The Anchor [Brallon-ish]

18

When I wake up in bed, my first thought is that it was all just a dream, because it sure felt like one. I could never see Dallon turning bullets around on themselves, or driving a blade through someone's chest, or telling me he hates me. It all just seemed too ridiculous and out of character. I think I know what I saw and what I felt, but I can't be too sure at this point.

It hits me like a train when I realize I'm not in my own bed, I'm not in my room, and the steady beeping and muted speech is not my phone still playing some dumbass ASMR internet video. I'm not even in my house.

My mom is passed out in the chair pushed to the corner of the room, holding her knees to her chest and twitching in her sleep every now and then. Her long brown hair is loosely tied back with a yellow rubber band, and she's wearing my dad's sweatshirt from the last time I saw him at home. That was a long time ago.

Jake also sits beside her in his own chair. He's out like a light too, the hand that decked me wrapped up to his elbow in a thick blue bandage, and heavy gauze patches spotting all over his body. There's a deep cut across his nose and another from his hairline to his left eyebrow, and a dark bruise forming over his other eye. He also has a large red mark scabbed over on his jawline.

I turn my head as far as I can to see who's sitting on my right, and my dad looks up. He dyed his hair pitch black, presumably without Jake because the vaguely unwanted white streak is still dangling over his eyes. Either I didn't notice when he picked me from my deathbed, or he did it when I was passed the fuck out.

"I tried to get a healer in here or someone," he mutters, "but they all used their energy on other people that came in, and Hayley, like I said would happen. I mean, you're okay, right? It's just some deep cuts and scrapes, they found a couple splinters and second degree burns on your palms, a few of the bones are broken in your hand, they pulled a full pen out of your chest, a-and a certain someone bruised your jaw. But it's okay, right? You're okay? You can breathe again, and you can talk?"

"I dunno?" My voice sounds like sandpaper scratching a dying cat in scorching heat, and it hurts to move my mouth. Am I really okay? Am I hallucinating? Is the bandage on my hand too tight? Is the cast on my wrist necessary? Do I need another IV? I don't know.

"I can get the nurses if you don't feel good, or I can go get some food for you? Are you hungry?"

"I think this is the most you've given a shit about me for eight years. Saving me from my room, carrying me down a shit ton of stairs, and waiting for me to come to? Wow." I don't remember too much, but I remember that because it hurt like hell. With every word, my jaw aches, but I have so much to say so I ignore it and suffer.

He sighs and rests his hand on my arm, where the bandages don't reach. "I've always given a shit about you, you're just too independent and stubborn to realize it. I think you hate me."

My nose hurts too. "I only hate you a little bit."

"I only hate you a little bit too."

Jake stirs from across the room. He sits up and rests his chin on the hand that isn't wrapped in a mile worth of bandages. "Hey. Did you have a nice nap this time, sleeping beauty?"

"How long has it been?" I try to raise my voice so he can hear but it tumbles out even more scratchy and rough. It burns.

"Three days," my dad grunts, a little upset by the sound of it, "you've been in and out of it, talking in your sleep, nightmares. I guess you don't remember, thank god. You got hit pretty hard, and then everything after that just made it worse. How in the world did you get stabbed with a pen? Who does that?"

After I got knocked down? Talking in my sleep? Nightmares? The machine behind me starts beeping faster as my head starts spinning. Nothing had really registered until now. "What happened? Is Hayley — I mean, Miss Stone — is she okay? Where's Dallon? Is Taylor alright?"