Disequilibrium

Part 3: Junior Year - Scene 8

One week later

I'm always sleeping now, but it never lasts for long. It's because of all the dreams. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat, screaming and crying and kicking and doing all the shit my dad hates. Then Nichole would have to come in and calm me down while Dad stands watching by the doorway. He never says anything about it. Just watches with that frown on his face.

Afterwards, Nichole would dry me off and put me in fresh clothes and sit by the bedside until I fall asleep again. I hate it—feeling vulnerable like this. It always leaves your blind spot wide open just waiting for someone to shoot, and you can't do anything about it.

Anila has a clear view of my blind spot even though I can't see her at the moment. When is she going to shoot? Has she done it already? Am I already dying without knowing it yet?

I don't know. I don't know.

There's a knock on the door. I open one eye but still keep silent, waiting for a moment until Nichole comes in with another bowl of chicken soup. That's all she's been giving me—morning, afternoon, and night. It's sickening.

"Good afternoon, bud," she says softly, setting the tray down on the nightstand. "How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay?"

Not really. "Yeah, I'm good." I try to sit up, but it's not working. My limbs feel like goddamn noodles. "Is there anything other than soup around?"

Nichole helps me sit up and adjusts the pillow at my back, cleaning off my forehead again with the towel. "You need your fluids. I wouldn't be giving you so much soup if you'd just drink your water."

"I'm getting better, you know."

"I know. But that doesn't mean we have to quit working at it." She sets the towel down and puts the tray on my lap, her eyes unwavering until I take a spoonful. She smiles when I down it. "All this wouldn't have happened if he took care of you better. It shouldn't have been that bad for a boy your age. He's always feeding you shit food and leaving you alone all the time. I mean, I told him that the smoking and drinking would cause problems—"

"He hit you."

Her smile drops. "What?"

"I know he hit you. I heard you guys fighting, but I haven't been well enough to talk about it. Now I am."

She looks down at her fingers and picks at her nails, biting her lip at the same time. "I went too far."

"Why are you always making excuses for him?"

"It's not an excuse." She looks at me then. Her eyes are red as hell. "He's right. You're not my kid. I don't have the right to tell him how to deal with you."

"Yet you're the one pulling the most weight around here."

That makes her smile a little. At least it's something. "You're sweet. You should get sick more often; I can get used to this."

"What were you guys arguing about?"

Nichole doesn't answer right away. She stares at me for a moment, still playing with her fingers. "How bad are the dreams?"

"What?"

She takes a pause. Her eyes are welling up. "I just think it'll be good for you to..." she starts, but she doesn't finish her sentence. She just stops right there, still looking at me, before shaking her head. "Forget it. It's between your father and I. I'm all right, okay? Don't worry. Now eat. There's someone here to see you."

She doesn't need to tell me who. I can hear a thunder of footsteps entering the trailer, soon followed by some soft ones. Voices travel in the hall. It doesn't take long to pick up his voice as he talks to Dad. They're laughing. I don't know how he does it—that whole talking thing. I don't know how he can make people love him so damn easily. He always does it in a breeze, like he knows a person's personality just by looking at them.