~*~*~*~*Tell Me Why~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~**Chapter Four~*~*~*~*~*~* ~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"The coffee," Mark Callaway declared loudly as he stared into the chipped mug, "the coffee is what it is."
"You didn't even have coffee last night," his wife, Sara, said accusingly. "And my coffee isn't that bad, is it?"
He decided not to answer her. Little swirls of not yet dissolved creamer circled his mug, white mica in brown and dirtied stone.
"Are you okay, Mark? You woke up screaming last night and you won't tell me why." She set down the pan she was holding and turned around to level with him. "You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm fine," he protested, loudly. "I'm really very fine."
Sun landed in a pure beam across his eyes from the window. He turned away.
"No, ever since that earthquake, you haven't been fine."
"Sara, I've lived in California and that wasn't the first earthquake I've felt. It won't be the last. Now stop worrying. I'm fine."
She started to protest, but the phone started to buzz. She answered it.
"Mark? It's for you."
"If it's a fan, and this is payback, you're toast," he told her as he accepted the phone. "Hello?"
"Soon."
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chris gazed out the window, feeling a ray of sun poke through the gray and angry clouds that littered the sky.
"Chris? Do you think it's okay they're discharging you?"
Chris swiveled his head around to look at his friend. Kurt was pale, his face drawn and weary. Concerned and tired brown eyes looked from red lines. "I mean, you just got in here yesterday. And you've been on morphine half the time. I don't like it. You should stay in here some more."
Chris sighed. Great, yeah, let me stay in here and let time tock away. I feel fine. I feel great. I feel weird, but okay.
"Kurt, look," he said, trying to cheer his friend. "I don't know what it is. I was dying last night, and now I'm fine. I feel like I could take you on in the ring. Come on, let it go. If anything, you should be in here."
"First off, you will NEVER be able to take me on in the ring. Second, I feel perfectly fit. I see no reasons to spend my time rotting in a hospital bed." But his eyes were troubled.
"Great, so do I, and the doctor agrees. Now, shut up and hide your eyes, pervert. I have to get dressed. I know what you do in your spare time." He swung in legs out of the bed and confidently began to walk into the bathroom.
"Chris, I'm telling you as a friend." Kurt swerved to block Chris's entry into the bathroom. "Please just let them run some more tests."
For a second, Chris just stared. Let them run tests? No, no, I'm fine. I can breathe, I can eat, and I really want to go outside. "There's nothing wrong, Kurt. Now go get some coffee before you start attacking me."
Kurt's eyes widened, then shrunk again, coloring with defeat. "Fine, kill yourself. I'm going to get something to eat and when I come back here, your ass better be ready to leave."
"Thank you Dr. Kurt," Chris said sarcastically. He went into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. "He worries too much," he proclaimed to himself as he studied himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and his face tired, but he looked pretty much like he always had. He rubbed his arm as it gave a sudden itch of pain. He turned on the faucet and held his hands cupped under the stream.
*Don't you remember? Don't you remember the stream?*
His head flew up. Voices!
No, he was crazy . . . no voices. Crazy, he was crazy.
He turned off the faucet, forgetting about his face. The room was deathly quiet. He peered around, but nothing suspicious greeted his eyes. No, he was just crazy.
He finished what he needed to do and went outside the room, freshly changed and charged to go.
"Stephanie," he said with a smile when he saw her.
But she did not return the smile. Instead, she drew back, away, as if were a snake. Her eyes were tired, stressed, and scared.
"Okay, we're talking, and we are talking right now," she told him, harshly, as she sat down heavily on the chair.
Confused, he went to the bed and sat on the edge. "What's wrong, Steph? I didn't do anything last night while I was on the morphine, did I?"
"Funny thing is," she said quietly, "you weren't on the morphine. And it seemed like you should have been."
He was even more confused.
"Don't you remember? The trees, Chris? You grabbed my hand and told me you saw trees. And then I did too." Her voice was trembling, shaking. "The dog with its teeth glowing and flying at you?"
What was she talking about?
She read the confusion in his eyes. "Tell me you remember, Chris. Tell me you remember!" Her voice ended with a shrill shriek, as if she needed the grain of truth.
"Stephanie, where was I? When?"
Her eyes turned angry and her hands balled into fists. "Chris, stop playing games! You were laying in that bed and when I came in here, you said you saw trees and then you touched me and then I saw trees too! You let me go and started crying!"
No, he didn't remember. Not a word she said brought back any distant or vague memory. He tried to think, think to the night before; but when he did, he brought up only a huge blank.
