Summary/Important Information: This is a reworking of my six-year-old piece "Isaac's Gatlin". The plot will stick pretty closely to the old one but I reserve the right to take creative liberties here and there. This takes place up to a year before Burt and Vicky come through Gatlin.
Chapter I
August
The kitchen still smelled of bacon and eggs, but something was wrong.
His small feet padded across the linoleum floor, skin sticking to the tile in the late summer heat. Something inside his belly rumbled low and insistent. He was unfamiliar with the feeling, like a small and crawly thing had found its way there, but it was early in the morning and he was very hungry.
A cast-iron pan sat abandoned on the stovetop. Scrambled eggs were slowly congealing in a sick lump, and even though it smelled delicious they were no longer appetizing. He looked around, eyes traveling over the unused eggs and then the clean plates beside the oven. Mommy was never this forgetful. Mommy wouldn't forget about breakfast. It was the most important meal of the day.
He walked through the kitchen, past the eggs and strips of cold greasy bacon, past the flawlessly set dining room table and untouched forks. The feeling in his stomach had settled into a hard stone of unease. Something was wrong, despite the Sunday morning smells of breakfast. And now he could smell something new.
It was coppery and unpleasant, the way his hands smelled after he handled the mass of pennies he kept in a jar in his room. He opened his mouth to call for Mommy as he turned the corner into the den.
He was walking quickly, too quickly to stop when he saw her there on the couch. He knew his feet needed to stop moving but his brain seemed to have paused, because there was Mommy, there she was, right there. He took a few more steps and finally stopped when the pads of his feet sank into the thick red blood pooling on the floor.
He just stood there, his mouth still open, his feet horribly warm as the blood oozed from the plush carpet up between his toes. He couldn't move, but it was okay because Mommy wasn't moving either -- she was on the couch in her Sunday dress, her white apron splattered with red, one arm above her head and her mouth open too, smiling a little bit, just a little. And so everything was okay because Mommy was smiling. But if everything was okay then why was that horrible noise coming out of him, why was he screaming as if he'd never stop?
"Nathan! Nathan, oh stop, please stop screaming!"
The little boy launched forward into her arms, his small body racked with sobs. She brought her hands up to his hair and pulled him closer, pressing him tightly against her chest.
"Nathan, please stop," she murmured into his ear. "Please, you need to be quiet, you'll wake them and then they'll come. Just breathe. Just calm down and breathe."
She could feel him slowly relaxing, his little shoulders untensing as her brother began to cry quietly.
"Look," he whispered, the sound wet against her nightshirt. "The Lord is coming from his dwelling place, he comes down and treads the high places of the earth." She frowned and tried to pry him from her, but his fingers clung tightly to her shirt.
"What are you talking about, sweetie?"
"Mommy said it," he said, peering up at her. His brown eyes were welling over with tears. "Mommy told me, she said somethin' bad is gonna happen, somethin' real bad…" The words made him crumble again and he buried his face into the curve of her breasts, his tears leaving sad stains on her soft cotton t-shirt.
"Shh, nothing bad is going to happen," she cooed. The words left a bad taste in her mouth. "Just settle, settle, it was only a dream. Nothing bad will happen. I'm right here, Nathan." There was a pause as he snuffled quietly. Her eyes flicked from the small hand gripping her sleeve to the open window of his bedroom. It was early, but the light outside was strange and yellow like a faded photograph. August heat rippled the air. It would be hot.
"Rebekah?" The sound shook her from her thoughts, but it was difficult to look away from the odd yellow sky. She forced herself to meet the pale, upturned face staring expectantly at her.
"Yes?"
"Isaac says that's not my name anymore," he whispered, his dark eyes serious. "Isaac says my name is Micah. He says it is a name of great honor, because Micah was a prophet that the Lord spoke to." She looked at him and felt suddenly uneasy. It was awful, but she didn't want to hold him anymore. It was hard to even meet his eyes.
"That's right," she agreed stiffly, pulling out of his loosened grip. He looked at her sullenly from the bed as she stood, awkward, her need to leave him almost palpable. "I nearly forgot. I'm sorry. Can you sleep now?" He gazed at her intently. There were still tears on his pale little face.
"Yes," he said. "I was weak, but I'm fine now. Isaac says the nightmares are tests. Tests from Him."
"Of course he does," she murmured, but she stood with her hand on the doorknob, fingers cold against the old metal. They faced each other, the summer heat of the room simmering in the space between the door and the bed. "You can sleep now?"
"Yes," he said again.
"Okay. I'll wake you for breakfast." She turned the knob in her hand.
"Don't bother," he murmured, rolling over to pull the covers to his chin. "I won't eat any."
She left him there, her heart pounding in her chest for no good reason, and went to the kitchen. She made sure not to look into the den. Those big brown stains in the carpet made her sick every time.