Chapter 2: Nightmare
(I would like to thank the Decemberists for lending me their sweet lyrics, from "Of Angels and Angles," and also, for making my life enjoyable in general.)
I didn't wake up to an alarm. Usual. I'm an incurable slugabed sometimes, especially on three-day weekends like this one. What distinguished this awakening from others was that it was before my alarm. What had stirred me? In a fit of sleeplessness inspired rage, I vowed to maim whatever had disturbed me. THUMP! Then a sound like a cat yowling from carsickness, taken down two octaves. What the hell, I thought. It came from the living room. Of course it did. The only other living being in the house—it shocked me to think of him as a living being, seeing as a day ago he was only a very foxy figment of the imagination—was in the living room, underneath one of my favorite afghans. Might as well go check on him.
It was, in fact, the brave and mighty Admiral Norrington squalling and squirming on the couch. On his face was a face of rage and terror…what was he mumbling? Turn? Tunstall? Torn up? Turner! Of course. Either Will or Bill, the former, a eunuch who stole his girl, or the latter, the guy who killed him and chucked him overboard. I woke him up with a very awkward poke in the shoulder, and then a shake.
"James, wake up, dammit. You're having a nightmare!" He sort of imploded into wakefulness, flinging his blanket aside and sitting bolt upright. I sat on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do. For someone who's bound for nursing school, I have all the compassion and none of the skills. I took a hold of him by his shoulders and then he leaned in, not quite possessed of his senses.
"There, there, Carmie's got you…" I mumbled into his ear, and he sort of grunted. I shushed him. "It's all going to be okay." This I doubted slightly, having never taken care of a dimensional refugee before. I stroked his back, like a young child sick with a tummy-bug. Warm tears leaked onto me that I hadn't noticed before. Instinct took over, and I began to hum softly a tune I had heard on the radio. His sobs subsided. My voice, raspy and deep, even like a man's, broke forth to sing the song to him. "There are angels in your angles, there's a low moon caught in your tangles." I pulled his matted hair out of his face. "There's a ticking at the sill. There's a purr of a pigeon to break the still of day." Folks don't fancy me a good singer, I admit it. On band bus sing-alongs, I usually get looks of disgust and shouts of "put a trumpet up to your face, I'm sick of your voice!" This may not have even been one of my better performances. All the same, it comforted me and I felt him smile weakly on my shoulder. I continued. "As on we go drowning, down we go away. And darling, we go a-drowning, down we go, away. There's a tough word on your crossword, there's a bedbug nipping a finger. There's a swallow, there's a calm, here's a hand to lay on your open palm today."
By now, he was snoozing, heavy, on my shoulder. I laid him down to rest on the couch, and his eyes flickered lazily open. He smiled a little again, saying softly, "You're not so much the singer, are you?"
"Jerk," I muttered. Then I chuckled, "Some call it an acquired taste. Get used to it, darlin'. I like my voice." I pushed him on the shoulder. "Get some rest, you goose. Sweeter dreams, James."
Early morning jaunts are not, as I've mentioned, my strong suit. Believe me, I can function on little sleep, but getting up early, as opposed to staying up late, puts me in a foul temper. Anyhow, it became clear that I'd have to mind him the rest of the night. Pam wouldn't be much help; she had yet another round of classes and a thespian meeting afterwards. I went to the bathroom to splash my face. The mirror revealed an ugly sight to most of the world, but I was used to it. I studied my round face for blemishes—well, new ones, anyway. My hair was a mess, but not much of one. It's hard to make a mess of short, thin hair. I had it slashed into a pixie cut to eliminate time issues with curling, dryin, etc. My skin is a sort of goldish pallor, and my hair sort of matches, with bits of red thrown in. My eyes, sunken, and weary-looking, are a strange shade of brown-grey. I imagine my parents were embarrassed by the chance pairing of foul-fortuned alleles. I only find favor with my long legs. The rest of my body is curved enough to allude to the fact that I'm not really a boy, but not so much as to advertise that fact. They always call Pamina the pretty one. They can piss off. I pull a sweatshirt over my pajamas and set about the day's work—first would be a string of math problems to be reviewed on Tuesday when I returned to school. With a mug of milk, I plopped on the living room floor and set to work. Hours passed, as they do when I do homework, and a ray of sun, the shade usually associated with peach yogurt, slunk across the pages and across James's face. It seemed a bit more peaceful now. I should have expected his eyes to open then, but I didn't see that, so I went back to work. Better to let him rest, I thought.
I furrowed my brow at a succession of quadratics that would make a seasoned mathematician's hair curl. Big Bertha, my calculator, offered no suggestions. Damn you, Big Bertha, I swore mentally.
"What are you working on?" James asked groggily.
"Math. Higher algebra." These words came out like curses.
"Sounds awful."
"You have no idea. Let's get breakfast. I think I'm done here."