Ch. 8

Insomniac

Don't push him, Don.

And why the hell not? Don watched Charlie out of the corner of his eye, waiting for his younger brother to move, or at most at least twitch. Don could have sworn that Charlie had yet to blink, and he was pale to the point of being absolutely white. He was also wearing that same lost, helpless look, mixed in with a little misery.

The sickness of apprehension made Don's gut churn. Don't push him... ri-ght. When they were younger, and Charlie refused to come down to dinner because he was wrapped up in some mind-boggling equation, Don would wrap his arm around Charlie's neck, putting his much smaller brother in a non-threatening choke-hold to drag him down stairs. Their mom had hated it, but at least it worked. Don was highly tempted to do that now, but if that wasn't pushing the issue, Don didn't know what was. Besides, Don knew good and well it would only make Charlie panic, even cause him to hurt himself. If vulnerability had a poster-boy, Charlie would be it.

The ride home was thick with silence. It was the perfect opportunity to talk, and here Don was trying to battle his urge to use force.

Don't push him, don't push him, don't push him...

Don sighed. " Charlie?"

Charlie visibly jumped, jerking his head around to stare nervously at his brother. " Y-yeah, Don?" he said, shuddering.

Don felt suddenly tired. How was he supposed to do this? His instincts were actually screaming at him to get Charlie to a doctor - by any means necessary.

Don grimaced inwardly. Yeah, that would go real well. " Um... You mentioned something... about a dream? A dream you had when you were – you know – passed out?"

Charlie looked away, back out the windshield, and seemed to shrink by hunching deeper into his seat. " A dream?"

" Yeah, buddy, you mentioned something about a dream. About something being just a dream. You wanna go into a little more detail on it?"

Was that pushing it? Don wasn't sure. Outside, trees were gliding by. They were off the freeway, back into neighborhoods with houses and yards, and so almost home. Not much time left for 'just talking'.

Charlie lifted his arm to rest his elbow on the door, and began rubbing his temple. " Not really." He looked as though he were going to be sick.

Don was taken back by Charlie's lack of articulation. Normally, even when upset, Charlie was a lot more talkative than this.

Don's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Charlie wasn't making this any easier. " Come on, Charlie. Something's wrong. You know it, I know it... It's just a freakin' dream, what's there not to talk about?"

Don winced. So much for trying to stay on the level. He looked over at Charlie. There seemed little change in his brother's demeanor, then Don looked at his hand resting on his leg. It was clenched so tight that the knuckles were white and his fist was shaking.

They finally arrived at the house, and Don pulled into the driveway. He had yet to turn off the ignition when Charlie unlocked the door himself, grabbing his bag and scrambling out. Don moved with less urgency. He pocketed his keys and slid from the seat. Charlie was already heading to the door when Don stepped onto the driveway.

" Hey Charlie!"

Charlie halted as though he had been caught doing something wrong. He looked back at Don timidly.

Man he looks freaked, Don thought. Genuinely freaked. What the hell's wrong with him?

" I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to get mad. I'm just a little worried, alright? I mean if you don't want to talk about it right now, that's fine. I understand. But... come on, Charlie, you've got to talk about it some time if it's bothering you that much.. It'll make you feel better to get it off your chest. I mean it's just a dream. Dreams can't hurt you."

Charlie just stared at Don, but he could not tell whether his own words were sinking in, or if Charlie had mentally froze up. Then Charlie looked away, and Don knew that he was thinking, hopefully reconsidering. When Charlie looked at Don again, his expression was apologetic.

" Not yet," he replied hoarsely, then he cleared his throat. " I need to... think." He gestured at his head with a stiff, spread-fingered hand. " It's - it's not clear, Don. Not yet. I just need time to get it clear. I'll tell you then, I promise... Okay?"

Don nodded. " Yeah, sure buddy."

Charlie nodded back, then continued on to the door, a lot less agitated than he had been a moment ago. Don watched him go in, moving with the slowness of one whose bones had taken on the consistency of led.

