Mr. Bradley Crawford was in a quandary. It had been five months since Schuldig's accident, and the once cheeky and cheerful young man was a ghost of his former self. He now walked about in a cloud, seldom smiling. He doesn't eat much anymore, and the already lanky red head dropped over thirty pounds. He was quite painful to look at. He now walked about the house, shirtless, in just jeans, wandering from room to room. Quite often, he would be able to find him on the balcony, smoking cigarette after endless cigarette. Something was wrong. . . Dreadfully wrong. He could feel it in his heart, and it hurt.
He gathered the papers and bills he was working on, and swept them into his briefcase. It was time to go home.
Crawford walked into the house. It was cold, and unwelcoming. He could detect the smell of warmed-over coffee, old cigarettes, and lost thoughts.
(Where are you Schuldig?)
He climbed the stairs slowly, every sense open in the overpowering silence. The landing was dark. There was no light creeping under the cracks of the bedroom doors, no sounds of stereos, televisions, or harmless oaths at talk shows. It seemed that he could hear everything, yet nothing.
(I know you can hear me! Answer dammit!)
Crawford felt desperate and other feeling he wasn't used to. . .most call it worry or concern. He stopped dead in his tracks. He felt a brush, like a chill wind across his mind. The hair stood up on his arms.
(Schuldig?)
(. . .Craw. . .me. . .)
It was him alright, but the voice in his head was no more than a whisper, and worse yet, the whisper faded in and out, like a radio loosing a frequency.
(Where are you?)
(. . .Crawfo. . .help. . .me)
A premonition suddenly over took the precog's vision. Gone was the dark hallway. He could see the hospital again, himself visiting again. He could see the nurses desk, and hear himself ask the nurse on duty a question: "Where's the morgue?"
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he had to swallow several times. Quickly, he ran down the hall, opening door after door, still hearing Schuldig's faint voice blowing softly across his ears, mind, and heart.
Finally, he came to the last bathroom, and flung open the door.
Schuldig was sitting on the toilet. His thin arms were crossed on the sink beside the commode, and his head rested in them. His sides moved in and out slowly as he raggedly breathed. In the sink itself were a myriad of blue and white pills.
"Schuldig?"
The head raised slightly. Schuldig ran a hand through the tangled mass of flame. His movements were all slow. . .so slow, and sleepy. He wrinkled his face in a semblance of a smile.
"You know something Crawford?. . ." The smile fell. "I try, and I try, and I try, but the voices come back louder than ever. And they hurt. I'm tired. . .So tired. . . "
His strength gone, Schuldig slipped off the toliet, and would have fallen to the hard tile, if not for the two strong arms that appeared about his torso, and the hand that cradled his aching head.
Schuldig chuckled. "And to think. . .I thought you didn't care." His head lolled to the side as he lost consciousness.
Crawford looked down at the broken man whose head rested in his lap, his face in his hands. Crawford's fingers smoothed the mussed hair from the German's pale face.
"Schuldig. . .I. . ." A salty tear fell from his chocolate brown eyes and onto Schuldig's face. "I'll help you in the only ways I can. The only ways I can."
He took out the cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed 911.