Refuse to feel
Anything at all
Refuse to slip
Refuse to fall
You can't be weak
You can't stand still
You watch your back
'Cause no one will
--from Simon by Lifehouse
Voices echoed in his sleep-hazed head.
("Micah... did you see what happened?")
("Some of it.")
He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, hands going over his ears to block them out.
("What?")
("My parents.")
The boy, face shadowed by the flickering light from the television, pressed his fists harder against his ears. The voices weren't going away.
("You saw what happened to them?")
("I saw the corn.")
He growled in frustration and turned his attention to the T.V. program. On it, Lucille Ball was having trouble pronouncing the name of some vitamin product. He could ignore them. Then they'd go away.
("What, what? Were they out in the cornfield?")
"Shut up," he snapped, but the memory went on.
("There was blood for the corn.")
"Stop it!" he shrieked, and hurled a throw pillow at the television. It hit the screen and bounced off dully. Lucy was undaunted; she continued her bumbling endorsement, much to the delight of the laugh track.
"Micah?" The voice came from behind. He whirled and saw the girl standing in the doorway, looking worried. "Who are you talking to?" The girl in baggy, cherry-covered pajamas and fuzzy slippers was the one person worth seeing this late at night. He relaxed.
"No one," he said, and blushed. Micah knew very well that she'd see right through his lie, just like she always did.
"Why are you up so late? It's nearly 2 a.m." Gabe chose to ignore the less-than-artful dodging of the truth and sat on the couch beside him. His wheelchair, he noted bitterly, wasn't as comfortable as the sofa looked.
"I suppose I should ask you the same question," he mumbled, glancing at her not yet rumpled pajamas with the arch of a brow. Lucy must've done something quite hilarious, because the television audience roared. Gabe leaned over and turned it down.
"Couldn't sleep," she said simply. Micah stuck up his chin arrogantly.
"Well, then. There's your answer." The girl rolled her eyes and tweaked his nose.
"You're so cranky when you don't get sleep, you know that?" He swatted at her fingers with a frustrated growl.
"Am not!" Gabe sighed, sounding like a patient adult dealing with a fussy child.
"Calm down, love," she murmured, gently laying a hand on his shoulder. "I was only joking." Micah glanced at the television, where Lucy had finally zonked out due to an overdose of her beloved Vitameatavegamin.
"I am calmed down," he muttered. Then, reconsidering, he leaned to meet her hand and rubbed his cheek against it. "Just tired."
"Then go to sleep." Gabe smiled and hauled herself to her feet. "Seems the obvious thing to do."
"I'm watching television," Micah countered, and that was a flat-out lie. He no longer cared about Lucy or if she sold any of that stupid vitamin. He knew what would happen if he fell asleep -- there wouldn't just be voices, there would be pictures to go along with them. And as far as he was concerned, a horror movie was half as scary with just the sound.
"No you're not." She leaned over and switched off the TV with a flick of the wrist, then disappeared into the darkness behind him. "I think you're going to bed." Micah snorted in surprise, twisting to see her.
"Gabe!" Her hands clamped down on the handles of his wheelchair and began to push him down the hall.
"Come on, Micah." Gabe's voice was in his ear, whispering and sending warm little puffs of air down his neck. "I can tell you're exhausted. You're pale enough to rival Johnny Depp, and if those bags under your eyes get any bigger your head will fall into them."
"Not funny," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest sulkily.
"Who said I was joking?" She opened the door to his room and wheeled him inside. "Hold out your arms." Micah glared up at her as she slid back into view, but found himself unable to argue. Her blue eyes always did that to him. He sighed in defeat and held out his arms. Gabe lifted him from the chair with a grunt, setting him gently on the bed. She covered him quickly with the black comforter. If her plan was to prevent him from seeing his sad excuses for legs, she failed, because he always caught a glimpse of those hated stumps. Always.
"Fine." Micah gripped the blankets loosely, pulling them up to his chin. Gabe grinned and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Changed your mind?" When there wasn't any reply -- just a sullen pout -- she brushed his hair away from his eyes tenderly. "You're really cute when you pooch your lips out like that, you know?" He bit back a smile.
"Oh?" Gabe nodded a little, leaning close and pressing her forehead to his.
