RED PARALLEL

Chapter 29: Traviz's Heartbreaking Fever

(Owen)

Traviz was not even limping. All he did was walk as if he had gained a few pounds in each foot. Shuffling. Dragging himself. Maybe he was doing it all the time long, way before Owen's psycho drug attack, but Owen had only noticed it now. Traviz with a blank face. Sleeping for decades. Millenniums. Waking up only to grab tiny french fries, to pee, or to take the quickest shower in the century. Owen would walk toward the kitchen and Traviz would say nothing or stare at no place. Not angry, not grumpy. Just aloof and weak. Before falling asleep, he would pick just two things. His cap and the bottle. He'd lay the cap over his forehead or chest, and hold the bottle in his hands. And hibernate. Without spreading across the sofa or letting the clothes go up and down his belly, no. So strange. Traviz was sleeping as if he were anyone but he.

Owen noticed, after two weeks of deep mutual silence, that after midnight Traviz would wake up. Owen was heading to the bathroom, one night, asking himself why drinking any sort of liquid if everything would be lost in the toilet when he heard a deep sniffle from the living room. Owen halted by the door then retreated slowly. He heard the sniffle again, this time muffled. Traviz was crying. Crying with his face buried in the pillow. And the morning after, he was just like the previous days: numb, slow, shuffling and dragging, french fries and bottle. The next night, Owen instinctively woke up, and he heard the muffled sniffle. And the following night. Traviz would leave for his poor food with only a thin shirt and a bermuda. One day, he took more time than he used to, and he got home soaking with snow, and angry as hell. He tossed the snow out of his hair and locked himself in the bathroom for hours. Owen thought about yelling that he had to pee - which was true -, but he chose to listen through the door. And there was no sound.

Damn...

The next day, Traviz didn't grab his potato. He didn't get snow on his hair. He didn't go out with a thin shirt and bermuda. He didn't shuffle and drag himself toward the bathroom. He didn't look sleepy. Because he simply didn't wake up. It was half-past three pm and Traviz had not moved a single finger. Owen passed several times around him. He would stare at his chest and check whether it was still moving. And each time he checked his chest, Owen noticed how much Traviz was getting thinner.

Troy, you're getting skinny. What do you want to eat? Oh, wait, you're not waking up...

Owen had thrown the white boxes away, and now the room was ridiculously spacious. Traviz was dead sleeping on the sofa, in the cold living room, with a little thin blanket. He, on the other hand, was spending all day reading empty words from empty books he had already read twelve times, sitting on his soft king-size bed, with three white pillows and a large thick blanket. He could stretch his legs in any direction and still be inside the bed. But he didn't do that. He didn't sleep in Traviz's style. Owen's bed had springs. He could do a mortal jump and not crack the bed. But he didn't do that. He didn't jump like Traviz. The pillows were so soft he could disappear in them. But he didn't do that. He didn't sleep with his head buried in the pillow like Traviz did. The blanket was soft, he could curl himself up and shrink in a fetal position. But he didn't do that. He didn't scush himself as Traviz did. The white sheets were so silky he could slide through, but again, he didn't do that. He didn't slide on the bed like Traviz would've loved to do and would repeat a thousand times.

That bed had no function but to remind him he was in the wrong bed. Someone had to sleep, and it wasn't him.

Well...

Traviz had to sleep in the right place but he also had to wake up to eat. Owen had no idea if he should poke his friend - were they still friends? - and dig a risotto inside his mouth, or carry him to his bed. No idea.

Owen didn't have to struggle with the dilemma, though. But in the end, Owen wished Traviz had stayed in a peaceful sleep.

On that very night, Owen heard sobs from the living room and he ran toward it immediately. Traviz was sitting, crying hard under the dark, heads down and hands pressed against his face. Choking on his tears and pulling his hair, drowned in agony. Owen turned on the kitchen's light and damn, the boy was sweating. The sofa was damp and the pillow was nowhere to be seen, but fuck. Owen sat next to Traviz, who had no idea the lights were on or that there was a white-haired person next to him. He would just stare at the ground and shake his head, desperately. "No, no, no, no, no, no..." he would say.