"Stephanie, I don't remember any of it."
Her eyes suddenly flooded with tears.
"Stephanie, don't cry, don't cry-"
Silent tears were running down her cheeks, dripping quietly onto the floor. She made no sound, but closed her eyes and put her hand in front of her face, as if something was horrifying her.
"Stephanie, I'm sorry, but please, don't cry-"
The door opened. In came Dr. Simmons, carrying a clipboard. She stopped for a moment, and then gawked at them. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked uncomfortably.
Chris looked at her helplessly, then at Stephanie's sobbing heap.
"I'll come back in a few minutes," Simmons said hastily and fled.
"Tell me you REMEMBER!" She seized Chris's hand. "Tell me you REMEMBER!"
A tunnel of light fell on Chris.
~*~*~*~*
He hit something dark and hard. His head ached. He stopped and looked.
The glass was empty before her, orange pulp staining its dirty sides. A spoon lay by eaten oatmeal. People in white uniforms moved around busily, eating, laughing, talking. Not him. He was staring into space. When would this vision leave his head? This vision of horror that he had received form Chris?
But I am . . . Chris.
His head shifted. A purse lay on the table. These weren't his memories . . . this was the hospital cafeteria . . .these were Stephanie's memories . . .
~*~*~*~*
"Tell me you remember, please, tell me."
Electricity warmed his hand. He blinked. Flowers! Flowers had been before him, stationed on the table to add color to the dreary atmosphere. But now Stephanie's face, her eyes red, tears trickling to a halt, stood before him. He felt rocked, bottomless. What was going on?
Suddenly Stephanie stood up, wiping her face. "Okay, fine, play your stupid games Chris. I don't know what the hell you want, but stop it. Stop it."
"Stephanie, what . . . I don't understand . . ."
But it was too late. She was out the door, leaving it wide open.
In stepped Simmons, who had apparently been waiting patiently for what she thought was probably a lovers' spat to end.
She was so wrong.
~*~*~*~*
He found a place to wipe the blood off his hands.
But it didn't help him.
Shane looked himself in the scarred, dirty mirror he had found in the bathroom of the rundown park.
Nothing was going to help him.
~*~*~*~*
Please, I need critique. I need to know what you guys are feeling.
~*~*~*~**Chapter Four~*~*~*~*~*~* ~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"The coffee," Mark Callaway declared loudly as he stared into the chipped mug, "the coffee is what it is."
"You didn't even have coffee last night," his wife, Sara, said accusingly. "And my coffee isn't that bad, is it?"
He decided not to answer her. Little swirls of not yet dissolved creamer circled his mug, white mica in brown and dirtied stone.
"Are you okay, Mark? You woke up screaming last night and you won't tell me why." She set down the pan she was holding and turned around to level with him. "You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm fine," he protested, loudly. "I'm really very fine."
Sun landed in a pure beam across his eyes from the window. He turned away.
"No, ever since that earthquake, you haven't been fine."
"Sara, I've lived in California and that wasn't the first earthquake I've felt. It won't be the last. Now stop worrying. I'm fine."
She started to protest, but the phone started to buzz. She answered it.
"Mark? It's for you."
"If it's a fan, and this is payback, you're toast," he told her as he accepted the phone. "Hello?"
"Soon."
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chris gazed out the window, feeling a ray of sun poke through the gray and angry clouds that littered the sky.
"Chris? Do you think it's okay they're discharging you?"
Chris swiveled his head around to look at his friend. Kurt was pale, his face drawn and weary. Concerned and tired brown eyes looked from red lines. "I mean, you just got in here yesterday. And you've been on morphine half the time. I don't like it. You should stay in here some more."
Chris sighed. Great, yeah, let me stay in here and let time tock away. I feel fine. I feel great. I feel weird, but okay.
"Kurt, look," he said, trying to cheer his friend. "I don't know what it is. I was dying last night, and now I'm fine. I feel like I could take you on in the ring. Come on, let it go. If anything, you should be in here."
"First off, you will NEVER be able to take me on in the ring. Second, I feel perfectly fit. I see no reasons to spend my time rotting in a hospital bed." But his eyes were troubled.
"Great, so do I, and the doctor agrees. Now, shut up and hide your eyes, pervert. I have to get dressed. I know what you do in your spare time." He swung in legs out of the bed and confidently began to walk into the bathroom.
"Chris, I'm telling you as a friend." Kurt swerved to block Chris's entry into the bathroom. "Please just let them run some more tests."
