AN: This chapter wasn't supposed to be this short. It wasn't even supposed to be a chapter at all, but a sudden strike of inspiration at 1 in the morning is exactly how it came to be. It stands kind of on its own and I'm hoping that the true loss of Michael is convincing enough and is well understood by all you readers. I won't reply to the reviews until the next chapter 'cause it's quite late and I have school in the morning. Sorry for the depressing nature of this chapter. It's just one of those days. And, of course, new reviews are always loved and appreciated, but don't feel obligated. Thank you.
Chapter 12: Opus #35 (AKA The 1/2 Chapter)
I could be dead.
I should be dead.
Countless times have I heard the passenger's seat called "the death seat". The chances of surviving are slight. Especially in accidents as critical as the one in question.
I shouldn't be here. I should be as dead as Michael. Not watching water drip onto the porcelain of the sink, trickle down into the drain, and then disappear into the unknown, only to have its place taken over by the next drop. Again. And again.
Right now I had my cheek pressed against the tile floor, probably leaving a cube-like indent on my face when I returned to the bathtub, my regular resting spot. But caring is the last thing on my list.
The funeral was a few days before. All of Michael's students and friends came to show their support – they'd always respected him --, Jack, Bobby, and Jerry came along to show their moral support. Michael's family, although they were heartbroken, were unable to attend. The idea made me want to spit at their feet with disgust. I stood alone, not wanting anyone to touch my shoulder, rub my back, or wipe my tears. Many spoke, showing their love and affection for their 'beloved teacher and friend.' But I, myself, hadn't said a word. What could I possibly say that all those people didn't already know? That he would've made a great father? That he always knew what to say and when to say it? I was no one special, and all I could think about was how most of those attending were wishing I had died instead. Who was I to live for?
I barely knew what day it was, it had been at least 5 days since my breakdown on the highway. After about 20 minutes of hysterical crying, Jack held me until I fell asleep, both of us shivering from the brisk air passing directly through our jackets, until finally I fell into a deep undisturbed sleep and woke up back in Evelyn's bed once again.
Placing most of my weight onto the counter of the sink, I stood to examine myself in the mirror. I'd barely slept, and the spare half hours when I did were bluntly ended by the memories of loss and grief. Eating had been minimal too and it only occurred when Jack pried the lock on the door open with a penknife. And even then it was just a few small pieces of toast and butter, which I would eat half of before flushing the remains down the toilet.
Never had I seen such dark circle under my eyes, and the sight of myself caused me to grimace. My hair was a car wreck (no distasteful pun intended), and it was excruciating to draw a mere hand through it, let alone a brush. I felt weak. Physically weak, and taking a deep breath, I lowered myself back onto the cold ground.
Every so often I would hear the creaking of the floorboards outside, on which stood one of the four brothers, trying to listen for any signs of life. I made sure to breathe extra loudly, or sigh dramatically, the sound reverberating off the tile floors and walls.
Jack, although his intentions were golden, had tried to enter my lair to talk. I could've taken his head off. I could've cried on his shoulder. I could've said how much it meant to me that he was here with me. But I did none of those things. I should have, but instead I sat in a deathly silence, staring at the black and white combinations beneath my bare feet. After a few minutes of silence, I sensed him nodded as he got to his feet, kissed my birds' nest hair, before walking out closing the door behind him.
Something stirred inside of my gut as I relayed this scene in my head. It made sense to me that at this crucial moment in my life, I was feeling without hope. Time and time again I had tried to explain to myself why that was, even before Michael died, though the answer was obvious. And at that moment, deep inside of my chest I felt a burning sensation. It wasn't the least bit comfortable, but for some reason unknown to me, it wasn't a painful discomfort. I felt delirious. Or drunk. Or both. My mind couldn't possibly be thinking straight. But I knew then exactly what I needed. Rhyme or reason had been forgotten days ago. Or maybe it was months ago? Where was the rhyme and the reason of this situation in the first place? Who had made it the everlasting law to follow either one?
I needed to feel something other than this.
