Returning Home

TWENTY FOUR - pressure

"Dad," Thomas looks at his father and future step-mother. "Mel, you should go get some food together."

"We'll leave once you get some rest," Noah says from where he's 'keeping guard.'

"You shouldn't be as awake as you've been this entire time," Melissa insists, clutching his arm. "It's too much stress and you need to heal."

"I've been through a lot of injuries, it's nothing I can't-"

Thomas gets cut off with a gentle tap to the back of his head, that he pretends was a hard smack.

"Shut up and get some rest already," his dad says, ruffling his hair as he moves back to his original spot.

"I'm an adult old man," Thomas wrinkles his nose tiredly.

"Stubborn meet stubborn," Melissa says to herself, grinning at them, and noting how Thomas' eyes droop. "You can't blame him for his actions."

"I am not that stubborn."

"You sure are," Melissa insists, keeping her hold on Thomas as she speaks to Noah. "Apparently no fries are good enough except curly fries, and you need your 'real meat' always. Even if it's bad for your health."

"It's technically not bad for my health, unless it's in excess."

"But you're relentless. You steal my smoothies but refuse to admit they're good and force yourself to eat your habit food."

"I don't touch your smoothies."

"Yes you do! You know exactly how to make them, and I know you replace it occasionally."

"I respect you and your dried fruits, but I don't know what you're referring to, my love."

"You know what Noah?" Melissa wets her lips as she stares him down before breaking into a smile. "I think I should show you the cafeteria. It's not to your standards but..."

Noah looks at her oddly before his eyes trail over her fingers as they release Thomas' arm and wipe his hair from his sleeping face. He smiles and lets Melissa drag him away from the room, following her blindly and letting his son rest.

Pressure.

It's tight and he can't breathe.

His eyes shoot open in a panic, watery and flying around.

A body is on him, a pressure on his chest goes unnoticed, and hands wrapped around his throat, pressing down on both sides.

He tries to scream, to yell, but there's no air movement to grant for sound.

"Four," the number barely reaches his ears. "Five."

He grabs at the arms, flails to push the body away but it doesn't budge.

There's an unfamiliar scent as his vision starts turning dark, and his desperation fades too.

"Eight..."

He tries to yell one last time as his hands drop.

Then the pressure gone and he coughs violently, ears ringing. Gasping for breath, blinking his eyes rapidly, it hurts to breathe. He can't see or hear anything in the moments after the attempt, but he feels more than anything else as the door slams open.