"Yes. Adorable." Then she started forward for a kiss. Micah snickered and pulled the blankets over his head. Gabe let out an indignant squeak. "Hey!" She leaned away, frowning at the lump beneath the black comforter. "Not fair. C'mon, Micah, I'm tired."
"Nope," he said, voice muffled by the blankets. Gabe began poking at the shape, muttering.
"Get up." Micah yelped and popped his head out in surrender.
"First you want me to go to sleep, now you want me to get up? Make up your mind!" She grinned and leaned close again.
"Gonna kiss me or--" She didn't get to finish; he pressed his lips to hers gently. It lasted for a long moment until Gabe pulled away. She blinked at him, and it was satisfying to see surprise on her face for once. "Oh." Micah smirked and stroked her lips lightly with a finger.
"Hm. Worth the wait?" Gabe kissed his fingertip, then stood.
"Goodnight, Micah," she murmured, heading towards the door.
" 'Night," he whispered back. The girl turned, smiled gently, and put her hand on the knob.
"Sleep well, love." A pull was given and the door closed.
"Yeah," Micah muttered, burying his face in his pillow. "I'm sure." But surprisingly, there was only one voice that echoed through the darkness before he surrendered to sleep. Only one memory, only one sentence, but it was just as painful as a whole speech. It was his own voice that cut through the silence of his mind like a knife, and it cut deeply.
("There was blood for the corn.")
Edith woke him up, and Micah had a strong sense of deja-vu.
(Okay, here's where I open my eyes and get told that I've been in a coma for 4 months.)
"Morning, dearie!" The plump woman waved cheerily at the drowsy boy, who rubbed his eyes.
"Mmph. What time is it?"
"Nine o'clock. I'd fix you breakfast, but I know you don't like it." She scurried over and threw open the curtains, letting in light. He repressed the urge to cover his eyes and hiss.
"Right," Micah mumbled sleepily.
(And now she tells me I don't have any legs.)
Edith produced some clothes from the closet.
"I couldn't find much in black like you wanted, but I did my best." She held a black t-shirt that read 'I'm multi-talented -- I can talk and piss you off at the same time' and a pair of black jeans.
"Charming." Micah forced a smile. Edith bustled towards him and laid the clothes on the bed.
"Sorry about the shirt. It was my son's." Before he could ask questions, she'd sighed and went on. "He's older now. He moved out a while ago." There was a pause.
"Oh." He looked down at the clothes, ready to strike up small talk, and realized something. The jeans weren't just jeans. They'd been cut off a little below the knee and pinned under to close the holes.
(And here's where I have a nervous breakdown.)
"Here, let me help you." Edith pulled the blankets to the end of the bed and immediately stripped him of his nightshirt. Micah tried not to blush -- she'd done this before, after all -- but it was still embarrassing. There wasn't much time to be sheepish, because she ordered, "Arms up," and slid the new shirt over his head. It nearly hung off of him, he noted dully.
"Thanks. I think I can manage the pants on my own, though," Micah said, hoping it would leave him a bit of his dignity. Edith looked skeptical, but nodded.
"All right. Call me when you're done and I'll help you back into your chair." He cracked a grin that he hoped was smooth.
"Sure thing, Edith." The woman winked and bustled out, leaving him to stare at the new challenge.
When he finally called Edith back in, Micah had spent fifteen minutes trying to put on his pants. It made him angry that it should take so long, and then it made him even angrier when he glimpsed how his legs looked in the pinned-off jeans. It wasn't fair, he observed bitterly as Edith heaved him from the bed to the chair. But then again, not much was.
"Gabe's outside," she told him after he'd brushed his teeth and hair. Those things took considerably less time, thank God. At least some things stayed the same.
"Gotcha. I think I'll go join her." Micah flashed her another smooth smile and headed out through the front door. Someone had put a large board of wood on the front step, much to his relief, so he braced himself and slid the chair down the makeshift ramp. He nearly skidded into the lawn -- he still wasn't quite used to the wheelchair yet -- but his fingers found the brake in time and he swerved towards the driveway. Gabe sat there in a lawn chair, a book titled 'Cujo' sitting in her lap. Micah smiled and wheeled towards her... then stopped.