For a second, Chris just stared. Let them run tests? No, no, I'm fine. I can breathe, I can eat, and I really want to go outside. "There's nothing wrong, Kurt. Now go get some coffee before you start attacking me."
Kurt's eyes widened, then shrunk again, coloring with defeat. "Fine, kill yourself. I'm going to get something to eat and when I come back here, your ass better be ready to leave."
"Thank you Dr. Kurt," Chris said sarcastically. He went into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. "He worries too much," he proclaimed to himself as he studied himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and his face tired, but he looked pretty much like he always had. He rubbed his arm as it gave a sudden itch of pain. He turned on the faucet and held his hands cupped under the stream.
*Don't you remember? Don't you remember the stream?*
His head flew up. Voices!
No, he was crazy . . . no voices. Crazy, he was crazy.
He turned off the faucet, forgetting about his face. The room was deathly quiet. He peered around, but nothing suspicious greeted his eyes. No, he was just crazy.
He finished what he needed to do and went outside the room, freshly changed and charged to go.
"Stephanie," he said with a smile when he saw her.
But she did not return the smile. Instead, she drew back, away, as if were a snake. Her eyes were tired, stressed, and scared.
"Okay, we're talking, and we are talking right now," she told him, harshly, as she sat down heavily on the chair.
Confused, he went to the bed and sat on the edge. "What's wrong, Steph? I didn't do anything last night while I was on the morphine, did I?"
"Funny thing is," she said quietly, "you weren't on the morphine. And it seemed like you should have been."
He was even more confused.
"Don't you remember? The trees, Chris? You grabbed my hand and told me you saw trees. And then I did too." Her voice was trembling, shaking. "The dog with its teeth glowing and flying at you?"
What was she talking about?
She read the confusion in his eyes. "Tell me you remember, Chris. Tell me you remember!" Her voice ended with a shrill shriek, as if she needed the grain of truth.
"Stephanie, where was I? When?"
Her eyes turned angry and her hands balled into fists. "Chris, stop playing games! You were laying in that bed and when I came in here, you said you saw trees and then you touched me and then I saw trees too! You let me go and started crying!"
No, he didn't remember. Not a word she said brought back any distant or vague memory. He tried to think, think to the night before; but when he did, he brought up only a huge blank.
"Stephanie, I don't remember any of it."
Her eyes suddenly flooded with tears.
"Stephanie, don't cry, don't cry-"
Silent tears were running down her cheeks, dripping quietly onto the floor. She made no sound, but closed her eyes and put her hand in front of her face, as if something was horrifying her.
"Stephanie, I'm sorry, but please, don't cry-"
The door opened. In came Dr. Simmons, carrying a clipboard. She stopped for a moment, and then gawked at them. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked uncomfortably.
Chris looked at her helplessly, then at Stephanie's sobbing heap.
"I'll come back in a few minutes," Simmons said hastily and fled.
"Tell me you REMEMBER!" She seized Chris's hand. "Tell me you REMEMBER!"
A tunnel of light fell on Chris.
~*~*~*~*
He hit something dark and hard. His head ached. He stopped and looked.
The glass was empty before her, orange pulp staining its dirty sides. A spoon lay by eaten oatmeal. People in white uniforms moved around busily, eating, laughing, talking. Not him. He was staring into space. When would this vision leave his head? This vision of horror that he had received form Chris?
But I am . . . Chris.
His head shifted. A purse lay on the table. These weren't his memories . . . this was the hospital cafeteria . . .these were Stephanie's memories . . .
~*~*~*~*
"Tell me you remember, please, tell me."
Electricity warmed his hand. He blinked. Flowers! Flowers had been before him, stationed on the table to add color to the dreary atmosphere. But now Stephanie's face, her eyes red, tears trickling to a halt, stood before him. He felt rocked, bottomless. What was going on?
Suddenly Stephanie stood up, wiping her face. "Okay, fine, play your stupid games Chris. I don't know what the hell you want, but stop it. Stop it."
"Stephanie, what . . . I don't understand . . ."
But it was too late. She was out the door, leaving it wide open.
In stepped Simmons, who had apparently been waiting patiently for what she thought was probably a lovers' spat to end.
She was so wrong.
~*~*~*~*
He found a place to wipe the blood off his hands.
But it didn't help him.
Shane looked himself in the scarred, dirty mirror he had found in the bathroom of the rundown park.
Nothing was going to help him.
~*~*~*~*
Please, I need critique. I need to know what you guys are feeling.