Behind the Scenes: Memorial - short horror fiction

I wrote this in March 2009, for a writing contest, I think. I don't remember now. Anyway, enjoy:

Memorial

by Ross Payton

I kissed my wife goodbye. The sickness embraced her. The furnance took what was left.

I huddled on one side, still giving her most of the comforter. House was cold. Her voice came to me, a single sigh against my ear. The bed warmed and I tried to roll over, to feel her breath on my cheek again. A weight bore down, forcing breath out. Couldn’t move. Gagged. Something blocked my throat. It wiggled above the tongue and tore a long and thin strip from the roof of my mouth, then another and another. Fluids dripped down down lungs filled eyes wouldn’t close. Wanted them to shut so badly. The pain-it made a hole in my throat, wide, too wide and it crawled oh god it’s inside me and moving.

The doctor said it was the same type of cancer. It was a miracle I could even dial 911. Zoned out as he went on and on about tests and treatment. Nothing wrong with the throat, no matter how many times I had him check. I wanted to be at home, feel her lingering presence. The doctor shook his head and shrugged. My choice.

TV had a show on. Documentary about ancient Egyptians. A British voice announced the succession of pharoahs and wars of the kingdom, of the years of sweat and sun and toil to build a stone defiance to mortality. Eyes closed, I sank down, down, into something hot, wet, thick. I gasped, flailed around. Buzzing of insects drilled into my head and the mud swallowed me. Strength I thought lost filled me. Stood up, felt water up to my ankles. Reeds brushed my thighs. Sun dug under my skin, burned me from the inside. The banks of a vast river. A breeze tickled the reeds. Her voice, behind me. I can’t make out what she says, but I feel her touch, so light, on my shoulder. I try to listen but only the ends of her words make it to me. I turn towards her but I sink into the scalding muck. Skin dissolves, parts fall off as I head further and further down.

I wake up, only static on the TV. She’s still here, inside me. I know. She is the sickness. Hundreds of lifetimes old, moving from one host to the next. Her memories bleed into mine. She will forget, as she drifts through the ages, killing to live. I can end it before the change is complete. Save countless innocents.

Days pass, as I drift through the years. She repeats her life, a simple person, never a hero or a villain. She forgets herself, remembers and forgets again. The ones she takes always weep, die writhing and spitting blood.

I taste something red. It will be over soon. I look at the pills. I can end it. But, I hear her soft laugh. I love her, I love her I love