowd, wrapping around the people, coiling around Michelle and T. J., Sherm and John. When the tentacles touched them, something black and inky began to worm its way through their veins, visible beneath the flesh. Immediately above the infected spots, their skin began to wither and turn brittle, large pieces flaking off and falling to the floor.
“What are you doing?” I choked.
“I am you and you are me and they are we,” it sang. “You infect the ones you love, Tommy. You are a sickness. You are poison in their veins. What more could they expect from a white trash loser like you?”
“Fuck you!”
“You’re no good, no good, no good,” it sang again, “Tommy you’re no goooood! Come on and get down with the sickness! Open up your veins and let me flow into you . . .”
I reached for Michelle and T. J. and they fell apart in my arms. I choked, breathing them in. Staggering backward in horror, I bumped into Sherm and he did the same. Then John disintegrated too. All that was left of them were piles of ash.
I started to scream a third time, but the thing’s stench grew stronger, overwhelming me. It continued to swell and pulsate. I turned away, revolted.
Behind me, the thing in the coffin exploded, showering the room with itself. Something wet and reeking and grayish red landed on my head.
I bent over and vomited on my shoes, still trying to scream . . .
* * *
. . . and I was still doing both as I woke up with a view of the bedroom floor. I heard Michelle gasp in dismay as a plastic garbage can was shoved in front of my face.
“Here baby! Hit the can! Hit the can, Tommy!”
I convulsed, half-on the bed and half-off, and then I erupted once more.
“Oh Christ, Tommy— hit the can! The can!”
“GAAAAAHHHHH . . .” I replied. It felt like the lining of my throat was trying to crawl out through my mouth. I clenched my eyes shut as the spasms overtook me. In the background, I heard Michelle run to the closet in the hallway and grab a bath towel. I opened my eyes and saw blood in the trash can. Before Michelle could come back and see it, I wadded up some tissues and dropped them on top of the mess.
“What’s wrong with Daddy, Mommy?”
“He’s sick, baby. Go on back out in the living room and watch cartoons. Mommy will be out in a minute.”
“Does Daddy have the flu? Is he going to be okay?”
“Now, T. J.!”
I gagged, tried to talk, to reassure him, and found the words cut off by another cramp. It was warm and foul; beer and tequila and the remains of what little bit I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. It splattered into the can with a wet sound, and now Michelle was retching too. Without looking, she threw the towel at me and with one hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom. Blood, mucus, bile, and more of what looked like my insides followed it. Then came the dry heaves. My stomach churned and cramped, cramped and churned, but nothing more was left. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, gasping for air. The stench was overwhelming, and I rolled over again as a final case of dry heaves seized me.
I threw more tissues into the trash can. The toilet flushed and I heard the water running. Michelle came out of the bathroom a minute later, wiping her mouth.
“Long night?” she frowned.
“I’m sick.”
“No shit, Tommy. How much did you have to drink last night?”
