Sorry for the delay! Life kind of bombarded me this week, and any hours I didn't spend working I spent sleeping. Thanks again to everyone who's stuck around to read this story. After this, I've got two short sections I think I'm going to mash up into one post.
But for now, let us see how Charlie's doing...
Charlie Eppes was convinced he was dead, though since he'd never been dead before he wasn't sure what it was supposed to feel like. He briefly considered it might not feel like anything at all, therefore he couldn't be dead because if he were, then he would feel neither the tremendous pain in his head nor be able to think in any hazy. He had vague memories of a simple equation he had to solve and also…being tied to a bed and overwhelming darkness. He turned his head to the side, which immediately caused pain to rocket not only through it, but also down his spine, arms and even his legs. Just everywhere.
Oh, God. His stomach did not escape the torment. Charlie gagged and heaved as his stomach felt like it turned itself inside out, but there was nothing in it for him to vomit. He was glad for that, but his gratitude didn't help with the additional shockwaves of pain retching caused. Through the horrible tintinnabulation in his ears, he thought he heard someone or something that sounded like it was in a great deal of distress. He wanted to help, he really did, but he just couldn't move. Even breathing hurt, but he figured with he shouldn't stop doing that. Charlie cracked his right eye open.
That was a mistake. Bright light assaulted him, feeling almost physical. Charlie closed his eye again. Maybe by the time he sorted out his brain his body would be in a better place. Somewhere, still sounding as though from a great distance, he could still hear the poor creature, strangled sounds that would have made him wince in sympathy had he not figured out how bad it was to move in even the smallest ways. He didn't know where he was, but he was pretty sure it wasn't tied to a bed. Whatever he was sprawled on, it was hard and cold.
The fingers of his right hand twitched slightly, and that made his whole arm jolt in agony. Charlie whimpered, and that was when he noticed two things: his throat was sore and the sound he'd just made sounded an awful lot like those he'd heard since waking. He whimpered again. Yes, he was responsible for the pitiful sounds.
"Mmmmph," he said.
He flitted the fingers of his left hand around, keeping the movements as bare as possible. The primary sources of pain seemed to be his head and his right arm. His head was the worst. Along with the pain, it felt as though he were falling down a deep hole, spinning and spinning. Charlie swallowed and tried to push that unpleasantness aside and focus on what his fingers told him. The material beneath his fingers was tile, small squares of it. Like a bathroom. Like the bathroom…window. He'd tried to climb out the window, and that had blown the whole equation.
"Alisen?" he said. He considered it an improvement in his situation that he'd managed to utter something besides frantic moans, even if it sounded warped and wrong in his head. There was no reply. He wasn't sure he had expected one. Hours and hours of dark and alone and help, help, someone help. He didn't know what to do, lying here on the cold floor and helpless. Without help. Help. His head hurt so much. Something must have happened to him. He couldn't remember, though. "Urgh…Don."
His brother would know. His brother always knew. It seemed like forever since he'd seen Don. Charlie didn't want to move, but he couldn't lie around all day. He had class to get to, didn't he? No, he didn't, that wasn't right. He wasn't locked in the dark anymore and he didn't know why but he didn't care. He opened both of his eyes this time, just a crack, and made himself keep them open even when the light was intent on stabbing at him. Tears made everything bleary…blearier. Something was wrong and he'd figure it out if his head would only stop pounding. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and take a nap.
Okay, no. He couldn't do that. Why not? Ohhhh. The ceiling swirled and weaved, like he was looking up from the bottom of a pool. He was drifting, floating. Spinning. Charlie's stomach turned. It felt like this all had happened before. He lifted his right arm off the cold floor and gurgled with sheer misery. Thoughts of napping vanished, replaced by the all-consuming throb of an abused elbow…and head. Alisen. Bathroom floor. Fall. He needed to pull himself together and Don, call Don. Focus on that, he told himself.
"Get away, get away, call Don," Charlie said. Now he sounded dead, or dying at the very least. He choked out a quick sob. "Get away, call Don."
It became his internal mantra, because he couldn't talk anymore. Repeating it kept his hold on the very confusing reality of his situation tentative but there. Charlie rolled to his left, trying to swallow the bitter acidic contents in his stomach. Apparently it hadn't been empty then. Empty now, he thought as he heaved the mess out onto the floor. Hit his head. Fell hard. The numbers that were always in his head were gone now, and all he could see was white and bright and wrong. It must have taken some doing – he couldn't remember – but he ended up on his left hand and his knees. His right arm was on fire, his head a pressure cooker.
There was something else that he saw now amid the white, a dark blur right in front of him. He squinted, couldn't figure out what it was. Didn't matter. Get away, call Don, call Don. Help. Charlie put his left hand out, numbly searching for something to give him leverage. He wasn't sure what it contacted, but he didn't care. Even on his knees, his head felt as though it was going to roll right off of his shoulders. He sucked in a deep breath, saw gray fuzz at the edge of his vision, and stood up on wobbly legs. He took one step and buckled. Both arms flailing, he groaned and collapsed to the right, elbows hitting the bathroom countertop.
"Nnngh," he groaned.
