Skaaaaaaaaa!!!

Flint woke with a gasp, and immediately sat up- sweating profusely, heart hammering in his chest, and panting.

"Flint! It's nearly noon! Come down here, and eat your breakfast!"

"C- coming, Dad..."

Flint slipped into a pair of moccasins, and felt like he was floating as he walked downstairs and into the living room where he lay down on the sofa with his back turned to the TV, "...". Tim didn't even have to look at him to know something was amiss, "You saw them again, didn't you?"

"... Yeah..."

"And, instead of going with the flow, you fought against it? Am I right?"

"..."

Tim sighed, and took a seat at the end of the sofa- knowing better than to touch Flint and give him his personal space while, at the same time, letting him know that he was present and ready to listen to him.

"Dad... Why is it that, when Mom died, it only took me a couple of weeks to a month to move on? Yet it's been three months since my friends died, and I'm still having nightmares about them? Seeing their bodies laying on the floor of LiveCorp in a pool of blood? Thinking about what their life could've been like if they were still alive? Earl left behind a wife, and son. Brent could've been promoted at Chik-n-Sushi. Sam and I could've gotten married, and started a family. The same goes for Manny... And Steve had been my best friend since I was sixteen years old. My only friend up until Sam and Manny arrived from New York, and Brent and Earl started to treat me like a human being. Not some 'freak' or 'nerd'..."

"... It could be because you already had a bond with your mother since the day you were born, son. So it was easier for you to move on. She also had a natural death. As for your friends..."

"I had to forge that bond with them, and they met a quick, gruesome end," Flint mumbled. "Yeah. I know... I just wish I would've listened to them when they tried to warn me about Chester. If I had, they'd still be here physically. Not in my head while I'm trying to sleep at night, or in random flashbacks... I feel like I belong in a psych ward, or something."

Tim hesitated before reaching out to rub Flint's back, "What you need is to see a therapist, son. A good therapist. Just someone you can trust, and talk to," before standing up. "Now I'm not going to force you to eat anything but, if you want me to, I can take your plate."

Flint glanced over at the dish his father had made sitting on the coffee table. It was his childhood favorite, Sardine Scramble with minced peppers and mushrooms.

"... I'll try to eat. Thank you, Dad."

"Sure thing, Skipper. I'm going over to the tackle shop now. Give me a call if you need anything, alright?"

"Yeah, sure..."

Once he heard the sound of a pickup truck's engine starting and backing out of the driveway, Flint poked at the scramble before taking five small bites and setting the plate back down on the coffee table, curling back into a fetal position, and falling asleep...