I close my eyes when it gets too sad
I think thoughts that I know are bad
Close my eyes and I count to ten
Hope it's over when I open them
--from Wonderful by Everclear
Micah woke up with the distinct feeling that he had dreamt, but he had no recollection of what and that was just fine. A drowsy glance around discovered something; Gabe was gone. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and sat up, glancing around.
"Gabe?" he said slowly. When there was no answer, he inched towards his wheelchair and reached out a hand to pull it towards him. It was too far away. "Gabe!" Micah tried again, craning his neck to see her.
"Just a minute, hon." Her voice was distant, in another room. He could hear her murmuring something quietly, and someone answered with equally hushed words. Jeremiah. Micah stiffened. He strained to hear more, but all he caught was Gabe's angry voice -- "I think you should leave." -- and the kitchen door slamming.
"Gabe?" he said slowly. She slipped back into the living room and offered a small smile.
"Sorry. Sleep well?" The girl sat on the couch, a hand coming up to gently feel his forehead. "You don't feel warm."
"No dreams," Micah said helpfully. Gabe gave him a warm smile.
"Great." Her hands crept up to his shoulders and began kneading the muscles carefully. "Didn't I tell you it would all be all right?" His back was tense from sleeping on the couch; Micah sighed and relaxed a bit.
"I hate it when you're right." He grunted quietly and let his chin rest against his chest. "A little harder, please." Gabe obeyed, her fingers infinitely gentle.
"Well, considering the alternative, you should be glad I'm right this time," she said in a low voice, rubbing at his shoulders delicately. He grunted again in response and let his eyes drift closed. The girl chuckled, her fingers slowing a little. "Such a chatterbox today."
"Gabe," he said softly, eyes still closed, "were you talking to Jeremiah a second ago?" She hesitated now and paused.
"Why do you ask?" Micah looked over his shoulder at her, feeling a little frown creep over his brows.
"Because I heard you yelling at him." Gabe stopped altogether; she sat back with a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face.
"I wasn't yelling," she said quietly.
"Speaking angrily, then." He turned so he could see her better and crossed his arms over his chest. Gabe nodded, running her hand through her hair.
"Okay, I'll agree with that. I was speaking angrily with Jeremiah." Micah kept a blank stare -- he was getting rather good at his poker face -- but dug his fingernails into the sleeves of his pajamas to contain his contempt.
"Why?" he managed through seemingly emotionless lips.
"He was arguing with me," she said stiffly. "Look, I don't understand why you're so uptight about this."
(tell her what he said why don't you)
Micah kept his eyes locked on her, the first dark twitch of a brow showing.
(tell her she'll believe you)
Gabe stared right back as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Well?" she demanded. "Why are you being so stiff about Jer?"
(probably she'll probably believe you)
He didn't answer. His fingernails were digging deeper into his sleeves, nearly biting into the skin.
(no not really she won't believe you)
"Micah?" Now she sounded worried. He snapped out of his daze and blinked.
(never you're just the murderer and he's)
Gabe's frown deepened. She leaned forward.
"Micah?" she said again, voice quiet.
(he's perfect)
"No problem," Micah said softly, and glanced away. "Can you help me to my chair?" The girl stared at him in concern.
"Micah," she said for the third time, then sighed. "Yeah, sure." Gabe hooked her hands beneath his arms and swung him around to the wheelchair. Once he was situated, she didn't pull away; the girl hugged him tightly, pressing her face into the black mess that was his hair. "Don't be mad," Gabe whispered. "Please don't be mad. There's nothing going on, I swear it." He blinked in surprise and let his arms tighten around her.
"I'm not mad," Micah murmured in her ear. "And I believe you."
(But will you believe me?)
More medicine came after lunch. It was a late lunch -- he had awakened at 2:30 p.m. -- and not very agreeable with his stomach. Nothing that went down felt right, and Micah was sure that if he opened his mouth to speak, it would all come right back up, the entire peanut butter sandwich and handful of Ritz crackers. Edith gave him the medicine afterwards despite his anguish; she didn't understand his fear of sleep. Gabe disappeared outside after he had been force-fed the red liquid, promising she'd be back. And Micah was wheeled to his room, mumbling and pleading to be kept awake -- but in the end he lost, and Edith tucked his sleeping form securely into bed.
He dreamt.
He was wheeling himself calmly down the street, happy that he had finally mastered the damn thing. Gabe had been right -- it wasn't that hard. He kept his hands moving quickly as he directed the wheelchair towards the direction of Edith's house. It was just then that he realized he wasn't where he should be.
He was in Hemmingford.
He felt a sudden cold dread at this fact.
(I shouldn't be here.)
Wheeling himself faster, he hurried along the street and looked for someone to help him. Someone would help him, of course; he was in trouble, so they would help him. His wheelchair took a sudden lurch and his heart jumped into his throat.
(What's wrong with this stupid thing?)
He gripped the wheels tighter and struggled to stay calm. But he was pitched forward again and was embarrassed to hear a cry of surprise escape his mouth.
(No, it's fine, it's all fine. Stay cool.)
But it wasn't fine, none of it -- it wasn't time to stay cool. Because across the street from him was an old lady, a Radio Wave remote control in her hand and a sinister grin on her face.
(Oh my God.)
Pruitt stood behind her, smiling pleasantly and patting the old lady's shoulder in encouragement.
"Go on," Pruitt murmured to the old woman.
