A/N: I probably should've mentioned this earlier, but English is not my native language. So if you find mistakes or awkward expressions, please correct me.


Chapter 2

But then again, his birth wasn't so ordinary.

For one, it happened on the front lawn. Rarely does one see a mother giving birth just outside her own house, surrounded by a group of paramedics and curious onlookers (most of who later regretted their curiosity; seeing a baby being born is not a sight for the faint-hearted, or the people who hate blood).

And there had been complications—the baby had been reluctant to leave his mother's womb.

Luckily, it had been nothing serious; and soon a new pair of lungs filled the block with screaming. Screaming that indicated the appearance of a new life.

Screaming that showed the sadness of being born—of leaving everything comfortable and familiar behind you and plunging into a new world, full of uncertainty and unhappiness.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Despite the time that had passed since then, the grown-up Malcolm was still reluctant to open his eyes.

He loved that moment just after waking up: when you left a world of things out of your control and just before you realise you're in another world of things out of your control. It was a sweet moment of warm darkness that embraced him, a moment of having no problems, no worries, no dreams; a moment of peace. He lay in bed like this for a while, until his memories of the previous day suddenly fell back into place. Then he had no choice but to wake up again, this time for real.

Wait, wasn't there a... car? And Dewey shouting at him? And then the car had hit him, and then there was pain and darkness. He remembered everything now; he remembered the row with his brothers, and the things they had said...

But now, to the more important question of his current whereabouts. Now that he was fully awake, he could hear a faint 'beep-beep' noise in the background, as if from a machine of sorts. And the sheets he was lying in didn't smell of home—they smelled of disinfectant and medicine. So he was at the hospital.

Having established all that, and unable to put off this moment any longer, he opened his eyes.

Or at least tried to.

His eyelids felt like they were glued to each other. He tried feeling them with his fingers, but there was a bandage covering them.

Why was there a bandage over his eyes? What's going on?

He was already panicking. He tried tearing the bandage off, but he couldn't; it was too tight. Then he started frantically feeling his covers, trying to flung them off and sit up. But they were tucked in really tight and he got entangled in them. When he finally managed to sit up, he tried getting out of the bed; and then, suddenly, his head split open from the pain.

He fell back, clutching his head with his two hands. He tried calling for help, but all he could manage was a desperate croak that he wasn't sure anyone had heard.

Just then he heard the door of what he supposed was his room open and there were footsteps of a man, coming closer to his bed. He turned his head in the direction of the noises, hoping to make out a least a shadow through the bandages. But there was nothing; only darkness.

He heard the man say, "Hey! He's awake!" and immediately knew who it was. He forgot he was angry at him, he forgot everything they had both said; now he was just a familiar voice in that dreadful night surrounding him.

"Dewey!" Malcolm said. "What's... what's going on?"

"Hey, calm down, calm down." He sensed Dewey grabbing his hand. "You shouldn't be moving, not yet."

Then the door opened again and he heard more footsteps.

"Oh, thank God!" That was his mother. By the sound of it, she had been crying.

"Malcolm, are you okay?" Reese said. Malcolm tried getting up once more, but the pulsating pain in his head got stronger and he gave up trying to move any more.

"Yeah, no... I don't know... What's going on? Why are my eyes covered?"

There was a moment of silence and he imagined the three of them sharing a look. This didn't make him feel any better.

"What's going on?" he repeated, panic sneaking into his voice.

"Oh honey, the doctor warned us about this... The accident was... well, it was really serious and awful and..."

Malcolm lay unmoving, listening to the faltering voice of his mother. His mind was numb; he couldn't understand what she was saying. The words washed over him, and he couldn't hear anything but the ringing in his ears.

"...and well, you might not... you might not..." At this point her fragile self-control broke down and she grabbed his hand, sobbing quietly.

But his body was frozen; his mind was frozen. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak.

And there was only the darkness.

"How long?" he said at last in a flat tone.

"What?" Dewey said, puzzled.

"How long will it be till I can see again?"

Both his brothers took in a sharp breath and he already knew what they were going to say. He shook his head and started panting heavily, taking in short, hollow breaths. He sounded as if he was asthmatic.

"Possibly never."

This couldn't be happening.

This wasn't happening.

No.

"No!"

It took him a while to understand that he had shouted that last word out loud. Nobody said anything; the only sound in the room was the sobbing of his mother.

Then Dewey started hesitatingly, "Malcolm, we know you are—"

"Leave me," he whispered.

Reese opened his mouth to protest. "But—"

"Leave me," Malcolm repeated in the same voice. "I want to be alone."

And so they left. He heard the door click as they closed it behind them.

Then there was silence.

Malcolm sunk deeper into his sheets, hoping against hope that he would go to sleep and forget all that; or better still, realise it had all been a dream. Nothing but a stupid bad dream...

Suddenly he felt tired, exhausted, spent. And despite the pain, despite the shock and the panic and the fear he drifted away, slowly falling asleep.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The doctor shook his head. "No."

Dewey was beginning to hate that word. It seemed that no matter what he asked, he received the same response: "No, I'm sorry", "I can't tell", "I don't know". What did those doctors know, anyway?

