Of Monsters and Music

Be Still, Look Up and Listen - Mark Patterson

CHASE

I've never been able to be the typical teenage boy when it comes to waking up. When you dream the best dream ever every single night, it's pretty difficult to wake up angry at the world.

I have to say, though, that waking up with a splitting headache and aching ribs is certainly not my idea of fun.

I wake up in bursts of sensations - bright lights and loud voices and sharp pains and soft touches.

Someone's saying sit him on the bed, I want to look at where that blood's coming from in a very harsh, scratchy voice. It's distantly familiar. There's a face very close to mine, and it's more familiar than the voice. It's very pretty. The person at the back of my head touches a sore spot and I hiss. The pretty face scrunches up like it doesn't know whether to be sad-crying or happy-crying. The more awake part of my brain is saying the face shouldn't be crying at all. The pretty face places a small kiss on my forehead, and when it returns to my field of vision, it's suddenly many years older and presenting me a cake.

Happy birthday Grandpa Chase!

The pretty face is arguing with someone. Flashes of the conversation process in my brain.

"I've told you before, I don't know!" the pretty face is saying.

Someone else says something, but I can't see who it is.

"I don't know anything. He left this morning without a word to anyone, he's been gone all day with no contact, and he just appears at dinner like this!"

Jeez. What sort of idiot would do that? I hope whoever this guy is knows that THAT was a terrible idea.

The other voice says something again, and the fight leaves pretty-face-girl. She looks down at her hands, which are clasped with one of someone else's. They're tanner than hers and hers have got tiny freckles. I stare at the hands until I can imagine that I'm the one holding them. I imagine squeezing pretty-face-girl's hand, and suddenly her eyes are bugging out.

"Chase?" she whispers.

Chase...

Happy BIRTHDAY GRANDPA CHAAAAaaaaase, happy birthday to you!

Pretty-face-girl is holding my hand.

Rory, I think, and my heart does something funny. I should tell her how beautiful she is more often.

She's slumped in what must be an uncomfortable position, forehead resting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor. Her hands are shaking slightly, but she doesn't seem to notice. I can't tell if she's awake, so I give her hand an experimental squeeze. Rory raises her head slowly, like she's scared I'm pranking her again.

Nah, I only did that back in middle school, when I was still trying to get your attention. Or on April Fool's day.

When she meets my half-open eyes, she smiles softly. It looks way too relieved.

She says something, and I can hear it, but I can't process it. I must make a confused face because she says it again.

"Are you awake?"

I blink slowly, and she takes that for an answer.

"That's okay," she says. "Go back to sleep."

I stare at her for another long moment, glancing between her face and our tangled hands.

She sighs, gives me a soft smile, and starts to sing.

How hushed the wood on a windless night,