Don tilted his head back, let out a breath, then slowly tilted it forward. He could feel the onset of tension in the form of tightening muscles at the base of his neck. He was really the wrong guy for this kind of stuff. But he knew he would keep at it, even if he only ended up making things worse. The curse of being the older brother was the desire to always want to protect the younger. It was a desire he had forever fought against and lost, one that made him want to both strangle Charlie and hug him at the same time; and no matter how old Charlie was that desire would forever be there.

The problem was, having the desire was one matter, acting on it was always another.

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Dreams were never meant to be this troubling. Neither were they meant to be this easily remembered, or dredge up hallucinations.

Charlie lay curled on his side, buried up to his neck in blankets, feeling bone-weary but unable to close his eyes. He stared mournfully at the digital clock glaring red numbers at him.

Two-fifteen am. He'd stayed up later than that. In fact, there were plenty of times he had stayed up all night all together, only to crash in the late afternoon. Sleep became a hindrance when his mind was working at full-speed and the numbers were pushing to get out, cramming his skull to a bursting point. In all truth, night was the best time to work: everyone asleep, no one calling, no one watching TV, no one walking in just as he reached that pivotal moment of clarity when the answers came rushing out, then trying to strike a conversation with him when it was obvious he wasn't in the frame of mind to talk. Charlie always liked working at night. But then came school, and the worried admonitions of his mother on matters of his health. However, he continued nightly projects when he could.

Tonight, he was awake for far different reasons. His throbbing side felt cramped, and no matter how he lay – on his back or his painless side – it would not go away. Not even pain pills were working. He assumed it to be punishment for stretching too high and too suddenly while working on the chalk-board. It had been bothering him the rest of the day, but now it couldn't even be ignored as background annoyance.

So, with sleep abandoning him, he had only his waking thoughts to occupy him.

Why can't I talk about it, Charlie thought over and over. It was just a stupid dream. I was just imagining things.

Coward.

Charlie let out a shuddering breath. It hadn't felt like any three days, being lost. Not even in the dream. Of course, in the dream, it had felt more like an eternity. Once again, not a measurable length of time, but the only accurate description he could think of.

Charlie still wanted that measurable amount of time, despite wanting to forget the dream.

It had to be a dream. Nothing in his life had ever made less sense than what had happened in that dream.

So why can't I talk about it? Just tell Don. Big deal. He'll just agree with me.

Yeah, Charlie, that definitely sounds like a dream. Too weird not to be.

Charlie took a slow, deep breath and felt an uncomfortable twinge in his ribs. Closing his eyes, he exhaled sharply, then threw back the covers to haul himself from the warmth of bed. Wearing sweats and an old red T-shirt, it was his feet and arms that were the first to be assaulted by cooler air. Charlie shuffled from his room, then down the stairs and into the kitchen, carefully stepping in those places he knew wouldn't creak. Charlie wasn't one for midnight snacks, and didn't want to explain to his father why he was up – or what the ice was for.

Charlie took a Ziplock bag from a drawer and began filling it with ice from the freezer spilling cold mist over his arms. When the bag was half-full, he wrapped it in a wash-cloth then carefully touched it to his cramped side. The effect wasn't immediate, of course, so he headed back up to his room, considering the use of duct tape to strap the ice-pack to his side. Then maybe he could get some sleep.

Instead, he sat at his desk, clicking on the small lamp that cast a large circle of amber light on the exact spot where he worked. He pulled a pen and some paper from a drawer, then set to work.

Three days, the current temperature had been around seventy when he had left – say seventy-three. The temperature had been colder when he awoke – around sixty. Rain, moisture, temperatures at night (Alan tended to keep the paper around, sometimes for a week. Charlie liked to calculate the predicted temperature and the actual temperature differences for fun) known animals and their numbers, and body temperature changes when one was lying still and circulation slowed.