He went back to the bench and threw himself onto it, sighing and putting his hands in his pockets. The doctors were treating him as if he was a child, not a grown man; indeed, there was something about Dewey himself, probably because of his name, that left the impression in others that they were talking to a little boy. That was probably why every time he asked if his brother was going to be okay, he was given a vague, meaningless reply, as if they were afraid he couldn't handle the truth. He wanted to shout at them, make them understand he was not a kid any more; but he knew this would accomplish nothing.

He hated sitting like that, doing nothing, just waiting for something to happen. The doctors had advised them to go home and rest, but that would be even worse; at least here he felt a little bit involved in what was going on. He hated everything about that hospital, but he couldn't leave Malcolm alone.

And he couldn't help but feel guilty about what had happened—Malcolm wouldn't have been run over by that car if he hadn't chased him.

Now Malcolm had another reason to hate him. Great.

And judging by his reaction when he woke up, he did. Great.

Dewey buried his face in his palms.

"Hey," he heard Reese say. His brother sat next to him.

Dewey didn't answer.

"Are you okay?" Reese asked.

"Yeah," he said eventually, although this wasn't the truth and Reese knew it.

He could feel his brother staring at him.

"Mom called Francis and Piama a while ago," Reese continued, just so they didn't have to sit in that awkward silence. "They said they're coming as soon as they can."

Dewey was still unresponsive. Reese was still staring at him.

It was strange how many things he had learned about his family in just one day. But all those were things he would've preferred not to have learned, things he shouldn't have known. He shouldn't know what his mother wailing in despair sounded like. He shouldn't know what a broken, silent Reese looked like. He shouldn't know what a tired, guilt-ridden him felt like.

He shouldn't know so many things. And yet he did.

"It's not your fault, you know," Reese said at last.

Dewey hated him for seeing right through him.

He forced himself to smile, in spite of how tired he was. "I never thought it was," he said.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Here you go," Dewey said in an unnecessarily cheerful tone. He lead Malcolm in.

It was three days later and they were back at their place—the place where they had grown up. Their mother had insisted on them moving in for a while, at least until 'things went back to normal'.

They didn't dare refuse her. They were more scared of her fragile, broken self than they ever had been of the strong, manipulative Lois.

Malcolm went in, walking slowly and uncertainly, with his free hand outstretched. The bandage was still covering his eyes.

Seeing him helpless like that was more than Dewey and Reese could bare. They both looked away from him.

Little had changed since they last saw this place. The same ugly tapestry was still covering the walls of the kitchen, the same furniture was still standing there, covered by a thin layer of dust; even the same pictures were still hanging on the wall. It felt as if they had left this house yesterday.

"Dewey, help your brother into the bedroom," Lois said, a remnant of her previous self sneaking into her voice.

"I don't need your help, buttwad," Malcolm snapped. Dewey let go of him, desperately wanting to believe him.

Malcolm headed slowly to the bedroom, using the cane they had given him at the hospital to feel his way.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Hey, Malcolm?"

"What is it?"

"I was just wondering if you needed something."

Malcolm rolled over in his bed, turning his back to the door. It had been hours since they moved in, and he had stayed here the whole time. Dewey supposed this was normal, given what his brother had been put through, but still having Malcolm alone in the room like that unnerved him a little. Perhaps it was the thought of him being isolated in here and surrounded only by darkness.

"I don't. You don't have to treat me like a cripple, you know."

"I'm sorry," Dewey said, not even sure what he was apologizing for.

He knew Malcolm didn't want him to be here, but he stayed at the door nevertheless.

"Don't you want to talk?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"If there's something we need to say to each other, then I'll talk."

Dewey opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Fine," in a bitter voice and left, shutting the door behind him.

He's such and idiot, he thought. Why is he acting like this?

He leaned against the door, slowly sinking to the floor. He rested his head on his hands and closed his eyes.

This was the position Reese found him in fifteen minutes later.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

Dewey felt it was his duty to retort with a sarcastic comment, even though he didn't really feel like it.

"I'm warming the floor, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Okay, okay, just asking. You don't have to get all defensive on me."

Dewey sighed. "I'm sorry."

Reese was silent for some time, which Dewey hoped indicated that the apology had been accepted. Then his brother kneeled beside him. Dewey thought this was an invitation to go on, so he did.

"It's just... Malcolm. He's acting so stupid and stubborn and cold. I mean, I know it's difficult for him, but why does he have to make it so hard for us, too?"

Reese nodded. "Yeah, I know. He's an idiot sometimes."

And that was all he had to say about it. Dewey didn't know why, but somehow this made him feel a little better.

"Yeah, he is," he agreed.

And then, out of the blue, Reese sat down next to him and put his arm around Dewey's shoulder. Dewey was so surprised that, for an instant, he froze.

"He is," Reese repeated, pulling his brother closer to him.

They both desperately needed something that would solve their problems—them having to deal with Malcolm's condition, them growing colder and more distant towards each other, them forgetting what family was really all about.

And although a simple hug was far from accomplishing all that, it was still a beginning.