Day 8 - Why Won't It Stop?

A/N: The time travelling may have finished, but the nightmares certainly didn't. Set after Part III.

The first night back in his own bed was pure hell.

Considering that the night he spent at the lake with Jennifer was peaceful, he was extremely unnerved to find himself almost tumbling out of the bed, placing a hand over his mouth to stop him from awakening the house with his screams.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He couldn't stop himself checking his calendar each time he jolted awake, just in case he'd somehow done another trip to the past in his sleep. Marty desperately wished Doc was still around to provide some insight, even though he wasn't a medical doctor. But he would have more idea of what the hell is going on than I do.

What also troubled him was that every night seemed to produce some new horror.

Sometimes Tannen was successful in hanging him, and he would watch his deceased body tumble to the ground as Doc roared with anguish. Other times Doc was the one being hung, and Marty was forced to watch the life leave his eyes while struggling in the grip of Tannen's goons.

Some nights it was being trapped underneath his seventeen-year-old mother as she excitedly kissed him. She would moan his name and keep his arms pinned below him as they made out in the white Packard. Sometimes he would see his dad standing behind her, glaring at him while his mother caressed his face.

That was the only one that always made him vomit.
He'd learnt to keep a rubbish bin near his bed that he could grab in case those unholy images greeted him during the night.

Occasionally the Delorean would fail to reach the target point, and instead of travelling back to 1985, he would watch himself crumpling into the wall of the cinema.

After the first six weeks he seriously began considering the notion that he would have to tell his parents. Although they hadn't asked any prying questions so far, it was clear to him that they had noticed he wasn't sleeping well. He would retire early in the evening, only to be rudely awoken by his brain at around midnight, and often didn't fall asleep again until the early hours of the morning.

His dad had once pointed out the dark circles under his eyes, and that had hit a little too close to home for Marty's liking.

It's not like I fought in a war or anything either! All I did was go back in time.

I mean, I did get shot at. And punched. And hung. And nearly erased from existence.

He eventually did enough snooping through psychology textbooks at the library to work out that he had some form of traumatic disorder, though that became the extent of his mental health knowledge as the terminology grew longer than ten letters. The obvious problem, however, was that he couldn't go seeking an official diagnosis, as he knew they would have him in the mental asylum by the end of the first appointment. Right. So getting official help is definitely not an option.

He spent about a weeks' worth of sleepless nights pondering if he even should begin to approach the subject with his parents. How the hell am I supposed to say it? Hey mom and dad, I'm the guy who made you guys fall in love 'cause Doc invented a time machine?

Ultimately, the more he thought about it, the more he decided that he couldn't tell them. He was now the sole reason that they had even laid eyes on each other; if he hadn't dragged George to meet Lorraine face to face, he would've had no reason to seek her out or take her to the dance. What if it breaks something in the space time continuum? What if they disown me? What if I fade out of existence or some shit?

Although he had no concrete scientific reasons why he couldn't tell them, he'd come to a very simple realisation: they would never believe him. Considering that there were no photos of him from when he was Calvin Klein (that he was aware of), and how much time had passed for them since they last saw 'Calvin', he was pretty convinced that they'd dismiss his story. Perhaps it's best this way anyway. They've finally got a happy marriage and I don't want to risk derailing it.

He came to the ultimate realisation that he had to tell Jennifer. After all, he was already planning how he was going to propose - she deserved to know what had happened to the man she loved. The other part of him felt that she shouldn't have to know. If he couldn't handle the memories of what he'd gone through, how did he know she could?

But on their next trip to the lake, Marty decided he couldn't bear it alone any longer; eighteen weeks of insufficient sleep had finally wore him down. She has to know.

When they were tucked up in their sleeping bags under the stars, he swallowed hard and whispered cautiously into the darkness. "Jen?"

Jennifer shifted slightly. "Marty?" When he didn't answer, she rolled over in her sleeping bag, noticing how Marty was avoiding her gaze. "Is everything alright?"

"…I think I have a problem," His voice shook as he whispered, his eyes welling with tears, "and I…I don't know what to do."

Jennifer gazed at Marty with concerned eyes. She gave him a small smile in the darkness, stretching her hand out to cup his cheek and turn his face towards her. "Oh, Marty…I was wondering when you'd finally tell me."

She leaned over to give him a gentle kiss, and Marty allowed the last of his resolve to crumble as he cried. Jennifer pushed herself out of her sleeping bag to wrap her arms around her boyfriend, stroking his hair soothingly as he cried in her embrace. "It'll get better, Marty. It will."