Epilogue
The crunch of tires on gravel echoed through the woods as Tommy's teal pickup pulled up the driveway to the cabin. It had taken longer for them to let him go than he'd expected, and every second had seemed to stretch on into infinity as he was examined and poked and stitched until the doctors decided he was suitable. Not to mention the endless questions from the officer who'd accompanied them. Luckily, Jenny was as good as her word, and the truck had been waiting outside, the keys stashed in the glove box. In the back of his mind, something told Tommy that he really shouldn't be driving, what with how tired and sore he was and his left arm still being a bit numb, but he had to get home. Who cared if he drove the whole way one handed? He slid out of the car and trudged up to the cabin, keys jingling in his hand as he walked. Instinctively, he reached out and turned the doorknob.
It opened in his hand. A nagging part of his brain reminded him that it should be locked. Had he forgotten to lock it again? That part of his brain had to contend with the foggy haze of exhaustion and ultimately lost. Keys and jacket were tossed haphazardly on a chair-he'd get them later after he'd slept. With one hand using the railing to pull himself up the stairs, he staggered up to his room.
It was all he could do to just get undressed; even pulling off his shirt made his ribs groan in protest and he knew if his arm wasn't numbed, the cut on his arm would be screaming. Somehow he managed to strip down to his boxers before the exhaustion took over. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
For the first time in ages, Tommy didn't dream. At least, if he did dream, he didn't remember it. He slept so deeply that waking was like trying to swim up from the bottom of the ocean. Slowly he drifted back to consciousness, his eyes feeling like they were coated in lead. It was then he realized that something was touching his shoulder, and it certainly wasn't his blanket. It felt like a hand.
The first reaction in his mind was to punch, to lash out and get away, but even simply opening his eyes was almost too hard to manage. He'd never be able to move in time to stop an attack. But there was a voice too, one he hadn't heard in person in... well, it had to be a few years at least. "Tommy? C'mon, sleepyhead, you gonna sleep all day?"
Opening his eyes was rough, but talking coherently was impossible. The most he could manage was a slightly annoyed moan. That he regretted very fast, as his throat and neck protested greatly. The hand still hadn't left and he could feel the person shaking his shoulder, sending ripples of pain through his arm and chest. "Wake up, Tommy, it's time to get up!" He groaned again, more annoyed this time, but forced his eyes open.
"G'way Trish," he mumbled, his voice still raspy with sleep and the results of Jason's attempts to throttle him. "Wha'd'you want?" Trish shouldn't even be here, she'd moved away shortly after he'd been shipped off to the hospital after their mother died. She'd gone to live with their father, as far as he'd remembered, but Tommy hadn't been exactly in a position to know what was going on. But here she was, large as life, pestering him to get up almost as if he was still eleven years old and nothing had changed.
"I come to visit you and you're not even out of bed at 11 am!" Trish said, mock scolding him. Her face grew serious though, and her words as well. "I had to come check on you. There was a news report of another incident out here and... I guess I figured you'd find some way to get mixed up in it. I tried calling a few times but I didn't get an answer so I drove over." She put her hands on her hips. "I never thought you missed those calls because you were sleeping."
"Oh." It was all he could think to say. He still wasn't fully awake yet, but the further he got from sleep, the more his body ached all over and kept him from being able to concentrate properly. He had no witty retorts or smooth explanations of why he was sleeping so late. Through half-focused, nearsighted eyes Tommy could just barely see Trish's blurry face grow worried.
"Tommy? Are you okay?" That was a tone Tommy recognized all too well in Trish's voice. She crouched down beside his bed so she could get a better look at him, and Tommy could see her frown deepen now. Trish took a deep, slow breath, then reached out a hand towards his face, stopping before she actually touched him. "Tommy, what happened?" With a soft groan, Tommy squeezed his eyes shut. Of course she'd notice the cuts all across his face. Thankfully they were shallow and healing, due largely to Deborah's quick work with the antiseptic, but he couldn't blame his sister for being afraid for his safety.
"I'm sorry, Trish," he said after a few moments, his voice low and weary.
Trish made a small sound that he took as an expression of distress. "Oh, Tommy, you've got to stop this." She reached her hand out towards his hair, brushing her fingers through it in an attempt to tame the messy curls. Tommy made no effort to move away, though he couldn't move much at all really. He hated worrying Trish, but internally he was glad she'd come over. Even grown up as he was, things felt a little more stable with his big sister around. "How bad is it?" she asked softly.
He took a minute or two to reply, readying himself with a deep breath and trying to remember everything that had happened. "I've had worse," he mumbled, trying to pull his mouth into a smile and failing miserably. Then he shifted a bit to get his right arm free-talking was hard with his throat so scratchy, he'd need the ability to gesture. He pointed to the cuts on his face first with a small frown, then brought his hand down to his neck to point out the violently purpling bruise around it. Nearby, Trish sucked a breath in through her teeth at the sight. Tommy still had his blanket up over his shoulder and didn't feel like moving it, so he continued with words instead. "Bruised and cracked ribs, and a minor cut on my arm. Needed stitches but it wasn't that bad."
"Stitches," Trish repeated, and if Tommy had felt less like vaguely conscious roadkill, he might have laughed. She sounded so much like their mother just then. "Stitches, Tommy. I don't care if you've 'had worse,' you need to stop doing this for your own health!"
"'Promise I don't look for trouble," Tommy rasped. Trish shook her head.