Shakily, I pulled myself to my feet once more and, brushing the hair from my face with a light swipe of the hand, I pushed the door open and took my first step into the hall. Knees wobbling and head spinning, I stumbled my way over to the room I had come to know so well. I felt the need to steady myself on the doorframe before turning the handle and throwing Jack's bedroom door open with such force, that I felt, had I not been hanging on with both hands would've sent me flying into the room, in which resided a stunned and frightened looking Jack, who had leapt to his feet, in surprise.
For the first time since we'd met, I saw Jack Mercer with an intense glimmer of fear in his eyes. Fear that made each of us wonder what would happen next. Both of us stood, looking at each other with wide eyes and I could almost feel the beats of our hearts as one, and in any other circumstance, the whole situation would have been romantic.
Without a second blink, I slammed the door behind me and rushed forward, covering Jack's lips with my own with a strength I didn't even know I had left within me.
Not knowing what else to do, Jack kissed me back, the same amount of passion driving his lips. But the difference between us both, lay in the desperation behind my lips.
I crumpled the back of his t-shirt in my fists, clawing at his spine with untamed fingernails, both of us deepening the kiss, as though one mind was shared between two. He too was touching me, one hand gently cradling my neck with warm fingers, to weigh out my freezing ones. The other lay just above my hip, but his grip was of a gentle touch.
This was different. This was something else. This was what it felt to smother the pain with a feather pillow, until it ceased to struggle.
Trying to draw him closer to me, to feel his warmth, the comfort of his arms surrounding me, I curled my fingers around his belt and waistline and tugged, bringing my companion's hips against mine.
His finger's caught in my hair, burying their way to my scalp and I could feel myself -- although it was almost as though I was watching someone else do it -- bring my shaking hands to his belt buckle.
Suddenly, as if a light switch had been hit, the moment came to a cascading halt when Jack pulled away. He looked more scared now than he did before we kissed.
His eyes narrowed at me and when his words passed his lips they were horse and strained, "You don't want this."
Four words. That's all he had to say to put one increasingly large meaning across. Any other time it would've made sense to me. But this wasn't just any other time.
Uncharacteristically, I spat back immediately, "Don't fucking tell me what I don't fucking want, Jack. If I don't want something I'll fucking tell you."
My body shook on the spot and I felt like fainting was on the horizon. Jack stepped forward, hand outstretched to steady me, but slapping his hand away, I retreated back to the door through which I had entered. I was managing to scare myself with the small amount of energy I had left.
"Don't fucking touch me."
He stepped forward.
"Dylan."
I edged back.
"Don't fucking say my name."
Again, Jack advanced, sincerity and worry covering his face. I looked around in panic, grabbing the nearest object and pelting it at his head with little energy. He ducked, only just dodging the magazine, which hit the floor with a hollow "thunk".
"Get the fuck away from me!" I screamed as tears began to sting at my eyes and my cheeks felt hot when I reached up to brush away the feeling. I felt panic rising once again and I continued to stumble backward until my back hit the door.
"This isn't you," I heard Jack say, but I could no longer see him.
My heart pounded loudly in my ears, along with pumping blood, straining to get through arteries so small. I brought my hands to my ears and began to scream in hysterical sobs of dry desperation.
Why am I here?
Why is Michael dead?
Why is Evelyn gone?
Before I could think another word, I felt Jack. Just Jack. First his hands caressing my arms. Then engulfing my entire frame with his. Even with me trying to beat through his hold on me; even with me trying to claw at his chest; even with me screaming and shouting in his ears any curses I could think of, Jack refused to let me go.
Then, without warning everything stopped. When nothing should have stopped at all, it did, and I felt as though I was in pieces at rock fucking bottom. The energy, which I'd had moments before, was gone completely and now I was a broken mess in the arms of Jack Mercer.
Jack Mercer, the man who had kept me company in the hospital after so much time and waiting.
Jack Mercer, who had opened his home to me on many occasions and dealt with all the surliness I had thrown his way.
Jack Mercer, who held me hands as I tried to keep myself from plummeting onto the stone cold ice.
Jack Mercer, the very same that held me in his arms that night, with my head buried in his chest, the blankets of his bed covering us both. One body, one mind, one heart.
XXXXXXXXX
This chapter is dedicated to Blaine T. Alley, taken before his time at 17 years of age on August 15th 2005. Beloved friend, brother, and son. We fucking miss you, buddy.
