Winona

03

THAT NIGHT as Michael Carter sleeps --his breathing slow and steady as his snores echoing through the house-- a shadow creeps along the hallway corridors. Stealthily it moves closer to the wood granules that mark the entrance of the bedroom until it is standing right outside the foot of the door. There are two knocks; they are rhythmic and hesitant.

The older Carter stirs in his sleep, letting out a stream of mindless babble as he turns over on the mattress. The knocks return, much more forceful than before.

As he groans awake, Michael is hit with a sudden realization. The clock at his bedside reads three thirty two, which can only mean there is one reason for why he is awake at this ungodly hour. There is one more knock, and a quiet, "Dad?" 

He rises to his feet and shrugs on a robe to keep the autumn chill from invading his warmth, still fresh from the comforters slung over the bed and dripping onto the floor. Walking to the door he opens it with a fleeting hope that it isn't what he thinks it is, only to be proven wrong.

Finn stands in front of him, eyebags sagged underneath. The purple stands out in the dim moonlight streaming from the windows, and Michael notes the redness of Finn's swollen eyes, hidden behind the frames of his son's glasses. He feels as if his heart is breaking, and isn't sure how much more breaking it can take.

"Code Red?" he asks.

"Proceed with caution," Finn replies in a shaky breath.

Michael extends his arms and Finn finds himself on autopilot, his body colliding with his father's as Michael embraces him into a fierce hug. "Fi, it's only a--"

"A dream, I know," Finn says but his voice is muffled by the thickness of Michael's robe. "That doesn't objectify it to being nothing important though."

"I know--"

"No," Finn pushes himself away, physically and mentally. Anger bubbles up inside him. Michael always says that. "You don't."

Michael tries not to get angry. He really tries. "You're not the only one who lost her, Finn."

"Yeah, but I'm the only one who watched it happen." 

Michael winces. Finn abandons the situation, opting to make his way to the living room where remnants of the previous day's Call of Duty adventures remain; the controllers were scattered about, wires strung into each other, and the box of pizza Michael had ordered lay on the floor, its contents being a single pizza slice hanging from it. 

Finn shrugs on his coat and pulls a beanie from the closet onto his head. He sniffs, wiping at his eyes and nose angrily, feeling the familiar, overwhelming grief wash over him once more. If his mother were here, she would've held him close and sung a Killers' song, her favorite band. 

But if his mother were here, he wouldn't be feeling this way in the first place.

"Finn," Michael says.

Finn turns around just in time to catch a pair of car keys that are thrown at him. His father looks defeated, his hair so similar to his son's in that same, unruly mess. "Just be safe, kid."

"Aren't I always?" Finn mutters, opening the door with a force that sends a picture frame falling to the floor. He slams it shut with the same energy, making the house shake and groan.

Michael hears the car start and stall, followed by a curse, and finally then the purr of an engine. As he makes his way to the window, he catches a glimpse of their Jeep's headlights careening down the street until the darkness swallows up the night once again.

He lets out a sigh and droops his shoulders, making his way to his bedroom. The image of his son's expression lingers, only to be followed by a bout of worry. It's almost as if Finn is getting worse. The nightmares persist and the night-long drives remain to distract him from the insomnia that haunts him since The Accident. Michael remembers the argument between the two; remembering it like a past memory although it occurred only minutes before.