"Well, first thing's first, you need breakfast. I'll make it, do you think you can handle getting up?" Honestly, Tommy wasn't sure he could actually stand upright, but he nodded nonetheless. Slowly his senses had been waking up, and even though he didn't feel hungry yet, he knew he probably needed to eat something. His muscles strained and ached as he pushed himself up into a seated position, and something in the back of his mind nagged him that he was only wearing his boxers, but it was drowned out by the reawakening pain and generally hazy state of his thoughts. Trish frowned, taking in the sight of her battered baby brother. He looked too thin like this. "When was the last time you ate?" she asked.
It took a bit of work to think back that far. "Uh... I'm not sure. I had some marshmallows at the camp?" Trish's frown deepened.
"You haven't eaten since Friday?"
He blinked, confused by her tone. "It was only last night-"
"Tommy, it's Sunday." Trish's voice was straightforward; she didn't sound like she was joking. Tommy stared at her, mouth agape, not certain if he truly believed her. However, very loud gurgle from his very empty stomach put an end to anything he had to say, and Trish offered a hand to help him get up. "Get a shirt on or something and come downstairs; I'll make pancakes."
Tommy watched her leave, sitting on the side of his bed and feeling oddly detached from everything. Sunday. He'd slept a whole day, somehow. At least he felt somewhat rested for a change, which was a nice if unusual feeling. The gnawing emptiness of his stomach made him stand finally, but he dawdled on the way to his dresser. He wandered over to the table covered with latex masks and painting supplies, picking up a soft cloth and gently wiping down the masks to get rid of any accumulated dust. It was harder than he was used to, since with how much his left arm hurt to move he couldn't steady the masks as he cleaned. Still, it was something familiar, grounding. With one final affectionate tap to the scrunched-up face of his old alien mask, Tommy walked over to his dresser.
Pulling out the drawers was another challenge with his nearly useless left arm, followed by the equally difficult challenge of putting on his clothes once he got them. He'd found a shirt like Trish asked, though he didn't bother with buttoning up the lightweight red cotton shirt. He even found a pair of well-worn sweatpants that he only wore on days when he didn't feel human enough to care about his appearance, or needed to wear something he didn't care about keeping clean. He even dug out his old glasses, since he didn't feel like dealing with contacts today. He still wasn't sure how he'd managed to take them out before sleeping without injuring himself. Once dressed, he wandered downstairs and into the cozy little kitchen where his sister was pouring some pancake mix into a frying pan.
"You got a couple of messages on your answering machine," she said without looking up.
A sinking realization hit Tommy. "I didn't show up for work yesterday-"
"Yeah, they noticed. You didn't get fired or anything, I think your boss just called to find out how you were doing." Trish pulled out a drawer, hunting through it for a spatula. Tommy edged by her, heading for the refrigerator along the back wall. His throat was still like sandpaper when he talked, and thankfully there was still orange juice that hadn't gone bad yet. He put the jug on the counter and went hunting for a glass.
"I'll call later today, let him know what happened. Anything else?"
Trish flipped a pancake. "Some girl called, I think. Said something about checking in with you and having found another place to stay? She left a number I think. And a name too, uh, Donna or something like that?"
Tommy nearly choked on his orange juice. He swallowed the mouthful he had, stifling a cough. "Deborah?" He asked, his voice straining and his cheeks flushed from coughing.
"Yeah that's it! Someone you know?"
He pulled out one of the tall stools and sat down. "Yeah, I just met her the other day. We said we'd meet up sometime soon." A whisper of doubt blew through his mind, reminding him of the last time he'd let someone into his life. A whisper of blonde hair, red jackets, wild eyes, bad decisions and so much lingering guilt. Worry gnawed at his mind- he'd genuinely felt something around Deborah on Friday night, and his instinct said to pursue it. But after last time, well... he wasn't sure if he was ready for that again.
"Oh really?" Trish asked, an impish "I-just-caught-my-brother-red-handed" smile on her face as she looked at him.
"Look, I don't know what's going to happen yet, okay?" Tommy replied, defensive. The smile on his sister's face faltered a bit, and she shrugged and turned back to the pancakes.
"Suit yourself. Just don't leave her hanging, okay?" Tommy didn't reply, merely stared into the opaque glass of orange juice. He should really find some pain killers, everything ached so badly at this point that he was getting snappish. At the same time he didn't want to take anything on an empty stomach. His musings were interrupted by a plate sliding into view with a golden-brown pancake on it.
"Eat up, there's more where that came from," Trish said with a smile, putting the butter and a jug of syrup on the table. "You can tell me all about what happened Friday night while you eat." She began pouring more batter into the pan.
Tommy had wasted no time buttering the hot pancake, and was in the middle of adding syrup to it. "C'mon, Trish, I haven't eaten since Friday!" he complained. Trish laughed.
"All right, but after that, you have to tell me what happened."
"Only if you promise you won't get mad," Tommy said around a mouthful of pancake.
"Promise, I won't get mad." Looking at her brother like this, sitting at the breakfast nook with sticky syrup on his cheek, his hair unkempt and his glasses slipping down his long nose, he looked surprisingly like he used to, before everything went to pieces so long ago. She slipped around to sit beside him, leaning in to bump her shoulder gently against his. "Hey, I'm really glad you're okay, you know."
Tommy leaned into her touch, not wanting to touch her with hands that had somehow managed to get syrup on them. "Me too. And I'm glad you came over."
Trish ruffled his hair. "Anytime, Tommy. Now eat up, I want to know what happened!" Tommy groaned and shook his head with a smile, but cleaned up his plate before pushing it across the counter for well-deserved seconds, the lingering darkness in his life momentarily pushed away by the warm, healing glow of home.
-FIN-