The gray fuzz became black fuzz. He bit his tongue, adding one more hurt to his short but not insignificant list of injuries. He breathed heavily, and the blackness encroached further and further into his vision. Charlie looked up and around, startled to see movement in the room, behind him. In front of him. Somewhere. His heart started pounding even harder. He squinted at the shape, aghast to realize it was his own reflection. Mirror. He looked…terrible.
Phone, there had to be a phone there. Where was Alisen? He made himself push away from the counter, made it to the door. Rested some more on the frame. His legs shook, felt like an earthquake raged beneath his feet. Right or left. He looked, for what it was worth, down the hallway. He thought maybe he might remember the path to the left, so he went right. Followed his bum arm. God, his head hurt. He saw the beige, plush arm of a sofa or a chair. He aimed for it, would love nothing more than to rest his head there. Sleep. No. Nono. No sleep. Phone. Call Don. Tell Don…something important. Nothing made sense. One plus one was six. Wrong. The numbers weren't his numbers. Getting harder to think. Think. Think.
His legs bumped into the beige blob. He blinked, confused, feeling like he'd missed more time. He looked down. It was a sofa, thank goodness. Charlie stumbled, fumbled around with his left arm to keep contact with the sofa. Sat down. His legs quivered as if he'd just completed a marathon. He didn't know whose house this was. Everything was cold and colorless and without character. It wasn't his house. Alisen. Alisen, he reminded himself. Call Don. Don was at work. Always at work now. He looked around the room, trying to discern objects through his watery eyes.
It was on the table. In front of him. Charlie leaned forward, losing what little balance had allowed him to get as far as he did. He landed on his butt with a thud and no longer felt anything but a faint tickle in his injured arm. His head still heart, though. Two plus two was seventy-five. He frowned. The horrible sad (dying?) animal noise was back, barely audible but there and disturbing. He dropped his head down and rested it on the table, reaching for the phone with his good hand. No more resting. He looked up. His eyes weren't watering anymore, but he still couldn't see well. Everything wavered. He started to dial stopped. No, no. More numbers. Two plus one equals three. Two one three, one one six, two two seven five. Call Don. The phone rang forever.
"Granger speaking."
"Not Don," Charlie said. Don was two two seven one. "Wrong number. The numbers are wrong. "
"Who is this?"
"The equation didn't work." Oh, shit, the animal (him, him) was dying, sounded terrible. Wrong. Wrong numbers. "Simple math. Wrong."
"Charlie, is that you?"
"Yes," he said, surprised by the question. "But this is wrong. Where's Don?"
Spending too much time talking to the wrong person. Charlie pulled the receiver away from his ear. The person he thought he knew but had accidentally called was still talking. He tried to disconnect. His arm was limp, wouldn't cooperate, and he suddenly noticed the phone looked so far away. Tunnel. Long tunnel. Dark. He slumped forward, his forehead cuffed against the coffee table, and then he saw the carpet, every fiber strangely clear. He closed his eyes and couldn't open them again. He couldn't tell if it was the ringing in his ears or the tinny voice on the phone. He faded.
"Oh, God. Charlie."
Something grabbed his shoulder, squeezing tight as a vise. Pulled him through fog. A hand in his hair, on his face.
"Get the paramedics in here! Charlie? Charlie, come on, open your eyes."
Would rather not.
"We need you to stand back, sir."
"Don, the apartment's empty. He's alone here."
Don? Don?
"I have to admit, I don't really care about that right now."
That was Don's voice, so far away. Hands probed at him, gentle but too rough. He moaned, deep in his sore throat. Charlie tried to worm away from them, but the hands kept him in place. He gasped as a finger contacted the base of his skull, striking through him, jerking him toward full consciousness. Don was here. He needed Don. One eyelid was peeled back, bright painful light. The other eyelid, same bright light. He heard words like 'laceration' and 'blown pupil' and 'possible fracture' and 'hairline elbow.' None of them mattered and one of them made no sense at all. Don was here. The equation wasn't wrong.
"Duhn," Charlie said.
"Hey, buddy," Don said. "We've got you. You're okay now."
"Sir, I'm sorry, we're not quite finished here."
"He's my brother, damnit."
Charlie scrunched his face up. Don was upset. He opened both of his eyes. It took a great deal of effort. A strange face peered back at him, brown skinned and blue eyed. Not Don. He blinked slowly. The face got closer, and it frowned at him.
"Sir, can you tell me your name?"
"Don?" The frown deepened. "Where's Don?"
The unknown person shuffled away, sliding from his line of sight so quickly Charlie thought he saw residual blurring. It made his eyes hurt so much the pain radiated back through his skull. He moaned, couldn't help it. Another blur, another moan. He stared at the recognizable face now floating above him.
"Don."
"Charlie," Don said. "You're going to be okay, you hear me?"
Okay. Charlie just kept staring. He wasn't quite sure this was real. Don reached forward, touched him on the cheek. He had a flash of someone else doing that, and hating it. This was different.
"Hey, answer me. You're okay."
"Nnnuh," he said. Charlie was pretty sure he wasn't okay at all, but he didn't know why. He couldn't seem to form words anymore. "Whu…slee."
"Don't try to talk," Don said. Through the haze, Charlie saw a pained expression on his brother's face. "Just take it easy. You're going to be fine."
"Sir, we need to get him to the hospital now."
Charlie closed his eyes. More hands, all over him. He moaned, and then one of the hands cupped his cheek. Don. Don was there. It was okay for him to sleep now.