"How do you like it, sonny?!" she screeched, and jammed the stick of the remote forward. The wheelchair took another lurch and began to roll towards the street.
(Oh)
He grabbed madly at the wheels, but they were moving too quickly to keep hold of.
(my)
The wheelchair was doing crazy circles and loops around the sidewalk, inching ever closer to the street.
(GOD)
"Help!" he screamed as the chair bumped over the curb and began twirling like some madcap children's toy top. "Help me, please, make it stop!" A truck swerved to miss him. The man stuck his head out the window and screamed an obscenity at him, something along the lines of why he couldn't watch where he was going. The truck drove on, and he looked over his shoulder desperately. The old woman was laughing now, jiggling the stick of the remote like she was a giddy child with a new toy. It was just then that he realized who had appeared beside her -- Jeremiah.
(no no no)
Jeremiah flashed a boyish grin at the old lady.
"May I see that, ma'am?" he asked courteously. The old woman smiled and handed over the remote, stopping the wheelchair's movement for a moment.
"What a polite young man!" she exclaimed. "Go right on ahead, sonny. Give that hoodlum what's coming to him."
"Oh, don't worry." Jeremiah smiled and stared at the boy in the wheelchair. "I will."
"SOMEONE HELP ME!" he screamed, hands working madly on the wheels. He was getting closer to the sidewalk, so much closer... "PLEASE, DON'T LET HIM DO THIS!"
"Nighty-night, Micah," murmured Jeremiah, and jammed the stick forward. The wheelchair lurched into motion and rocketed down the street, right towards the speeding semi.
"NO!" He clawed desperately at the wheels, but it did no good. And that truck was just getting much too close for comfort... "STOP, PLEASE, DON'T--"
And that was when the truck hit.
Micah screamed as he shot forward, the sound hollow and frightening in the empty room. It took him a moment to realize that he was not in Hemmingford, there was no laughing old lady, and he hadn't been hit by a semi.
"Oh, God," he said shakily, rubbing at his forehead. His fingers came back moist with sweat. Micah paused, then pressed his hand to his brow like Gabe always did. It was warmer than he thought it should be. "Edith," he called, feeling shaky all over. "Edith, Gabe -- someone!"
"What?" The reply was distant, but it was getting closer. "What's wrong?"
"Gabe!" He felt a bit of relief. "Gabe, please, I don't feel well--" She opened the door, frowning.
"Honey, what's..." Gabe trailed off and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh. Oh my." He didn't like this reaction, but Micah swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I don't feel well at all," he croaked. The girl stared at him, fear flickering across her features, then turned and abruptly disappeared into the hall.
(what the hell)
His heart did a dive-bomb into his stomach.
"Gabe?" Micah said unsteadily.
(she's deserted you couldn't bear to look at you)
His heart resurfaced when she hurried back in with a bowl of water and a rag.
"Oh, honey, you look so sick," she murmured, settling on the edge of his bed.
"Do I?" He blinked in earnest surprise, then again to try to clear the haze from his eyes. "I just thought I was a little warm--"
"You're burning up," Gabe informed him quietly after pressing a hand to his face. "Hold still. This might be a little cold." Micah braced himself as she dabbed at his cheek with the cold rag, sure enough jerking away. She slid a hand behind his head to stop that from happening again. "What happened, love?"
"Dream," he said simply, wincing as the rag was pressed against his other cheek. "Christ, that's cold." The hand behind his head was gentle; it stroked the tips of his hair while the other dabbed at his face.
"What about?" She wiped away a trickle of sweat from his temple. Micah cringed at the unpleasant chill.
"Nothing, really. Just my wheelchair."
(Not a lie. Beautiful maneuver.)
Gabe responded with a slight nod and gently placed the rag on his forehead, letting it rest there. Now the coolness was nice. It fought the blazing heat on his brow and spread the relaxation to behind his eyes. He let his eyelids drift closed.
"Sorry to bother you," he mumbled. There was a pause, then a tender kiss was pressed against his cheek.
"No trouble," she replied softly. Micah was just beginning to think that he could sleep again when the voice came from the door.
"What's up?"
(oh my god that's not even funny)
"Get into the hall, Jeremiah," Gabe hissed. Micah's eyes snapped open to glimpse the brown-haired boy, smirking as he leaned against the doorframe.
"I think you let him out of the hospital too early."
"Into the hall, Jeremiah!" Gabe whirled to face him, jabbing a finger in his direction. Jeremiah stuck up his hands in defense.
"All right, all right." He turned and ambled into the hall -- but not until he had shot Micah a knowing smirk.
"What's he doing here?" Micah whispered, feeling angry and shaky and sick. Very sick.
"Lay down," Gabe murmured soothingly. She moved the washcloth over his eyes. "I'll be right back." She heaved herself to her feet and stalked towards the door, anger in every one of her steps. Micah slowly inched up the rag so he could watch. He didn't see much, but it was enough. Gabe rounded the corner, already snapping at Jeremiah as the hand clamped down on her wrist. She blinked in surprise before it gave a good strong yank, tugging her out of sight. There were sharp voices and heavy footsteps as they talked -- and then Micah realized it wasn't footsteps. Someone was being shoved into the wall. More angry voices, then--
"Ow, stop it! That hurts!"
--and more thuds, followed by--
"Stop it!"
--and a cry of surprise. He wasn't sure if it was the fever, but hot racing anger filled him, closely followed by a cold sick dread.
Jeremiah was hurting Gabe.