Heartbreaker

T W E N T Y E I G H T

Screams.

Loud, gut wrenching, agonizing screams came from my house a couple nights later.

I sit up from my bed quickly, thinking it was something from a dream. But the horrifying screams continued while I was awake. This was no dream. So I throw the covers off myself, but pause as I get to my door.

There could be some kind of killer in here.

When I realize that it was Jake who was screaming, I lost all rational thoughts. It was my own brother who could be under attack. I took off out of my room, and sprint toward his. My grip on the handle was tight as I shoved open the door.

There was no killer. But Jake was still screaming in misery. I flick on the light, practically collapsing over the clothes he had on his floor as I run to his bed. I quickly shake him awake, thinking he was having a nightmare, but I soon realize that he was awake.

"Josie," He groans out.

"Jake," I breathe, "What's wrong? Why are you screaming?"

"It, hurts," He says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Everything hurts."

What the hell do I do? I wasn't a nurse. I wasn't trained to deal with this type of thing.

"Jake I don't know how to help you," I whisper to him.

"Get...Dad."

"Dad!" I shout, my voice ripping from my throat. I run out of the room and push open his door this time, it hit against the wall loudly. "Dad there's something wrong with Jake."

"Alright, help me up please."

So I do, I help him into his chair and he quickly wheels into the next room. I follow like a shadow, completely unsure of what the hell was going on.

Jake was covered in sweat, the individual beads were clearly visible across his face. And he was holding himself, arms wrapped around his upper body like that was the only thing helping at a time like this. It couldn't have been much though.

He was never one to complain about being sick. Or about being in pain really either. He could chop his hand off and you wouldn't hear him complain about it once. So that means this must be really serious. He never acts like this.

That's why this is so concerning.

"Do I call 911?" I ask, trying to catch my breath from all this running I had been doing. "Dad?"

"No," He says shortly, but it seems like he was still thinking.

"No?" I repeat his words, "Dad there's something wrong with him. We need to take him to—"

"—Josie," He stops my rambling. "You need to call Paul."

"Paul?" I repeat his words again. Am I dreaming right now? Why the hell would I call Paul? He wasn't a nurse, or a doctor for that matter. Paul couldn't do anything for us in this situation.

"Yes, call Paul. Tell him to bring Sam Uley over here. He'll know what to do."

What?

I don't question anything else my Dad was saying. I run back toward my room, my feet clanking against the old hardwood loudly. I grab my phone off it's charger and quickly find Paul's name. It wasn't too long ago that we had just hung up with one another from our nightly phone calls.

The phone rings, many times. As I would expect it to if it were the middle of the night like it is.

"...Josie?" Paul's groggy voice asks. "Is everything okay? It's 4 am."