(Buck)
"I don't know, he isn't looking too good," Chimney said.
"Do you think it was something he ate?" asked Maddie, concern in her tone. "Should we get him some ginger ale or something?"
"I think it's worse than that," chimed in Eddie. "Notice how he's gotten pale? And he's practically sweat himself into a puddle."
"Is it sweat? I thought it was blood," Chimney said.
"No, the blood is the red stuff helping him stick to the floor."
"All I know is that I'm not cleaning up this mess," Hen added in her two cents.
Buck's head lulled to the side and in the gloom of the box—my final resting place so it seems—he saw his friends, his family, gathered together and staring at him as if he were a roadside attraction. World's biggest moron. Come one, come all, see the man who continues to screw up his life as he slowly descends toward the afterlife. He didn't want to be their spectacle anymore, closing his eyes in hopes of drowning them out. Of course, Buck knew they weren't really there because none of them would stand by idly as he lay dying.
The fact he saw through them, literally, also betrayed them for the hallucinations they turned out to be.
Thanks to infection and fever my brain is going to mush. Wonderful. Suppose I should be happy it means I'm not dying alone. Though I'd like them to be somewhat nicer.
"Who are we blaming for this one?" Athena joined the choir.
"Well, isn't it easy to see? It's his fault."
Buck's eyes popped open, his gaze instantly settling on a familiar Bobby. Not the one he knew from his day to day life, but the version he met in his lightning induced coma, a little more disheveled and slightly inebriated. Of those gathered around he was the most solid, the most real, and Buck understood he'd been right on the money, things had reached a dire stage. Is this version of Bobby a form of my subconscious or something, and if so, why do I see him instead of some whacked version of myself? Bobby gave a little finger wave.
"Yeah, I can see that," Chimney agreed. "He's always trying to show off and be better than us."
"You should have seen him when he was younger. What a handful. Is it any wonder I ran off with Doug the first chance I got?"
"I'm afraid he's going to get my husband killed," added Athena. "The two of them are like this." She held up crossed fingers. "It's like having three people in this marriage. Do any of you have any idea what that's like? I might as well have married both of them."
"At least he doesn't come around seeking advice he never listens to while stealing your boozes," said Hen.
"How's it going, Bucko?" Bobby smiled. He stood there with a whiskey bottle in his hand. "Can you believe we found our way back here?"
"W-w-why are they…being…"
"Mean?" Bobby shrugged. "Maybe it's how they really see the situation. I mean, this is what…" He cast his gaze skyward and counted on his free hand, mouthing numbers. Finally he shrugged, returning his focus to Buck. "Hard to say how many scrapes you've wound up in, huh? One of them is bound to kill you, could this be the lucky turn?" Bobby crossed the small space between them, crouching, the whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. "Have you looked at yourself lately? You look like, pardon the expression, death warmed over. Seems like your friends aren't going to rescue you this time."
"Shut…up."
"Here, how about a sip, a little something to take the pain away." Bobby offered the bottle of whiskey, bringing it to Buck's lips. Against his will he drank and his friends, the people he counted on most in his life, faded away, leaving him alone in the damned box with a bottle of water clutched in his hand. The last drop tasted like Cap's coffee on an early fall morning.
Buck let the bottle drop.
Only one remained. He'd rationed as best he could, but time was running out and he was so damn thirsty.
