Chapter 2- Getting Out of A Dreamworld
The black void Mike found himself in was almost soothing. Almost. Sleep had overwhelmed him and he was now blissfully floating in darkness. Granted, the illness he suffered from still lingered as he slept, but sleeping made it more tolerable. Who knows how long he had been sleeping before he found himself hearing voices. He didn't notice that the voices were not of his three comrades.
"I don't wanna go." A male baritone whimpered.
"Stay with me honey, please oh please. I can't live without you!" A female alto begged.
"I love you Daddy." A female child said softly.
"I love you too, Mary." The baritone said.
"Jacob, please, hold on." The alto almost cried.
"You heard what the doc said, Elizabeth. It's the Spanish flu, we have no cure." The baritone, assumedly Jacob, sighed. "I love you Elizabeth."
"I love you too, my dear." The alto, presumably Elizabeth, sighed.
"Daddy, will you watch me when you're in heaven?"
"Of course. Goodbye my little girl. Stay strong. Take care of Mommy."
Mike felt a strange tingling. He tried waking up. What was going on? He could feel his sweaty skin now and the faint voices of the other three Monkees, but the crying woman and dying man prevailed. Mike couldn't wake up. What was going on? Suddenly, he fell into the blissful darkness once again. The voices vanished, and he felt he could properly sleep again.
"So what'd he say?" Micky asked as Peter hung up the bright red rotary phone, placing it back inside the chess table.
"Well, he's sorry for what's happened, but he really needs someone to perform tonight. He has no back-ups. I told him we'd be down there soon." Peter answered sighing.
Davy groaned. "We can't leave Mike here all alone. What if he throws up again or gets worse?"
"Well, can you and Peter duo?" Micky suggested.
Davy and Peter passed each other skeptical glances before turning back to Micky. "How are we supposed to do that?" Davy asked.
"Well, with Peter being 'Mr. I-Know-Every-Instrument,' I'm sure he can play Mike's guitar and you can sing." Micky said, glancing at Peter.
"You're suggesting I play Mike's guitar? He'll kill me!" Peter cried out, pouting.
"He'll understand Pete, don't worry." Micky reassured him, grabbing Mike's guitar case. "It's so we can have money to pay his potential hospital bill, remember? We can guilt trip him later if we need to."
"So what do you suggest we play then, hmm?" Davy asked.
"'I Wanna Be Free,' 'The Day We Fall in Love,' 'A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You.' Your songs." Micky said nonchalantly. "Now git! Before ya'll kill Mike!" Micky yelled in his best sarcastic Texas accent.
"All right, all right! We're going, we're going!" Davy proclaimed as he and Peter were practically shoved out the front door.
"Now don't come back til' you've earned some money, you hear?" Micky continued.
"Yeah, yeah, we get it Micky." Davy let a small smile grace his face at Micky's antics and waved a hand as he and Peter got into the MonkeeMobile. They drove away, leaving Micky alone with a sick Texan.
Last thing Jacob Nelson remembered was lying at home, accepting his death. His wife, Elizabeth, and his beautiful daughter, Mary, were at his bedside, begging him to stay. He couldn't though. He wanted to, but he couldn't. Next thing he knew, he had drifted into the blackness that typically came with sleep. He thought he had only fallen asleep. When he woke up, however, he wasn't at home at least, not the home he recognized. He was not in his small little wooden room, the candle flickering on top of the dresser, the filthy window allowing the fading sun to enter, and the brownness that came with a 1900's cottage. Instead, the room he woke up in was very colorful. There were white walls decorated in colorful whatchamacallits and pictures. He was lying in a bed that was surely made by God. It was fluffy and he felt like he was melting in warmth and fuzziness. He looked around to see two windows that were near another bed-like structure. He sat up, sweat pouring off his forehead. What happened?
Suddenly he threw up. His heaving had apparently gone noticed, for soon a strange noise of metal clatter rose in his ears, and suddenly a strange looking young man burst into the room.
"Jeez Mike, you could have called me first before you threw up all over your bed!"
Jacob stared blankly at the strange boy, unsure of what to do. He did feel sick, but who was this boy? Why was he calling him Mike?
The boy shook his head. He walked over to Jacob. "I think I'm gonna sleep downstairs tonight if you throw up all over my bed." The young man said, helping Jacob up moving him towards the other bed.
Jacob froze in his footsteps when he saw his reflection in a mirror that was placed conveniently in the bedroom. He no longer a buff, tan white man of the 1900s. He no longer had sandy-blonde hair and grey eyes. Instead, he had raven black hair, paper white skin, and dark brown eyes. He was also a twig. No joke, he didn't think anyone could be so skinny. Well, skinnier than the boy helping him.
The boy chuckled at the astonishment Jacob had about his new face. "I know, I know, you look like you've just crawled out of hell. Come on, Mike, let's get you to bed. I should have told Davy and Peter to bring some food home for you. Maybe common sense will tell them to do so." Jacob remained silent as the boy guided him to the other bed. When the boy tucked him in, he sighed. "Thanks, Mike. Now you can go back to bed while I clean up your bed." The boy walked over to the bed Jacob was previously in and started collecting the blankets like a bag to collect all of the sick. Tiredness suddenly overwhelmed Jacob as he watched the boy clear the bed. Within minutes Jacob had fallen into that blissful darkness he knew so well.