This chapter's title is from the artist Pink. I make no claims, it's all hers!
Thank you to SilverLuna and my loyal, patient reviewers!
Shawn's grip tight, he managed another little hop. The pain was sickening, but Shawn prevailed. He was at the end of his reach, his hold on the banister had to be transferred if he wanted to continue. He slowly pulled his grip away, and he wavered, but was able to keep his balance. His hand quickly found the hallway wall, and he applied the pressure needed to remain upright.
Shawn continued his arduous task of sliding his hand along the wall, then hopping, before taking a brief rest to catch his breath and wipe his sweaty lip.
All this movement was costing him. The more he moved, each step he took, his limbs shook more, the pain in his head and leg growing greater. His vision was doubling, and blurring. The pain increasing expontially with each step. His nausea intensified and pressed achingly against his gut.
He peered down the long, tilting, hallway. He wasn't even sure where he was going. He took another wavering step and stopped, his knees were wobbling, as if he were standing on unsteady ground. It reminded him of a funhouse he went to once. It had a part where you had to make your way across the floor as it tipped and slid and moved up and down. He and Gus had loved playing in it.
This, however, wasn't fun. It was scary.
He felt if he took one step forward, he would fall through the cracks between the wooden boards of the floor, never to be seen again. He blinked his eyes, if only everything wasn't so blurry. And it was dark in the hallway, why was it dark? Was it nighttime? Shawn was shivering; he was confused and scared.
He needed to move. He did another slid-hop, but couldn't help the gasping whines that he released. He slid his hand forward and it hit a door frame. A room, just ahead to his right opened up. His hazy mind churned furiously to figure out what lay beyond the darkened doorway.
He slide-hopped one more time and was able to see in. The gleaming metal of the sink fixtures told him it was the bathroom.
Shawn was relieved to see it. He stumbled forward, leaning heavily against the frame, fumbling for the light switch. He clicked it on; the resulting light stabbed into his brain and next thing he knew, he was throwing himself forward to vomit. The liquid in his stomach was expelled across the floor and onto the edge of the sink.
He gripped the sink, where he had managed to catch himself. He leaned forward and rested his upper chest and arms on the sink. With pale, trembling fingers, he turned the water on and leaned down to drink some. He was so thirsty and the sting in his throat was eased by the cold water. He gulped it down, filling his belly with the cold liquid. It filled his stomach painfully; a cold sweat traveled up his body to his head. He leaned forward and puked again, dislodging all the water he had just drank.
He draped heavily across the porcelein fixture, breath catching in his chest, sweat and tears across his face. He was whimpering with each exhalation. This was torture.
He gathered enough strength to lean forward and take a mouthful of water, swishing the taste out and spitting into the sink. He didn't try to drink anymore. He turned the water off and aimed himself for the toilet. He would be able to sit and rest there and think of his rescue plan.
His arms shook badly as he pushed himself upright, to hop the small distance. He grasped the cheap towel bar in his hand and braced himself to go forward. He threw his body weight forward onto his leg left, and as his heel landed, it slipped, gaining no traction in the slick pool of his previous vomit. He flailed and put his weight onto his arm where it tightly gripped the towel rack.
The metal bent under his hand, the onslaught of his full weight too much as gravity yanked his body towards the floor. Finally, the metal tore itself from the bracing in the wall, and sliced itself across his palm as his body crashed heavily onto the unforgiving tiles of the bathroom floor. The agony burst across his body.
His legs buckled, and he screamed as his right leg was caught underneath him. His arm and shoulder took the brunt of his weight, and he felt his shoulder erupt with another shock wave of pain. His head was the last to hit; he slid into shock. His body was protecting itself.
Shawn lay there, semi-conscious, his pupils uneven, flickering under thin, bruised eyelids. His breath hitched unsteadily, his mouth hanging open. Tears tracked unnoticed across his white face. The trembling got worse, his body shaking and shivering, while his mind was lost somewhere inside.
Henry had thrown down the anchor, and after eating a hearty ham and cheese sandwich with all the fixings, washing it down with a beer, he decided an afternoon nap sounded great. He pulled his hat over his eyes and settled into the boat for a quick snooze in the warm sunshine. He felt wonderfully relaxed as he drifted off to sleep, gently rocked by the boat.
Instincts honed by being a police officer, and more importantly Shawn's father, meant that he woke instantly alert, always aware of any changes around himself, even while he was sleeping. He only got hit by a catapulted waffle once!
So, when Henry felt a shift in the atmosphere, he snapped awake. His eyes scanned the boat, the water, and the sky in order to place the change he felt. As his eyes tracked the sky, he noticed the breeze had gotten cooler and clouds were rolling in, ominous dark heavy rain clouds.
He glanced at his watch. It was 2:30, the storm coming in earlier than the forecast had predicted. Time, then, to head back to shore. Henry pulled the anchor in and started the motor, steering the boat back towards the docks.
As he drove the boat back, Henry kept an eye on the swiftly approaching clouds that were headed his way. The storm had already kicked up the current and was roughening the seas. Henry had to slow down, or risk losing control in the darkening waves.
Seeing as how his fishing excursion was going to be cut short, Henry figured he could go to the store and pick up some things for the dinner tonight, even though he wasn't sure his son would even bother showing up. But if Gus got invited along, then he needed to get some dessert. Maybe peach pie and some corn and Shawn would surely throw a fit if there was no pineapple waiting for him.
Henry did truly enjoy having the boys over and being able to cook for them. It made him feel closer to his son when they could sit around eating dinner and discussing cases or detective work, or even just talked about old 80's tv cop shows.
Henry was pleased to see the relationship with his son finally starting to mend after all these years.
Henry was pulled from his thoughts as he felt a cold rain drop hit the top of his head. He was still nearly 15 miles off shore and the storm was moving in fast. Henry grabbed his hat and slapped it onto his head, and buckled his life-jacket on over his shirt. The way this storm looked, he was taking no chances. He buckled down and concentrated on arriving back safely. He couldn't go any faster, so he would just have to hope to outrun the storm.
He wondered where Shawn was and couldn't help the kernel of worry he always had when he wondered if Shawn was driving his bike in the rain. Henry hated that thing, and he hated worrying, but he couldn't help it. Shawn was his kid, he always would be and so Henry would always worry.