The Silence of a Somber Day

Sleet

"Tommy, please wake up."

Now, he could hear the voice. That didn't mean he would listen to it.

Everything hurt. His back was aching something fierce, and his limbs felt like heavy cinder blocks. Even with his eyes closed, Tommy felt seconds away from a sensory overload with how sharp the smells were, flowers mixed with Febreeze, medicine, and black coffee. Tommy could hear the steady breathing of someone in the room with him, their every movement causing low creaks from the ground and scuffling from a chair. The bitter taste of medicine and bland soup coated his tongue in a thick, syrup-like substance that Tommy had to actively fight against coughing up.

Still, the voice kept begging, and something was gripping his hand so tightly that it hurt. Tommy wasn't ready for the bright lights, but he could manage a syllable or two. Enough syllables to tell whoever kept pressuring him to join the world of the awake and painful to fuck off. His voice came out more as a "'ck aw', but Tommy thought his point came across.

"Tommy! Oh my Creator! You've been out cold for two days," The voice decided that it wanted to keep talking instead of going away. Tommy tried to swat the person away, but his arm felt cold in the blood and tingly in the skin when he tried to move it. Tommy managed to lift an inch before his arm flopped back on the bedding. Way nicer bedding than Tommy owned, so he knew this wasn't his place.

"Wait, Tommy, try to keep physical movements to a minimum," The voice didn't get the memo even after Tommy's two failed attempts. Tommy decided that if he wasn't getting sleep, he wouldn't deal with the pain. Tommy pushed his eyes open, forcing himself not to blink as his eyes adjusted to the lighting. After a moment, colors focused so Tommy could make out that the voice belonged to Wilbur, who was leaning against his bed.

This wasn't a hospital, but Tommy imagined it would look something like this. The creme walls were completely bare, and only the bed covered in white sheets and a wooden chair were in the room. Not even a nightstand. Tommy could see that the white door was wide open, but Tommy could barely see the hallway besides a beige wall.

"Tommy, wait, don't over do it," Wilbur said. Instead of listening to advice, Tommy pushed himself to a sitting position. He fought against the waves of nausea and the limits of his weighed down body in order to swing his legs to the ground. Tommy held a hand to his face, whispering the corresponding numbers every time he put a finger down or up. It was a trick Tommy had learned that helped him centralize his focus.

"Tommy, stop it. You're going to overwork your body, and that will do more harm than good," Wilbur decided against being nice when Tommy remained unresponsive to him. Tommy made it a point to ignore Wilbur. Believe it or not, that wasn't Tommy first time plummeting off a roof or other high altitude place. Sometimes he was pushed, sometimes he jumped. The pain was actually lighter than what it normally was.

"Is Fran okay?" Tommy took deep breaths with a hand on his stomach to measure out each words said. Like Wilbur told him, overworking his body would do more harm than good. While Tommy was the biggest jokester, he had his serious moments where he knew that words were a precious resource.

"I- that doesn't matter. How are you feeling?" Wilbur shook his head as he lifted his hands to rest on Tommy's shoulders while he hunched over so their eyes met. Tommy hated the closeness.

"Of course it matters. How is Fran?" Tommy repeated the question, limited word usage forgotten as anger swelled.

"Tommy," Wilbur said it softly, sadly. Tommy hated that. What was going through Wilbur's head? Why wouldn't he give Tommy a straight answer? Was Fran dead, was that it?

"Goddamnit, Wilbur. I jumped off a fucking roof for Fran, and my body hurts like hell, so could you tell me if she's okay before kindly fucking off?!" Tommy demanded. Tommy was gripping something in both hands, and a warm substance was dripping underneath his fingertips. Tears prickled his eyes as he thought of the worse. What if Fran wasn't dead, but instead paralyzed or lost a limb? What if she had memory loss, and wouldn't know who Sam or Tommy was?