Chapter 9: The Root of the Matter

Chapter 9: The Root of the Matter

The kitchen was a sterile operating theater in the dead of night. The only light came from the cold, white glare of the bulb over the sink, stripping all warmth from the familiar room, turning the cheerful yellow paint a sickly, jaundiced color. The linoleum floor was cold under Alex’s bare feet. Outside, a gentle breeze made the leaves of the Luke-tree whisper against the windowpane, a constant, sibilant commentary on the profane ritual he was about to perform.

On the countertop, arranged with an architect’s precision, lay his instruments. A bottle of rubbing alcohol. A clean dish towel. And the vial.

He picked it up. The dark, oily fluid inside, The Blight, didn’t reflect the light; it seemed to absorb it, a tiny, contained black hole. Beside it lay the syringe, its needle thick and brutally functional. This was his last resort, the gamble Rat had warned him about. He could either kill the rot or fertilize it, pouring gasoline on the fire that was consuming his wife. But standing still was no longer an option. Standing still was surrender.

His hands were surprisingly steady as he wiped the lead stopper with alcohol. He popped the seal with a soft thump that echoed in the tomb-like silence of the house. He pushed the thick needle through the stopper and began to draw the plunger back. The black fluid crept into the syringe with a slow, reluctant viscosity, like liquid night being coaxed into the light. He filled it to the prescribed line, a single, potent dose. An apocalypse in a bottle.

He laid the charged syringe on the towel, the needle gleaming under the harsh light. All he had to do was walk down the hall. All he had to do was commit this ultimate violation, this terrible act of love. He would be gentle. He would do it while she slept. She would wake up sick, but she would wake up human. He clung to that thought, the flimsy shield against the monstrousness of his task.

“You don’t have to do this, Alex.”

The voice was soft, calm, and directly behind him. Alex froze, every muscle in his body locking tight. The syringe on the counter suddenly seemed like a murder weapon discovered at the scene of the crime.

He turned slowly. Anya stood in the doorway, a phantom silhouetted against the darkness of the hall. She wasn’t angry or frightened. Her face, bathed in the spill of the kitchen light, was a mask of profound and ancient calm. Her eyes held a deep, pitying sorrow, but it wasn’t for herself. It was for him.

“How did you know?” he rasped, his voice a stranger in his own throat.

“I felt you,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She took a step into the kitchen, her gaze falling on the syringe. She didn't flinch. “I felt your panic. It’s so loud, Alex. A buzzing sound. The… connection… it carries things. Your fear. Your anger.” She looked back at him. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“This is to save you!” he hissed, taking a protective step in front of the counter. “Anya, there is a… a thing growing out of your back! I saw it! It’s happening to you, just like it happened to Luke.”

“I know,” she said, her voice a gentle caress. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

The word hung in the air between them, more shocking than any scream. “Wonderful?” he choked out. “Anya, it’s a parasite! It’s killing you!”

“No.” She shook her head, a faint, beatific smile gracing her lips. “It’s not killing me. It’s… completing me. I can feel it, Alex. It’s like a song starting deep inside my bones. It’s his song. Our son’s song. He’s calling me home.”

This was it. The final, uncrossable chasm. She wasn't just sick; she was a willing convert. She was a priestess of the plague. His desperation hardened into a cold, brutal resolve. Words were useless. Only action remained.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. He lunged for the syringe.

She was faster than he expected. Not with violence, but with a serene, fluid movement. She didn’t try to run. She moved towards him, closing the distance, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. Her touch was warm, her expression pleading.

“Alex, please don’t fight it. Accept it. We can all be together. No more pain, no more grief. Just… peace. Just the roots and the rain and the sun. We can be a family again.”

“This isn’t family!” he roared, grabbing her shoulders, trying to shake the madness out of her. “This is annihilation!”

He held her with one hand and reached back for the syringe with the other. His fingers closed around the cool plastic. He had it. He just had to get to her back. He spun her around, trapping her against the counter, her back to him.

“I’m doing this because I love you!” he grunted, the words tasting like lies and poison in his mouth. He raised the syringe, the needle poised over the thin cotton of her nightgown.

“No, Alex,” she whispered, her body going still in his arms. “You’re doing this because you’re afraid to be alone.”

Her words hit him with the force of a physical blow, a perfectly aimed strike at the hollow, terrified core of him. His resolve wavered. In that moment of hesitation, a strange tickle started in his throat. It was a dry, irritating itch that demanded attention. He tried to ignore it, to focus on his task, but it grew more insistent.

He opened his mouth to tell her to be still, but the word was lost in a sudden, hacking cough.

It was a deep, wracking spasm that bent him double. His grip on Anya loosened. The cough tore through him, a raw, barking sound that felt alien, a betrayal from his own body. He coughed again, harder this time, a desperate, airless convulsion.

Something dislodged from deep within his lungs. It wasn't phlegm or fluid. It was solid. He felt it travel up his windpipe and shoot from his mouth, a small, damp projectile.

It landed in the palm of his left hand, which he’d instinctively brought to his mouth.

The coughing fit subsided as quickly as it had begun, leaving him breathless, his eyes watering. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. He looked down at his open palm.

Lying there, damp and impossibly green, was a single, perfect maple leaf.

It was small, with five distinct points, its veins a delicate, intricate lattice. It wasn't a dead leaf he might have inhaled. It was vibrant, dewy, and horrifyingly alive. It looked exactly like the leaves on the tree in his backyard.

Time seemed to stop. The whispering of the wind outside, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of his own ragged breathing—it all faded away to a dull, distant roar.

The syringe slipped from his nerveless fingers. It hit the linoleum floor with a sharp crack, shattering on impact. The Blight, the black, useless cure, bled out across the white tiles, a spreading stain of failure.

Alex stared at the leaf in his hand. The proof. The verdict. The final, irrefutable truth. The Thorny Prophet had been right. It spreads to those who are close. His love, his grief, his desperate, violent struggle to protect his family—it had all been nothing more than tilling the soil. He had been tending his own infection all along.

Anya turned in his loosened grasp. She looked at the shattered syringe on the floor, then at the leaf resting in his palm. Her eyes, filled with that ancient, terrible calm, met his. There was no triumph in her gaze, only a deep, welcoming compassion.

“Now you see,” she whispered, her voice soft as a falling leaf. “Now we can finally be together.”