There was a boy behind her.
He was hanging over her shoulder casually, leaning against the lawn chair. The boy's frame was slender, but sturdy, the kind that track stars are blessed with. His boyishly handsome face was next to Gabe's, forest green eyes peering at the book in her lap from beneath bangs of shaggy brown hair. He mumbled something inaudible, pointing at the pages. Gabe snickered and pushed his face away with the palm of her hand. Micah felt a strong, instant hate for the boy -- then swallowed to repress the anger.
(He's just a friend of hers. Just a friend.)
Biting back the bitter taste of jealousy, he forced a smile.
"Gabe," he called, wheeling faster towards her. She looked up and grinned.
"Hey, Micah!" Gabe started to get up, but he shook his head and pushed his chair quickly towards her. She looked over her shoulder at the boy, who was staring at Micah with not-quite-concealed curiousity.
(Go on, stare. See what it gets you, you bastard.)
"Micah, this is Jeremy Spencer. He lives next door to us." She motioned at the house beside theirs. "Jeremy, this is--"
"Jeremiah," the boy corrected. Gabe stopped and frowned, looking confused.
"You never told me your name was really Jeremiah," she said quietly. Jeremiah shrugged, an apologetic grin on his tanned face.
"Sorry."
"Sorry?" Gabe echoed, sounding a little peeved. Then she turned back to Micah. "Anyway, this is Micah Balding. I told Jeremy--" She faltered and corrected herself. "--Jeremiah all about you."
"All good, I hope?" asked Micah, lacing his hands pleasantly in his lap. The boy looked at him again, and Micah caught his green eyes flick to the pinned-off jeans.
(I'll gouge your eyes out of your head if you keep looking at me like that.)
"Interesting," Jeremiah said as he stuck his own hands in his pockets. "It was really interesting." He rocked back and forth on his sneakers, almost deliberately, and Micah felt another pang of bitter anger. Feeling the need to retaliate, he began fiddling with the silver angel around his neck. Gabe noted this and smiled warmly, closing her book.
(Yeah, take that. Shouldn't you be off posing for Teen Beat, pretty boy?)
"Nice to meet you, then," Micah said politely. Jeremiah nodded.
"Same t' you. It's great to finally meet the famous Micah." That sentence sounded wrong for some reason; Micah shot a look at Gabe.
"Famous?" The girl scowled and gave Jeremiah an elbow in the gut.
"Nothing." Jeremiah made a little 'oof' noise and crossed his arms over his stomach.
"I was just joking!" he said indignantly. Gabe looked back at Micah.
"Hey, did you get breakfast?" she asked, and he had the distinct feeling she was changing the subject.
"Not hungry." Micah didn't want to press for information today. He was too tired out from the events of a week ago. "Good book?" Now he was changing the subject, and Gabe jumped on it readily.
"Yeah, great!" She showed him the cover -- it was a the face of a snarling St. Bernard, dripping with foam and obscured by fog. Micah forced a smile.
"Lovely." Jeremiah, pushing brown hair away from his eyes, frowned a little.
"Hey, Gabe," he piped up, "y'wanna go to the mall today? I hear they've got--"
"No thanks, Jer." She lowered the book and shot Micah a smile. "I've got some stuff around the house I need to tend to."
(HAH! Take THAT, you Johnathan Taylor Thomas wanna-be!)
"Oh." Jeremiah frowned again, looking a little wounded, then recovered with a boyish grin. "Eh, I'll see you later, then. Dad wants me to mow the grass." He turned to Micah and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Nice meeting you."
"Yeah," Micah said, rubbing at his shoulder. It was supposed to be friendly, but the little punch had been hard enough to hurt. Jeremiah looked back at Gabe.
"And I want that book when you're done."
"Sure thing," she said with a wink. The boy waved, then turned and bounded next door. Micah and Gabe watched. "That went well," she murmured.
"Mm hm," he said absently, glaring after Jeremiah. Gabe turned back to him and covered a smirk with her hand.
"Gee, silly me. And I was worried you'd be jealous." Micah blinked, then wiped away the scowl quickly.
"Me? Jealous?" He flashed a big smile, but his hand went up to fiddle worriedly with the angel around his neck. "Never."