The Bad Tour(ture)

Chapter 47 - Style of Life

I thought it was a nightmare. But it was real.  I really did pass out and when I woke up and saw Michael next to me, I thought I was dreaming again.

He was sitting up against the headboard with his head thrown back.  His eyes were closed and I could clearly see him breathing now.  I watched as his chest went up and down.  He had a frown on his face or maybe just a look of discomfort.

I was just watching, still stiff, afraid to move.

"Shakira?" the doctor called out to me. 

I still didn't budge, but my eyes followed him as he walked over to me.  I looked back to Michael and he didn't even open his eyes to acknowledge my wake.

"Are you okay, dear?" the doctor asked me, placing his cold palm on my forehead, causing me to squint. 

"What's going on?" I asked softly.

"Sit up," he demanded.

I followed his order and sat up next to Michael.  I made sure to inch over as close to him as I could.

The doctor handed me a glass of water and ordered me to take it all in.  "You have to relax.  You passed out in the bathroom but you weren't out for long.  How do you feel?"

I ignored his question and just stared at Michael, thanking God he was alive and still breathing.

"Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

I glanced to the doctor.  "No.  I'm fine.  I just had an anxiety attack or something."  

"He's fine," he said softly with a smile towards Michael.

"Well..." I started remembering everything that happened.  "What was wrong with him?" 

"I'll let him explain."  The doctor grabbed his case and walked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Michael still didn't move.  But at least he was breathing.  That's all I cared about.  I was afraid to ask him anything.  I didn't know what or how to ask.  He was dead...or maybe he had a severe case of sleep apnea?

I threw my head back on the headboard and just let my heart rate go back to normal first.  I closed my eyes and I asked myself in my mind, over and over again, 'am I still dreaming?'

When I felt Michael move, I opened my eyes to him. He was staring at his lap.

"Michael?" I called softly.

He shifted his eyes towards me but he didn't speak.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, but sounded somewhat frustrated.

"I yelled and I shook you numerous times.  Why didn't you respond?"

He looked down at his lap again as if he was ashamed.  "I did.  You didn't notice."

"You didn't."

"Well, I heard you.  Sort of...I was in a deep sleep."

Silence built between us. I felt like asking questions at this point would be a waste of time, so I wasn't saying anything.

Minutes later, he said to me, "You shouldn't be here." It hurt. 

"Why not?"

"People saw you.  I don't want that, well, you don't want that."

I scooted even closer to him.  "I don't care.  If I'm remembering clearly, you were...dead."

He snickered and shook his head.  "I wasn't dead. I was in a deep sleep I said."