Philophobia

Wait for me

Even the dog was mad at him.

Chica, in all her golden glory was under the bed, sleeping and ignoring him.

He supposed he deserved this. He'd barely moved from the doorway for twenty minutes. Jack's shirts and belongings were still scattered around, as if he'd never left, so Mark hoped he'd come back. Then again, this was someone who'd managed to travel across the ocean and survive with only the clothes on his back.

Jack really didn't need him.

Decades of searching, fighting, and struggling to live, all remained repressed inside Mark. Jack wanted answers but he didn't even know how to give them. He'd waited so long, been so sure he'd just "remove" his soulmate from the picture, be cold, and keep moving, that when Jack with his blue beautiful eyes and loving smile stood in front of him, he couldn't speak.

Mark banged his head against the wall. There was an early meeting at his company tomorrow, review of budget and other interesting things. He needed to get to bed early. To stay inside. He began shuffling towards the bathroom.

Head starting to pound, he quickly he used the bathroom, brushed his teeth and changed clothes, mind empty all the while. Working his way over to the bed, he climbed in and laid on his back, grimacing. Lost in thought the distant sounds of the city finally made him turn over and click off his light. Moonlight and the New York night shone in through the window. Mark turned his head to the left.

The bed had never felt empty before.

A cold sweat broke out on Mark's forehead and he shot up, heart racing. He had a horrible paranoia, as if something was after him. Turning on the light he glanced around frantically. His palms began to shake wildly, and tears brimmed around his eyes. Chica came out from under the bed. She looked up at him, whimpering as streams of tears fell down Mark's cheeks. He must be loosing his mind. There wasn't any time to be falling apart. Yes, he was distraught about Jack, but not terrified, hopeless, and paranoid.

Jumping out of bed, he wobbled to the kitchen, filling up a glass of water and downing it quickly. He felt like he could see Jack everywhere, where he stood in the window, awed at the city, where he played with Chica, where he rolled the wheelchair in, where he ate, and where he danced.

Danced. He danced with Jack. His head exploded with pain. He was supposed to be better. Was this some aftereffect of the accident?

"FUCK!" He yelled, falling back into the fridge. He knocked a glass over on his way back and it shattered on the floor, causing Chica to run back to the bedroom. He slid to the ground, sobbing all the while. The pain subsided. Still, the feelings remained.

Staring up at the white cabinets, his heart thumped loudly. Sickness didn't feel like this. It was like something had taken over his body. These weren't his feelings. It wasn't his pain.

The house grew quiet. Somewhere outside sirens could be heard. He leaned his head back,   looking out the windows onto the blurry lights, rain streaming down the front. It was difficult to tell if the rain or his pain was distorting the view.

Mark paused. Everything suddenly clicked. Hesitation and logic were thrown out the window as Mark, still in his pajamas, shoved on sneakers and ran out the door, not stopping to think or look back.

Rain continued to pour.

***

Jack had never felt like a criminal before.

In any other situation this might have been really cool- he was a fugitive on the run for a crime he didn't commit. Exactly like an action movie, except with less bravery and a lot more sobbing.