Through the Wringer

quindecim

     I woke up, and we were still in the car. Jocelyn was tapping my face, and Corbin was standing outside the open door. Marcy looked terrified, just like everybody else apparently was.

"Dalton," Jocelyn said, "it's okay. We didn't crash."

     All I could do was sob. I kept seeing the images of my family, dead, on the back of my eyelids. It was so vivid and visually repulsive that I felt like I was going to puke. Which, I did. I sat up, leaned outside the car, and puked. Jocelyn kept patting my back, and Marcy was visibly grossed out. Luckily I didn't get anything on me..
We still went to McDonalds, for some reason. I felt like hell, a migraine and sore throat attacking me at the same time, while my painkillers began to wear off. I wanted to cry, and I didn't order anything. I couldn't eat, and neither could Corbin, apparently. He sat next to me, and looked like he wanted to start a conversation. It was so pitiful.. I saw some of my father in him, the socially awkwardness.. That made me choke up a bit, tear wise, but I controlled my emotion. Marcy got up and went to play in germ-infested PlayPlace. I sat and watched her. Kids kept looking at me, which was making me uncomfortable.
One little girl pranced up and sat down in front of me. She didn't talk or anything, just looked up. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then, she handed me the fluffy little plush kitten toy from her Happy Meal and left, into the ball pit. I held onto it, and smiled. It looked like the white kitten from the Friskies commercials.
"I'm going to call you Phillip." I whispered extremely quietly. Jocelyn looked at me, the look on her face wondering if I'd actually spoken. There I was, a 15 year old boy, talking to a small, fluffy kitten toy meant for 6 year old girls. But honestly, who really cares about manufacturer reccomendations?
Once Marcy was all tired out, we left McDonalds and went on our way to Branson again. I never stopped holding onto the little kitten thing.