Charlie did not know why he was doing this. It was sick, really, and he knew he wouldn't like the answer. Yet his hand worked away all the same as though with its own agenda. He calculated, the numbers and formulas rushing through his brain like a tidal wave. It all came to him so quick and so precise that within only minutes he had what he wanted mapped out in his cryptic, numeric language. It was like a code, and anyone else who saw it would regard it only on the surface – a clever little math problem from a clever little math genius. But what Charlie saw made him go cold all over and his heart grow numb.

He should be dead.

Hypothermia, dehydration, hungry animals... Hadn't Larry mentioned those as well? But he had also made mention of the unusual ways of the human body. There were always chances of survival.

But not according to the equation. As Charlie had once said to Don, he was now saying to himself;

Statistically, you're dead.

Charlie laid his hand on the paper, spreading his fingers as though touching something delicate. Then, he snatched his fingers into a fist, crumpling the paper and squeezing it, hating it.

So what? So what if I'm supposed to be dead? Don was supposed to be dead and he isn't. Why do I have to be?

Numbers don't lie.

But equations can be wrong, mistakes made, factors missing. What am I forgetting? Health? scaring off animals with small movements?

Charlie kept crumpling the paper into his fist, gathering it into his palm with his fingers. The ice-pack was finally working, cold seeping through his shirt and skin to numb the assaulted bones and muscles. Charlie tossed the paper into the waste-basket by his desk; a clean shot. He stood, and began pacing the room as he wracked his brain for other factors he could be missing; say for the one he refused to consider.

He looked out his window onto the backyard glowing in the lights of the back porch. He couldn't see the pond, though. The lights didn't reach that far back. It was all buried in shadows thick as curtains.

Then one shadow detached from the rest. Charlie froze, staring, heart beating faster and faster.

That had been movement. Wasn't it? someone moving?

Charlie stared into the darkness beyond the porch lights, never blinking, barely breathing. Everything was still and dead quiet, so quiet that he thought he could hear his own heart pounding.

There, more movement. A shadow moving back into the shadows, melting away into the darkness, too large and moving too methodically to be an animal out to torment the fish. Charlie moved closer to the window and strained to see into the darkness. There were shapes, and he thought a shape moved. But there were deeper shadows, and the shape flitted into them, vanishing - if it had ever been there to begin with.

Charlie's heart felt like it was trying to crawl into his throat. He slowly backed away from the window, dropping into his desk chair. Something creaked – a far away and quick sound. Charlie jumped, peering fearfully over his shoulder. He then looked back out the window, still watching and waiting, staring at shapes and shadows. He knew his backyard, knew everything that was in it. He began calculating the size of objects, the size of the pools of light from the porch, circumferences and areas of forms and shadows. It came easily since he had pretty much calculated everything pertaining to the house at one time or another, front and back, including shadows at various times of day. He already had all the information he needed, he just needed to put it all together. What he didn't know, he soon figured out based on what he already had.

Outcome; everything was as it should be. No shapes out of place, no increased shadows. Nothing new was out there.

Yet Charlie couldn't relax. Something out there had moved.

Unless he was seeing things again.

Just like I saw Leon, he assured. Then quelled inwardly.

I'm seeing things. Since when do I see things? I don't even see what's right in front of me half the time. Don and dad always say so.

Charlie shrank back, hunching his shoulders and shivering as tears filled his eyes to spill over onto his face. He felt sick enough to vomit, too terrified to ever sleep again, alone, and torn between a choice. Either he needed to find the way in which he could have survived alone, or accept the fact that something else had happened.

Charlie turned quickly, grabbing a new sheet of paper from the drawer. He began writing furiously, listing off whatever factors he could figure that might have contributed to his survival. All while tears dropped onto the paper, staining it.

Outside, the sky slipped into the gray of coming morning.

Coward.

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A/N: Oh no! Poor Charlie, huh? I honestly believe that the best works of any field are done at night for the reasons I described above. In fact, even as I am writing this it is almost midnight. I think it's why all people of an artistic or scientific nature are insane, or at least a little strange. Not that that's anything to be ashamed of. Power to the nocturnal!